II

It was a matter of wonder to everybody, and to no one more so than her

husband, that Miriam appeared to be so much affected by her

father-in-law's death. It was not that she made any demonstrations of

grief, but that an unusual gloom seemed to settle over her. Never gay

in the girlish sense, she had always been light-hearted and full of

smiles and laughter; during the first days which followed the demise of

old Tobias she went about her duties with a knitted brow, as if some

sudden care had settled upon her. Michael saw it, and wondered; he had

respected his father and entertained a filial affection for him, but his

death did not trouble him to the extent of spoiling his appetite or

disturbing his sleep. He soon saw that Miriam ate little: he soon

guessed that she was sleeping badly. And on the fourth day after his

hurried return home--the eve of the funeral--he laid his great hand on

her shoulder as she was stooping over the child's cradle and turned her

round to face him.

"What's the matter, my lass?" he said kindly. "Is there aught amiss?

You are as quiet as the grave, and you don't eat, nor get sleep. The

old father's death can't make that difference. He was old--very

old--and he's a deal better off."

"There is such a lot to think of just now," she replied evasively.

Michael, man-like, mistook her meaning.

"Oh, aye, to be sure there is, lass," he agreed. "To-morrow'll be a

busyish day, of course, for I expect there'll be half the countryside

here at the burying, and, of course, they all expect refreshment.

However, there'll be no stint of that, and, after all, they'll only want

a glass of wine and a funeral biscuit. And as for the funeral dinner,

why--there'll only be you and me, and Stephen and his wife, and your

father and mother, and Stephen's wife's father and mother, and the

lawyer."

"The lawyer!" exclaimed Miriam. "What lawyer?"

"What lawyer? Why, Mr. Brooke, o' Sicaster, to be sure," answered

Michael. "Who else?"

"What's he coming for?" asked Miriam.

"Coming for? Come, my lass, your wits are going a-woolgathering," said

Michael. "What do lawyers come to funerals for? To read father's will,

of course!"

"Is there a will?" she asked.

"Made five years ago, Mr. Brooke said this afternoon," he replied.

"Do you know what's in it?" she asked.

Michael laughed--laughed loudly.

"Nay, come, love!" he said. "Know what's in it! Why, nobody knows

what's in a will until the lawyer unseals and reads it after the funeral

dinner."

"I didn't know," she said listlessly.

"But, of course, that's neither here nor there," said Michael; "and I

must away to make a few last arrangements. If there'll be too much work

for you to-morrow, Miriam, you must get another woman in from the

village."

"There'll not be too much work, Michael," she answered.

In her heart she wished there was more work--work that would keep her

from thinking of the secret which the dead man had left with her. It

had eaten deep into her soul and had become a perpetual torment, for she

was a woman of great religious feeling and strict ideas of duty, and she

did not know where her duty lay in this case. She knew Michael for a

proud man, upon whom the news of his illegitimacy would fall as

lightning falls on an oak come to the pride of its maturity; she knew,

too, how he would curse his father for the wrong done to his mother, of

whom he had been passionately fond. Again, if she told the truth,

Michael would be bereft of everything. For Stephen was not fond of his

brother, and Stephen's wife hated Miriam. If Stephen and his wife heard

the truth, and proved it, Michael would be--nobody. For, after all,

Tobias had not had time to make amends.

And now there was the news of this will held by Lawyer Brooke! What

could there be in it, and how was it that Tobias had not spoken of it?

Could it be that he had forgotten it? She knew that for some years he

had been more or less eccentric, subject to moods and to gusts of

passion, though there had never been any time when his behaviour would

have warranted any one in suspecting his mind to be affected or even

clouded. Well--she could do nothing but leave the matter until

to-morrow when the dead man's will was read.

As wife of the elder son, Miriam was hostess next day, and everybody who

saw her marvelled at two things--one, the extraordinary pallor on her

usually brightly tinted cheeks; the other, the quiet way in which she

went about her duties. She was here, there, and everywhere, seeing to

the comfort of the funeral guests; but she spoke little, and keenly

observant eyes would have said that she moved as if in a dream. At the

funeral dinner she ate little; it was an effort to get that little down.

As the time drew near for the reading of the will, she could scarcely

conceal her agitation, and when they were at last all assembled in the

best parlour to hear Tobias's testament declared, she was glad that she

sat at a table beneath which she could conceal her trembling fingers.

She wondered why Mr. Brooke was so long in cleaning his spectacles, so

long in sipping his glass of port, so slow in breaking the seal of the

big envelope which he took from his pocket, why he hum'd and ha'd so

before he began reading. But at last he began....

It was a briefly worded will, and very plain in its meaning. Having

cause, it set forth, to be highly displeased with the conduct of his

younger son, Stephen, and to believe that he would only waste a fortune

if it were left to him, Tobias left everything of which he died

possessed to his elder son, Michael, on condition that Michael secured

to Stephen from the time of his (Tobias's) demise, a sum of three pounds

a week, to which a further sum of one pound a week might be added if

Stephen's conduct was such as to satisfy Michael. If Stephen died

before his father, Michael was to make a similar allowance to his widow.

The various emotions which had agitated Miriam were almost forgotten by

her in the tumult which followed. Stephen's wife and her father and

mother broke out into loud denunciation of the will; Stephen himself,

after staring at the solicitor for a moment, as if he could not credit

the evidence of his own eyes or ears smote the table heavily and jumped

to his feet.

"It's a damned lie!" he shouted. And he made as if he would snatch the

will and tear it to pieces. Mr. Brooke calmly replaced it in his

pocket, and as calmly sipped his port.

"On the contrary, my friend," he said. "And--it is your father's will."

"Father!" sneered Stephen's wife's mother. "A nice father to----"

Michael rose with a gesture that brought silence.

"None of that!" he said. "Who's master here? I am! Say a word against

my dead father, any of you, and by God! out you go, neck and crop, man

or woman. Now, then, you'll listen to me. I'm bound to say, with every

respect for him, that I don't agree with this will of my father's. My

wife here'll bear me out when I say that my idea as regards Stephen and

myself coming into his property was--share and share alike. It seems

father had other notions. However, everything is now mine--I'm master.

Now, a man can do what he chooses with his own. So listen, Stephen.

Give up that drinking, and gambling, and such-like, and come to work

again and be a man, and you shall have one-half of all that there is.

But, mind you, I've the whip hand, and you'll have to prove yourself.

Prove yourself, and we'll soon set matters straight. I want no more

than my half, and now that all's mine--well, law or no law, I'll share

with you ... but you'll have to show that you can keep my conditions."

Everybody's eyes were fixed on Stephen Weere. He sat for a moment

staring at the table--then, with a curse, he flung out of the room. The

smell of the old flesh-pots was still in his nostrils; the odour of the

wine-pots in his remembrance--a fact which probably sent him to the

little room in which the refreshments of a liquid sort had been set out.

He helped himself to a stiff glass of brandy and water, and had gulped

half of it down when he felt certain fingers lay themselves appealingly

on his left elbow. He turned with a curse, to encounter the witch-like

countenance and burning eyes of the old housekeeper, Margaret Burton.

"What do you want, you old hag?" he said, with another curse. "Get

out!"

But the old woman stood--her bony fingers still on his arm.

"Hester Stivven!" she said. "Mester Stivven! Has he--has he left me

owt?"

Stephen burst into a harsh laugh and re-filled his glass.

"Left you owt?" he exclaimed jeeringly. "Left you owt? He's left nobody

nowt but Michael--curse him! He's left him--all there is!"

Margaret Burton drew back for a second and stared at him. He drew

himself away from her eyes. Suddenly she laid her hand on him again.

"Mester Stivven," she said, coaxingly, "come wi' me--I ha' summat to

tell you. Come!"

Ten minutes later Stephen walked into the best parlour, followed by

Margaret Burton. Michael was engaged in an earnest conversation with the

rest, and especially with Stephen's wife, as to Stephen's future.

Stephen lifted a commanding hand.

"Stop that!" he said. "We've had enough of you--we'll see who's master

here. My turn," he went on, as Michael would have spoken. "Come

forward, Margaret. This woman, Mr. Brooke, has been my father's

housekeeper since my mother died, and was servant for years before

that--weren't you, Margaret?"

"Twelve years before that, sir."

"Twelve years before that--and in my mother's confidence," Stephen

continued.

"Now, then, Margaret, take Mr. Brooke into that corner. Tell him what

you've told me about what my mother told you the week she died, and give

him those papers she left with you to prove what she said. And

then--then we'll see, we'll see!"

The rest of the people watched the whispered colloquy between the

solicitor and the old woman with mingled feelings. It was a large,

rambling room, with great embrasures to the windows, and nobody could

hear a word that was said. But Miriam knew that she was not the only

possessor of the secret, and she unconsciously slid her hand into

Michael's.

Lawyer Brooke, some folded papers in his hand, came back with knitted

brow and troubled eyes. He was going to speak, but Stephen stopped him.

"I'm master here," he said. "Margaret, come this way." He pointed to

Michael. "What's that man's real name?" he asked, with an evil sneer.

"Is it--well, now, what is it? 'Cause, of course, his isn't what mine

is. Mine is my father's--mine's Weere."

"No, sir--it's Oldfield. His mother's name--'cause, of course, he were

born out of wedlock. Your father and mother wedded later on."

In the silence that followed Miriam heard the beating of Michael's

heart. He rose slowly, staring about him from one to the other.

"It's not--true?" he said questioningly. "It's----"

Miriam rose at his side and laid both hands on his arm.

"It's true, Michael," she said. "It's true. Your father told me ten

minutes before he died."

Michael looked down at her, and suddenly put his arm round her and

kissed her.

"Come away, Miriam," he said, as if the others were shadows. "Come

away. Let's go home--the child'll be wanting us."

*CHAPTER IV*

*LITTLE MISS PARTRIDGE*

Next to the church and the King George--with possibly the exception of

the blacksmith's shop, where most of the idlers gathered to gossip of an

afternoon, especially in winter--Miss Partridge's general store was the

chief institution in Orchardcroft. To begin with, it was the only house

of a mercantile character in the place, and it would have fared ill with

any one rash enough to have set up an opposition business to it; to end

with, its proprietor was so good-natured that she made no objection to

the good wives of the village if they lingered over their purchases to

chat with each other or with her. Life in Orchardcroft was leisurely,

and an hour could easily be spent in fetching a stone of flour or a

quarter of a pound of tea from Miss Partridge's emporium. And, as Miss

Partridge often remarked, the women were better employed in exchanging

views at her counter than the men were in arguing at the tap of the King

George.

It was a queer little place, this general store--a compendium of

grocery, drapery, confectionery, and half-a-dozen other trades. There

were all sorts of things in the window, from rolls of cheap dress goods

to home-made toffee; inside the shop itself, which was neither more nor

less than the front room of a thatched cottage, there was a display of

articles which was somewhat confusing to eyes not accustomed to such

sights. It was said of a celebrated London tradesman that he could

supply anything from a white elephant to a pin--Miss Partridge could

hardly boast so much, but it was certain that she kept everything which

the four hundred-odd souls of Orchardcroft required for their

bodies--butcher's meat excepted. What was more, she knew where

everything was, and could lay her hands on it at a moment's notice; what

was still more, she was as polite in selling a little boy a new

ready-made suit as in serving a ploughman with his Saturday ounce of

shag or nail-rod tobacco. For that reason everybody liked her and

brought their joys and sorrows to her.

On a bright spring afternoon, when the blackbirds and thrushes were

piping gaily in her holly-hedged garden, Miss Partridge sat behind her

counter knitting. She was then a woman of close upon sixty--a

rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed woman, small in stature, grey of hair, out of

whose face something of a benediction seemed always to shine upon

everybody. She wore a plain black dress--nobody in Orchardcroft could

remember Miss Partridge in anything but black for more than thirty

years--over which was draped a real silk white shawl, fastened at the

neck with a massive brooch of Whitby jet, and on her head was a smart

cap in which were displayed several varieties of artificial flowers.

Shawl and cap denoted that Miss Partridge was dressed for the day; in

the morning less showy insignia were displayed.

"We're very quiet this afternoon, Martha Mary," observed Miss Partridge

to her general factotum, who, having finished the housework, was now

dusting the upper shelves. "There's been nobody in since old Isaac came

for his tobacco."

"No, m'm," said Martha Mary, "but there's Jane Pockett coming up the

garden just now."

"Then we shall hear something or other," said Miss Partridge, who knew

Mrs. Pockett's characteristics; "Jane has always some news."

Mrs. Pockett, a tall, flabby lady, who acted a great part in the village

drama of life, seeing that she saw all its new-comers into the world and

all its out-goers leave its stage for ever, came heavily into the shop

and dropped still more heavily into a chair by the counter. And without

ceremony she turned a boiled-gooseberry eye on the little shopkeeper.

"Hev' yer heerd the noos?" she said.

"What news, Jane?" asked Miss Partridge.

Mrs. Pockett selected a mint humbug from a bottle on the counter and

began to suck it.

"Well, of course, yer remember Robert Dicki'son, t' miller, at Stapleby

yonder?" she said. "Him as died last year, leavin' a widder and two

childer, a boy an' a girl?"

Miss Partridge's head bent over her knitting.

"Yes," she said.

"Well," continued Mrs. Pockett, "it were thowt 'at he died middlin' weel

off, but now it turns out 'at he didn't. In fact, he's left nowt, and

t' mill were mortgaged, as they term it, and now they're barn to sell

'em up, lock, stock, and barril. It's a pity, 'cos t' lad's a nice

young feller, and they say 'at if nobbut they could pay t' money he

could work up a good trade. It's a thousand pounds 'at they want to

settle matters. See yer, I hev' a bill o' t' sale i' my pocket--t'

billposter gev' me it this mornin'. Ye'll notice 'at there's a nicish

bit o' furniture to dispose on. But what will t' widder and t' two

childer do, turned out i' that way?"

"It's very sad," said Miss Partridge; "very sad."

She laid the bill aside and began to talk of something else. But when

Jane Pockett had purchased three yards of flannel and departed, she read

the bill through and noted that the sale was to take place on the next

day but one. And taking off her spectacles she laid them and the

knitting down on the counter, and bidding Martha Mary mind the shop, she

went up to her own room and, closing the door, began to walk up and

down, thinking.

Forty years slipped away from Miss Partridge, and she was once more a

girl of nineteen and engaged to Robert Dickinson. She remembered it all

vividly--their walks, their talks, their embraces. She opened an old

desk and took from it a faded photograph of a handsome lad, some equally

faded ribbons, a tarnished locket--all that was left of the long-dead

dream of youth. She put them back, and thought of how they had parted

in anger because of a lover's quarrel. He had accused her of flirting,

and she had been too proud to defend herself, and he had flung away and

gone to a far-off colony, and she had remained behind--to be true to his

memory all her life. And twenty years later he had come back, bringing

a young wife with him, and had taken Stapleby Mill--but he and she had

never met, never spoken. And now he was dead, and his widow and children

were to be outcasts, beggars.

Customers who came to the little shop that evening remarked to each

other on its mistress's unusually quiet mood, and hoped Miss Partridge

was not going to be ill. But Miss Partridge was quite well when she

came down to breakfast next morning, dressed in her best and wearing her

bonnet, and she looked very determined about something.

"You'll have to mind the shop this morning, Martha Mary, for I'm going

to Cornchester," she said. "Get Eliza Grimes to come and do the

housework."

Once in Cornchester Miss Partridge entered the local bank--an

institution which she regarded with great awe--and had a whispered

consultation with the cashier, which resulted in that gentleman handing

over to her ten banknotes of a hundred pounds each--the savings of a

lifetime.

"Going to invest it, Miss Partridge?" said the cashier, smiling.

"Y-yes," answered Miss Partridge. "Y-yes, sir--to invest it."

She put the thousand pounds in her old-fashioned reticule and went off

to a legal gentleman whom she had once or twice had occasion to consult.

To him she made a communication which caused him to stare.

"My dear madam," he exclaimed. "This is giving away all you possess."

"No," interrupted Miss Partridge. "I have the shop."

"Well, at any rate, take the place as security," began the solicitor;

"and----"

"No," said Miss Partridge, firmly. "No, sir! No one is to know; no one

is ever to know--except you--where the money came from. It's my money,

and I've a right to do what I please with it."

"Oh, very well," said the solicitor. "Very well. I'll settle the

matter at once. And you may be sure the poor things will be very

grateful to their unknown benefactor."

Miss Partridge walked home by way of Stapleby churchyard. She turned

into its quietude and sought out Robert Dickinson's grave. There were

daisies growing on the green turf that covered it, and she gathered a

little bunch of them and carried them home to put away with the ribbons

and the locket. And that done she took off her best things and dropped

once more into the old way of life.

*CHAPTER V*

*THE MARRIAGE OF MR. JARVIS*

When the lift-boy came down to the ground-floor again and threw open the

door of the cage in which he spent so many mechanical hours every day,

he became aware that the entrance hall was just then given up to a

solitary female who was anxiously scanning the various names which

appeared on the boards set up on either side. He gathered a general

impression of rusticity, but, sharp as he was, would have found himself

hard put to it to define it--the lady's bonnet was not appreciably

different from the bonnets worn by respectable, middle-class, town

ladies; the lady's umbrella was not carried at an awkward angle.

Nevertheless he was quite certain that if the lady was going aloft to

anywhere between there and the sixth floor she was about to step into an

elevator for the first time.

He stood waiting, knowing very well that the stranger would presently

address him. It was gloomy in the entrance hall, and he saw that she

could not see the names on the top-half of the board at which she was

gazing. She turned, glanced hastily at the opposite board, then looked

half-doubtfully at him.

"Young man," she said, "can you tell me if Mr. Watkin Vavasower's office

is anywhere about here?"

"Mr. Vavasore, mum?--third floor, mum--just gone up, has Mr. Vavasore,"

replied the lift-boy.

He stood aside from the door of his cage with an implied invitation to

enter. But the lady, whom in the clearer light of the inner hall he now

perceived to be middle-aged and of stern countenance, looked doubtfully

at the stairs.

"I suppose I shall see the name on the door if I go up-stairs, young

man?" she said. "It's that dark in these London places----"

"Step inside, mum," said the lift-boy.

The lady started and looked inside the cage as she might have looked

inside one of her own hen-coops if she had suspected the presence of a

fox therein. She turned a suspicious eye on the boy.

"Is it safe?" she said.

Then, instinctively obeying the authoritative wave of the official hand,

she stepped inside and heard the gate bang. She gave a little gasp as

the world fell from under her feet; another when the elevator suddenly

stopped and she found herself ejected on a higher plane.

"Well, I'm sure----" she began.

"Second door on the left, mum," said the boy, and sank from view.

The lady paused for a second or two, glanced down the shaft as if she

expected to hear a shriek of agony from the bottom, and then slowly

moved in the direction which the boy had indicated. A few steps along

the corridor and she stood before a door on which was inscribed in heavy

brass letters, highly polished, the name "Mr. Watkin Vavasour."

She hesitated a moment before knocking; when she did so, her knock was

timid and gentle. But it was heard within, for a girl's voice, sharp

and business-like, bade her enter. She turned the handle and walked into

a comfortably furnished room wherein sat a very smart young lady who was

busily engaged with a typewriter and who looked up from her work with

questioning eyes.

"Is Mr. Watkin Vavasower in?" inquired the caller.

The smart young lady rose from her desk with an air of condescending

patience.

"What name, madam?" she asked.

The caller hesitated.

"Well, if it's agreeable," she said, "I'd rather not give my name to

anybody but the gentleman himself, though of course if----"

"Take a chair, please," said the smart young lady. She vanished through

an inner door marked "Private," leaving the visitor to examine an

imitation Turkey carpet, a roll-top American desk, two office chairs,

and a reproduction of the late Lord Leighton's _Married_, which hung

over the fire-place. She was speculating as to the nationality of the

two persons concerned in this picture when the smart young lady returned

with an invitation to enter Mr. Vavasour's presence. Mr. Vavasour, a

somewhat more than middle-aged, stoutish gentleman, whose name would

more fittingly have been Isaacs, Cohen, or Abraham, and who evidently

set much store by fine linen and purple and the wearing of gold and

diamonds, rose from behind an elegant rosewood writing-table and waved

his visitor to the easiest of chairs with much grace. His highly

polished bald head bowed itself benevolently towards her.

"And what can I have the pleasure of doing for you, my dear madam?" Mr.

Vavasour inquired blandly.

The visitor, who had examined Mr. Vavasour with a sharp glance as she

made a formal bow to him, gave a little prefatory cough, and gazed at

Mr. Vavasour's cheery fire.

"Of course," she said, "I am addressing Mr. Watkin Vavasower, the

matrimonial agent? The Mr. Vavasower as advertises in the newspapers?"

"Just so, madam, just so," replied Mr. Vavasour in soothing tones. "I

am that individual. And whom have I the pleasure of receiving?"

"Well, Mr. Vavasower, my name is Mrs. Rebecca Pringle," said the

visitor. "Of course, you'll not know the name, but you're familiar with

the name of the place I come from--the Old Farm, Windleby?"

Mr. Vavasour swept a jewelled hand over his high forehead.

"The Old Farm, Windleby?" he said. "The name seems familiar. Ah, yes,

of course--the address of a respected client, Mr.--yes, Mr. Stephen

Jarvis. Dear me--yes, of course. A very worthy gentleman!"

"Well, Mr. Vavasower," said Mrs. Pringle, smoothing her gown, which the

agent's sharp eyes noticed to be of good substantial silk, "there's many

a worthy gentleman as can make a fool of himself! I've nothing to say

against Stephen, especially as I've kept house for him for fifteen

years, which is to say ever since Pringle died. But I'm not blind to

his faults, Mr. Vavasower, and of course I can't see him rush to his

destruction, as it were, without putting out a finger to stop his

headlong flight."

Mr. Vavasour made a lugubrious face, shook his head, and looked further

inquiries.

"'It's come to my knowledge, Mr. Vavasower," continued Mrs. Pringle,

"that Stephen Jarvis, as is my first cousin, has been having

correspondence with you on the matter of finding a wife. A pretty thing

for a man of his years to do--five-and-fifty he is, and no less--when

he's kept off the ladies all this time! And I must tell you, Mr.

Vavasower, that his family does not approve of it, and that's why I have

come to see you."

Mr. Vavasour spread out fat hands.

"My dear madam!" he said, deprecatingly. "My dear Mrs. Pringle! It is a

strict rule of mine never to discuss a client's affairs, or to----"

Mrs. Pringle favoured him with a knowing look.

"Of course, it would be made worth Mr. Vavasower's while," she said,

tapping a small reticule which she carried. "The family doesn't expect

Mr. Vavasower to assist it for nothing."

Mr. Vavasour hesitated. He called up the Jarvis case in his mind, and

remembered that Mr. Stephen Jarvis did not want a moneyed wife, and

that, therefore, there would be no commission in that particular

connection.

"Who are the members of the family, ma'am?" he inquired.

Mrs. Pringle looked him squarely in the face.

"The members of the family, Mr. Vavasower," she replied, "is me and my

only son, John William, as has always been led to look upon himself as

Stephen Jarvis's heir. And, of course, if so be as Stephen Jarvis was

to marry a young woman, well, there'd no doubt be children, and

then----"

"To be sure, ma'am, to be sure!" said Mr. Vavasour comprehendingly. "Of

course, you and your son have means that would justify----"

"My son, John William, Mr. Vavasower, is in a very nice way of business

in the grocery line," answered Mrs. Pringle. "But of course I don't

intend to see him ousted out of his proper place because Stephen Jarvis

takes it into his head to marry at his time of life! Stephen must be

put off it, and there's an end of the matter."

"But, my dear madam!" exclaimed Mr. Vavasour. "How can I prevent it? My

client has asked me for introductions; he is somewhat particular, or I

could have suited him some weeks ago. He desires a young and pretty

wife, and----"

"Old fool!" exclaimed Mrs. Pringle. "Well, he's not to have one, Mr.

Vavasower--as I say, it's not agreeable to me and John William that he

should. And as to how you can prevent it, well, Mr. Vavasower, I've a

plan in which you must join--me and John William will make it worth your

while to do so--that will put Stephen Jarvis out of conceit with

matrimony. The fact of the case is, Mr. Vavasower, Stephen is a very

close-fisted man. He's the sort that looks twice at a sixpence before he

spends it--and then, like as not, he puts it back in his pocket."

Mr. Vavasour inclined his head. He was interested.

"Now, Mr. Vavasower," continued Mrs. Pringle, "Stephen is as innocent of

the ways of young women as what a pagan negro is. He's never had aught

to do with them; he doesn't know how expensive they are. If he knew how

the young woman of now-a-days flings money about, he'd faint with terror

at the prospect of wedding one. Now, you must know a deal of clever

young women, Mr. Vavasower, your profession being what it is--actresses

and such-like, no doubt, as could play a part for a slight

consideration. If you could get such a one as would come down to the

Old Farm as my guest for a fortnight or so, and would obey orders as to

showing Stephen Jarvis what modern young women really is--well, we

should hear no more of this ridiculous marrying idea. Of course, I

could pass the young woman off as a distant relation of my poor

husband's, just come from America or somewhere foreign. I would like

her to show expensive tastes and to let Stephen see what a deal it would

cost to keep a young wife. And of course she'd have to be a bit what

they call fascinating---but you'll understand my meaning, Mr. Vavasower.

And I can assure you that although Stephen Jarvis is such a well-to-do

man, he's that near and mean that you'll do better to deal with me and

John William than with him."

Mr. Vavasour, who had been thinking hard, rubbed his hands.

"And the terms, my clear madam?" he said. "Let us consider the terms on

which we shall conduct this little matter. Now----"

Then Mrs. Pringle and Mr. Vavasour talked very confidentially, and

eventually certain crisp bank-notes passed from the lady to the agent,

and a document was signed by the former, and at last they parted with a

very good understanding of each other.

"For you'll understand, Mr. Vavasower," said Mrs. Pringle, as she shook

hands at the door of the private room, "that I'm not going to be

particular about spending a hundred or so when it's a question of making

sure of a good many thousands and a nice bit of property. And Stephen

Jarvis is a hearty eater, and disposed to apoplexy, and he might be took

sudden."

Then Mrs. Pringle went away and returned to the Old Farm, and for the

next fortnight kept a particularly observant eye on Mr. Jarvis and on

the correspondence which reached him from and through Mr. Vavasour. She

noticed that he became grumpy and dissatisfied almost to

moroseness---the fact was that the agent, in order to keep his contract

with Mrs. Pringle, was sending the would-be Benedick a choice of

unlikely candidates, and Mr. Jarvis was getting sick of looking at

photographs of ladies none of whom came up to his expectations. As for

Mrs. Pringle, she conducted her correspondence with Mr. Vavasour through

John William, whose grocery establishment was in a neighbouring

market-town, and it was not until the end of the second week after her

return home that she received a communication from him which warranted

her in taking the field.

"Well, upon my honour!" she exclaimed, as she sat at breakfast with Mr.

Jarvis one morning and laid down a letter which she had been reading.

"Wonders never will cease, and there's an end of it. Who do you think

I've heard from, Stephen?"

"Nay, I don't know," growled Mr. Jarvis, who had just received the

photograph of a very homely-looking young woman from Mr. Vavasour, and

was much incensed by what he considered the agent's stupidity. "Who?"

"Why, from my niece--leastways a sort of niece, seeing as she was poor

George's sister Martha Margaret's daughter--Poppy Atteridge, as has just

returned to England from foreign parts," answered Mrs. Pringle. "Her

father was an engineer and took her over to Canada when he went to

settle there after his wife died. He's dead now, it seems, and so the

poor girl's come home. Dear me!--I did once see her when she was

little. She writes quite affectionate and says she feels lonely. Ah, if

I'd a house of my own, I'd ask her to come and see me!"

"Ask her to come and see you here, then!" said the farmer. "I'm sure

there's room enough, unless she wants to sleep in six bed-chambers all

at once."

"Well, I'm sure it's very kind of you," said Mrs. Pringle, "and if you

really don't mind, I will ask her. I don't think you'll find her in the

way very much--they were always a quiet, well-behaved sort, the

Atteridges."

Mr. Jarvis remarked that a few lasses, more or less, in the house were

not likely to trouble him, and having finished his breakfast, lighted a

cigar, and locked up the homely-looking lady's photograph in his desk

with a hearty anathematization of Mr. Vavasour for sending it, went out

to look at his sheep and cattle and forgot the breakfast-table

conversation. Indeed, he thought no more of it until two days later,

when, on his going home from market to the Saturday evening high tea,

Mrs. Pringle met him in the hall with the news that her niece had

arrived, and was in the parlour.

"Oh, indeed!" said Mr. Jarvis, who was in a very benevolent mood,

consequent upon his having got an uncommonly good price for his wheat

and spent a convivial hour with the purchaser. "Poor thing--I doubt

she'll have had a rare cold journey."

Then he walked into the parlour to offer the poor young thing a welcome

to his roof and hearth, and found himself encountered by a smiling and

handsome young lady who had very sparkling eyes and a vivacious manner,

and whom he immediately set down as the likeliest lass he had seen for

many a long day. He thought of the gallery of dowdies whom Mr. Vavasour

had recently sent him by counterfeit presentment, and his spirits rose

rapidly.

"Well, deary me to-day!" he said, as he began to carve the home-fed ham

in delicate slices. "Deary me to-day! I'd no idea that we were to be

honoured with so much youth and beauty, as the saying is. I was looking

forward to seeing a little gel, Mrs. Pringle. Your aunt there didn't

prepare me for such a pleasant surprise, Miss--nay, I've forgotten what

the name is!"

"Atteridge," said Mrs. Pringle's supposed niece. "But call me Poppy,

Mr. Jarvis--I shall feel more at home."

"Poppy!" chuckled Mr. Jarvis. "Ecod, and a rare pretty poppy an' all!

Deary me--deary me!"

"The Atteridges was always a good-looking family," said Mrs. Pringle.

"I should think they must ha' been," said Mr. Jarvis, handing his guest

some cold fowl and ham with an admiring look. "I should think they must

ha' been, ma'am, judging by the sample present. So for what we're about

to receive----"

Mr. Jarvis, Mrs. Pringle, and Miss Atteridge spent a very pleasant

evening. The guest, in addition to great vivacity, talked well and

interestingly, and it began to dawn upon the housekeeper that she really

must have been in Canada, as she knew so much about life there. In

addition to Miss Atteridge's conversational powers it turned out that

she played the piano, and in response to Mr. Jarvis's request for a tune

or two, she sat down to an ancient instrument which had not been opened

within the recollection of Mrs. Pringle, and extracted what music she

could from it. Mr. Jarvis was highly delighted, and said so.

"But if you're so fond of music, Mr. Jarvis, you should buy a new

piano," said Miss Atteridge airily. "I've no doubt this has been a good

one, but I'm afraid it's quite done for now."

"Happen I might if I'd anybody to play on it," said Mr. Jarvis, with a

sly look.

"Oh, you could find lots of people to play on it," said Miss Atteridge.

When the guest had retired Mr. Jarvis mixed his toddy, and in accordance

with custom, handed a glass to Mrs. Pringle.

"She's a rare fine lass, that niece o' yours, missis," he said. "You're

welcome to ask her to stop as long as she likes. It'll do her good."

Next morning Mr. Jarvis, saying that he had business in the market-town,

ordered out his smart dog-cart and the bay mare, and asked Miss

Atteridge to go a-driving with him. They made a good-looking pair as

they drove off, for the farmer, in spite of his five-and-fifty years,

was a handsome and well-set-up man, with never a grey hair in his head,

and he had a spice of vanity in him which made him very particular about

his personal appearance.

Mr. Jarvis and Miss Atteridge were away all the morning--when they

returned to dinner at half-past one both seemed to be in very good

spirits. They and Mrs. Pringle were sitting in the parlour after dinner

when the housekeeper perceived a cart approaching the house, and

remarked upon the fact that it contained a queer-looking packing-case

and was attended by two men who wore green baize aprons.

"Aye," said Mr. Jarvis, carelessly, "it'll be the new piano that I

bought this morning for the young lady here to perform upon. You'd

better go out, missis, and tell 'em to set it down at the porch door.

If they want help there's John and Thomas in the yard--call for 'em. And

we'll have the old instrument taken out and the new one put in its

place."

Mrs. Pringle went forth to obey these orders, feeling somewhat puzzled.

The young lady from Mr. Vavasour's was certainly playing her part well,

and had begun early. But why this extraordinary complaisance on Mr.

Jarvis's part--Mr. Jarvis, who could, when he liked, say some very nasty

things about the household accounts? She began to feel a little

doubtful about--she was not sure what.

That night the parlour was the scene of what Mr. Jarvis called a regular

slap-up concert. For it turned out that Miss Atteridge could not only

play but sing, and sing well; and Mr. Jarvis was so carried away with

revived musical enthusiasm, that after telling the ladies how he used to

sing tenor in the church choir at one time, he volunteered to sing such

pleasing ditties as "The Farmer's Boy," "The Yeoman's Wedding," and

"John Peel," and growing bolder joined with Miss Atteridge in duets such

as "Huntingtower," and "Oh, that we two were maying." He went to bed

somewhat later than usual, declaring to himself that he had not spent

such a pleasant evening since the last dinner at the Farmers' Club, and

next morning he made up a parcel of all the photographs and documents

which Mr. Vavasour had sent him, and returned them to that gentleman

with a short intimation that he had no wish for further dealings with

him, and that if he owed him anything he would be glad to know what it

was.

On the following Sunday Mr. John William Pringle, a pale-eyed young

gentleman who wore a frock-coat and a silk hat, and had a habit of

pulling up his trousers at the knees whenever he sat down, came,

according to custom, to visit his mother, and was introduced to his

newly-found relative. John William, after a little observation, became

somewhat sad and reflective, and in the afternoon, when Mr. Jarvis and

Miss Attendee had walked out into the land to see if there was the exact

number of sheep that there ought to be in a certain distant field,

turned upon his parent with a stern and reproachful look.

"And a nice mess you've made of it with your contrivings and plannings!"

he said witheringly. "You've done the very thing we wanted to avoid.

Can't you see the old fool's head over heels in love with that girl?

Yah!"

"Nothing of the sort, John William!" retorted Mrs. Pringle. "Of course,

the gal's leading him on, as is her part to do, and well paid for it she

is. You wait till Stephen Jarvis reckernizes what he's been spending on

her--there's the piano, and a new hat, and a riding-habit so as she can

go a-riding with him, and a gipsy ring as she took a fancy to that day

he took her to Stowminster, all in a week and less--and you'll see what

the effect will be. You're wrong, John William!"

"I'm dee'd if I am!" said John William, angrily. "It's you that's

wrong, and so you'll find. Something's got to be done. And the only

thing I can think of," he continued, stroking a badly sprouted growth on

his upper lip, "is that I should cut the old ass out myself. Of course,

I could throw the girl over afterwards."

With this end in view Mr. Pringle made himself extraordinarily

fascinating at tea-time and during the evening, but with such poor

effect that at supper he was gloomier than ever. He went home with a

parting remark to his mother that if she didn't get the girl out of the

house pretty quick he and she might as well go hang themselves.

As Mrs. Pringle had considerable belief in John William's acumen she was

conscience-stricken as to her part in this affair, and took occasion to

speak to Miss Atteridge when they retired for the night. But Miss

Atteridge not only received Mrs. Pringle's remarks with chilling

hauteur, but engineered her out of her room in unmistakable fashion. So

Mrs. Pringle wrote to Mr. Vavasour, saying that she thought the purpose

she desired had been served, and she wished Miss Atteridge to be

removed. Mr. Vavasour replied that her instructions should be carried

out. But Miss Atteridge stayed on. And more than once she and the

housekeeper, Mr. Jarvis being out, had words.

"As if you ever was in Canada!" said Mrs. Pringle, sniffing.

Miss Atteridge looked at her calmly and coldly.

"I lived in Canada for three years," she answered.

"A gal as goes to a agent to find a husband!" said Mrs. Pringle.

"No--I went to get employment as a lady detective," said Miss Atteridge.

"Mr. Vavasour, you know, is a private inquiry agent as well as a

matrimonial agent."

"And what did you come here for?" demanded Mrs. Pringle.

Miss Atteridge looked at her interlocutor with a still colder glance.

"Fun!" she said.

Then she sat down at the new piano and began to play the "Moonlight

Sonata," and Mrs. Pringle went into the kitchen and slammed the parlour

door--after which she wondered what John William would say next Sunday.

On the previous Sunday he had been nastier than ever, and had expressed

his determination to be dee'd at least six times.

But when the next Sunday came Miss Atteridge had departed. All Friday

she had been very quiet and thoughtful--late in the afternoon she and

Mr. Jarvis had gone out for a walk, and when they returned both were

much subdued and very grave. They talked little during tea, and that

evening Miss Atteridge played nothing but Beethoven and Chopin and did

not sing at all. And when Mrs. Pringle went to bed, after consuming her

toddy in the kitchen--Mr. Jarvis being unusually solemn and greatly

preoccupied--she found the guest packing her portmanteau.

"I am going away to-morrow, after breakfast," said Miss Atteridge. "As

I shall not be here on Sunday please say good-bye for me to Mr. John

William."

John William, coming on Sunday in time for dinner, found things as they

usually were at the Old Farm in the days previous to the advent of Miss

Atteridge. Mr. Jarvis was in the parlour, amusing himself with a cigar,

the sherry decanter, and the _Mark Lane Express_; Mrs. Pringle was in

the front kitchen superintending the cooking of a couple of stuffed

ducks. To her John William approached with questioning eyes.

"She's gone!" whispered Mrs. Pringle. "Went off yesterday. He's been

grumpyish ever since--a-thinkin' over what it's cost him. Go in and make

up to him, John William. Talk to him about pigs."

John William re-entered the parlour. Mr. Jarvis, who was of the sort

that would show hospitality to an enemy, gave him a glass of sherry and

offered him a cigar, but showed no particular desire to hear a grocer's

views on swine fever. There was no conversation when Mrs. Pringle

entered to lay the cloth for dinner.

"We've had no music this day or two," said Mrs. Pringle with fane

cheerfulness. "Play the master a piece, John William--play the 'Battle

of Prague' with variations."

John William approached the new piano.

"It's locked," he said, examining the lid of the keyboard. "Where's the

key?"

Mr. Jarvis looked over the top of the _Mark Lane Express_.

"The key," he said, "is in my pocket. And'll remain there until Miss

Atteridge--which her right name is Carter--returns. But not as Carter,

nor yet Atteridge, but as Mrs. Stephen Jarvis. That'll be three weeks

to-day. If John William there wants to perform on t' piano he can come

then and play t' 'Wedding March'!"

Then John William sat down, and his mother laid the table in silence.

*CHAPTER VI*

*BREAD CAST UPON THE WATERS*

It was close upon sunset when the derelict walked into the first village

which he had encountered for several miles, and he was as tired as he

was hungry. On the outskirts he stopped, looked about him, and sat down

on a heap of stones. The village lay beneath him; a typical English

village, good to look upon in the summer eventide. There in the centre,

embowered amongst tall elm-trees and fringed about with yew, rose the

tower and roof of the old church, grey as the memories of the far-off

age in which pious hands had built it. Farther away, also

tree-embowered, rose the turrets and gables of the great house, manor

and hall. Here and there, rising from thick orchards, stood the

farmhouses, with their red roofs and drab walls; between them were tiny

cottages, nests of comfort. There were pale blue wisps of smoke curling

up from the chimneys of the houses and cottages--they made the weary man

think of a home and a hearthstone. And from the green in the centre of

the village came the sound of the voices of boys at play--they, too,

made him think of times when the world was something more than a desert.

He rose at last and went forward, walking after the fashion of a tired

man. He was not such a very bad-looking derelict, after all; he had

evidently made an attempt to keep his poor clothes patched, and had not

forgotten to wash himself whenever he had an opportunity. But his eyes

had the look of the not-wanted; there was a hopelessness in them which

would have spoken volumes to an acute observer. And as he went clown

the hill into the village he looked about him from one side to the other

as if he scarcely dared to expect anything from men or their

habitations.

He came to a large, prosperous-looking farmstead; a rosy-cheeked,

well-fed, contented-faced man, massive of build, was leaning over the

low wall of the garden smoking a cigar. He eyed the derelict with

obvious dislike and distrust. His eyes grew slightly angry and he

frowned. Human wreckage was not to his taste.

But the man on the road was hungry and tired; he was like a drowning

thing that will clutch at any straw. He stepped up on the

neatly-trimmed turf which lay beneath the garden wall, touching his cap.

"Have you a job of work that you could give a man, sir?" he asked.

The rosy-faced farmer scowled.

"No," he said.

The man in the road hesitated.

"I'm hard pressed, sir," he said. "I'd do a hard day's work to-morrow

in return for a night's lodging and a bit of something to eat."

"Aye, I dare say you would," said the farmer, scornfully. "I've heard

that tale before. Be off--the road's your place."

The derelict sighed, turned away, half-turned again. He looked at the

well-fed countenance above him with a species of appealing sorrow.

"I haven't had a bite to eat since yesterday morning," he said, and

turned again.

As he turned he heard a child's piping voice, and, looking round, saw

the upper half of a small head, sunny and curly, pop up over the garden

wall.

"Daddy, shall I give the poor man my money-box? 'Cause it isn't nice to

be hungry. Shall I, daddy?"

But the farmer's face did not relax, and the derelict sighed again and

turned away. He had got into the road, and was going off when the big,

masterful voice arrested him.

"Here, you!"

The derelict looked round, with new hope springing in his heart. The

man was beckoning him; the child, on tiptoe, was staring at him out of

blue, inquisitive eyes.

"Come here," said the farmer.

The derelict went back, hoping. The man at the wall, however, looked

sterner than ever. His keen eyes seemed to bore holes in the other's

starved body.

"If I give you your supper, and a night's lodging in the barn, will you

promise not to smoke?" he said. "I want no fire."

The derelict smiled in spite of his hunger and weariness.

"I've neither pipe nor tobacco, sir," he said. "I wish I had. But if I

had I'd keep my word to you."

The farmer stared at him fixedly for a moment; then he pointed to the

gate.

"Come through that," he said. He strode off across the garden when the

derelict entered, and led the way round the house to the kitchen, where

a stout maid was sewing at the open door. She looked up at the sound of

their feet and stared.

"Give this man as much as he can eat, Rachel," said the farmer, "and

draw him a pint of ale. Sit you down," he added, turning to the

derelict. "And make a good supper."

Then he picked up the child, who had clung to his coat, and lifting her

on to his shoulder, went back to the garden.

The derelict ate and drank and thanked God. A new sense of manhood came

into him with the good meat and drink; he began to see possibilities.

When at last he stood up he felt like a new man, and some of the weary

stoop had gone out of his shoulders.

The farmer came in with a clay pipe filled with tobacco.

"Here," he said, "you can sit in the yard and smoke that. And then I'll

show you where you can sleep."

So that night the derelict went to rest full of food and contented, and

slept a dreamless sleep amongst the hay. Next morning the farmer,

according to his custom, was up early, but his guest had been up a good

two hours when he came down to the big kitchen.

"He's no idler, yon man, master," said Rachel. "He's chopped enough

firewood to last me for a week, and drawn all the water, and he's

fetched the cows up, and now he's sweeping up the yard."

"Give him a good breakfast, then," said the farmer.

When his own breakfast was over he went to look for the derelict, and

found him chopping wood again. He saluted his host respectfully, but

with a certain anxiety.

"Now if you want a job for a day or so," said the farmer, with the

curtness which was characteristic of him, "I'll give you one. Get a

bucket out of the out-house there, and come with me."

He led the way to a small field at the rear of the farmstead, the

surface of which appeared to be very liberally ornamented with stones.

"I want this field clearing," said the farmer. "Make the stones into

piles about twenty yards apart. When you hear the church clock strike

twelve, stop work, and go to the house for your dinner. Start again at

one, and knock off again at six."

Whatever might have been his occupation before the derelict worked that

day like a nigger. It was back-aching work, that gathering and piling of

stones, and the July sun was hot and burning, but he kept manfully at

his task, strengthened by the hearty meal set before him at noon. And

just before six o'clock the farmer, with the child on his shoulder, came

into the field and looked around him and stared.

"You're no idler!" he said, repeating the maid's words. "I'll give you

a better job than that to-morrow."

And that night he gave the derelict some clothes and boots, and next

morning set him to a pleasanter job, and promised him work for the

harvest, and the derelict felt that however curt and gruff the farmer

might seem his bark was much worse than his bite. And he never forgot

that he had saved him from starvation. But the derelict's times were not

all good. Country folk have an inborn dislike of strangers, and the

regular workers on the farm resented the intrusion of this man, who came

from nowhere in particular and had certainly been a tramp. They kept

themselves apart from him in the harvest fields, and made open allusion

to his antecedents. And the derelict, now promoted to a small room in

the house, and earning wages as well as board, heard and said nothing.

Nor did the farmer go free of gibe and jest.

"So ye've taken to hiring tramp-labour, I hear," said his great rival in

the village. "Get it dirt cheap, I expect?"

"You can expect what you like," said the derelict's employer. "The man

you mean is as good a worker as any you've got, or I've got, either. Do

you think I care for you and your opinion?"

In fact, the farmer cared little for anything except his child. He had

lost his wife when the child was born, and the child was all he had

except his land. Wherever he went the child was with him; they were

inseparable. He had never left it once during the six years of its

life, and it was with great misgivings that in the autumn following the

arrival of the derelict he was obliged to leave it for a day and a

night. Before he went he called the derelict to him.

"I've come to trust you fully," he said. "Look after the child till

to-morrow."

If the farmer had wanted a proof of the derelict's gratitude he would

have found it in the sudden flush of pride which flamed into the man's

face. But he was in a hurry to be gone, and was troubled because of

leaving the child; nevertheless, he felt sure that he was leaving the

child in good hands.

"It's queer how I've taken to that fellow," he said to himself as he

drove off to the station six miles away. "I wouldn't have trusted the

child to anybody but him."

The man left in charge did nothing that day but look after the child.

He developed amazing powers, which astonished Rachel as much as they

interested the young mind and eyes. He could sing songs, he could tell

tales, he could do tricks, he could play at bears and lions, and imitate

every animal and bird under the sun.

"Lawk-a-massy!" said Rachel. "Why, you must ha' had bairns of your

own!"

"A long time ago," answered the man. "A very long time ago."

He never left his charge until the charge was fast asleep--sung to sleep

by himself. Then he went off to his little room in the far-away wing of

the house. And in an hour or two he wished devoutly that he had

stretched himself at the charge's door. For the farmstead was on fire,

and when he woke to realize it there was a raging sea of flame between

him and the child, and folk in the yard and garden were shrieking and

moaning--in their helplessness.

But the man got there in time--in time for the child, but not for

himself. They talk in all that countryside to this day of how he fought

his way through the flames, how he dropped the child into outstretched

arms beneath, safe, and then fell back to death.

Upon what they found left of him the farmer gazed with eyes which were

wet for the first time since he had last shed tears for his dead wife.

And he said something to the poor body which doubtless the soul heard

far off.

"You were a Man!" he said. "You were a real Man!"

And then he suddenly remembered that he had never known the Man's name.

*CHAPTER VII*

*WILLIAM HENRY AND THE DAIRYMAID*

The trouble at Five Oaks Farm really began when Matthew Dennison built

and started a model dairy, and found it necessary to engage the services

of a qualified dairymaid. A good many people in the neighbourhood

wondered what possessed Matthew to embark on such an enterprise, and

said so. Matthew cared nothing for comment; he had in his pocket, he

said (as he was very fond of saying), something that made him

independent of whatever anybody might think or say. It was his whim to

build the model dairy, just as it is the whim of some men to grow roses

or to breed prize sheep at great cost, and he built it. It was all very

spick and span when it was finished, and the countryside admired its

many beauties and modern appliances without understanding much about

them. And then came the question of finding a thoroughly expert

dairymaid.

Somebody--probably the vicar--advised Matthew to advertise in one of the

farming papers, and he and his wife and their only son, William Henry,

accordingly spent an entire evening in drafting a suitable announcement

of their wishes, which they forwarded next day to several journals of a

likely nature. During the next fortnight answers began to come in, and

the family sat in committee every evening after high tea considering

them gravely. It was not until somewhere about fifty or sixty of these

applications had been received, however, that one of a really promising

nature turned up. This was from one Rosina Durrant, who wrote from

somewhere in Dorsetshire. She described herself as being twenty-five

years of age, thoroughly qualified to take entire charge of a model

dairy, and anxious to have some experience in the North of England. She

gave particulars of her past experience, set forth particulars of the

terms she expected, and enclosed a splendid testimonial from her present

employer, who turned out to be a well-known countess.

Matthew rubbed his hands.

"Now this is the very young woman we want!" he said. "I've always said

from the very beginning that I'd have naught but what was first-class.

I shall send this here young person my references, agree to her terms,

and tell her to start out as soon as she can."

"I'm afraid she's rather expensive, love," murmured Mrs. Dennison.

"I'm not to a few pounds one way or another," answered Matthew. "I'm

one of them that believe in doing a thing right when you do do it. Last

two years with a countess--what? What'd suit a countess 'll suit me.

William Henry, you can get out the writing-desk, and we'll draw up a

letter to this young woman at once."

William Henry, who had little or no interest in the model dairy, and

regarded it as no more and no less than a harmless fad of his father's,

complied with this request, and spent half-an-hour in writing an elegant

epistle after the fashion of those which he had been taught to compose

at the boarding-school where he had received his education. After that

he gave no more thought to the dairymaid, being much more concerned in

managing the farm, and in an occasional day's hunting and shooting, than

in matters outside his sphere. But about a week later his father opened

a letter at the breakfast-table, and uttered a gratified exclamation.

"Now, the young woman's coming to-day," he announced. "She'll be at

Marltree station at precisely four-thirty. Of course somebody'll have

to drive over and meet her, and that somebody can't be me, because I've

a meeting of the Guardians at Cornborough at that very hour. William

Henry, you must drive the dog-cart over."

William Henry was not too pleased with the idea, for he had meant to go

fishing. But he remembered that he could go fishing every afternoon if

it pleased him, and he acquiesced.

"I've been wondering, Matthew," said Mrs. Dennison, who was perusing the

letter through her spectacles; "I've been wondering where to put this

young person. You can see from her writing that she's of a better

sort--there's no common persons as writes and expresses themselves in

that style. I'm sure she'll not want to have her meals with the men and

the gels in the kitchen, and of course we can't bring her among

ourselves, as it were."

Matthew scratched his head.

"Deng my buttons!" he said. "I never thought o' that there! Of course

she'll be what they call a sort of upper servant, such as the quality

have. Aye, for sure! Well, let's see now--I'll tell ye what to do,

missis. Let her have the little parlour--we scarce ever use it--for her

own sitting-room, and she can eat there. That's the sensiblest

arrangement that I can think on. Then we shall all preserve our various

ranks. What do ye say, William Henry?"

William Henry said that he was agreeable to anything, and proceeded to

make his usual hearty breakfast. He thought no more of his afternoon

expedition until the time for setting out came, and then he had the

brown mare harnessed to a smart dog-cart, and set off along the roads

for Marltree, five miles away. It was a pleasant afternoon in early

April, and the land had the springtide's new warmth on it. And William

Henry thought how happy he would have been with his fishing-rod.

Marltree is a junction where several lines converge, and when the train

from the south came in several passengers alighted from it to change on

to other routes. Amongst this crowd William Henry could not detect

anything that looked like the new dairymaid. He scrutinized everybody

as he sat on a seat opposite the train, and summed them up. There was a

clergyman and his wife; there was a sailor; there were three or four

commercial travellers; there were some nondescripts. Then his attention

became riveted on a handsome young lady who left a carriage with an

armful of books and papers and hurried off to the luggage-van--she was

so handsome, so well dressed, and had such a good figure that William

Henry's eyes followed her with admiration. Then he remembered what he

had come there for, and looked again for the dairymaid. But he saw

nothing that suggested her.

The people drifted away, the platform cleared, and presently nobody but

the handsome young lady and William Henry remained. She stood by a trunk

looking expectantly about her; he rose, intending to go. A porter

appeared; she spoke to him--the porter turned to William Henry.

"Here's a lady inquiring for you, sir," he said.

The lady came forward with a smile and held out her hand.

"Are you Mr. Dennison?" she said. "I am Miss Durrant."

William Henry's first instinct was to open his mouth cavernously--his

second to remove his hat.

"How do you do?" he said, falteringly. "I--I was looking about for

you."

"But of course you wouldn't know me," she said. "I was looking for

you."

"I've got a dog-cart outside," said William Henry. "Here, Jenkinson,

bring this lady's things to my trap."

He escorted Miss Durrant, who had already sized him up as a

simple-natured but very good-looking young man, to the dog-cart, saw her

luggage safely stowed away at the back, helped her in, tucked her up in

a thick rug, got in himself, and drove away.

"I'm quite looking forward to seeing your dairy, Mr. Dennison," said

Miss Durrant. "It must be quite a model from your description."

William Henry turned and stared at her. She was a very handsome young

woman, he decided, a brunette, with rich colouring, dark eyes, a ripe

mouth, and a flashing smile, and her voice was as pleasing as her face.

"Lord bless you!" he said. "It isn't my dairy--I know nothing about

dairying. It's father's."

Miss Durrant laughed merrily.

"Oh, I see!" she said. "You are Mr. Dennison's son. What shall I call

you, then?"

"My name is William Henry Dennison," he replied.

"And what do you do, Mr. William?" she asked.

"Look after the farm," replied William Henry. "Father doesn't do much

that way now--he's sort of retired. Do you know anything about

farming?"

"I love anything about a farm," she answered.

"Do you care for pigs?" he asked, eagerly. "I've been going in a lot for

pig-breeding this last year or two, and I've got some of the finest pigs

in England. I got a first prize at the Smithfield Show last year; I'll

show it you when we get home. There's some interest, now, in breeding

prize pigs."

With such pleasant conversation they whiled the time away until they

came in sight of Five Oaks Farm, on beholding which Miss Durrant was

immediately lost in admiration, saying that it was the finest old house

she had ever seen, and that it would be a delight to live in it.

"Some of it's over five hundred years old," said William Henry. "And

our family built it. We don't rent our land, you know--it's our own. Six

hundred acres there are, and uncommon good land too."

With that he handed over Miss Durrant to his mother, who was obviously

as surprised at her appearance as he had been, and then drove round to

the stables, still wondering how a lady came to be a dairymaid.

"And I'm sure I don't know, Matthew," said Mrs. Dennison to her husband

that night in the privacy of their own chamber, "I really don't know how

Miss Durrant ought to be treated. You can see for yourself what her

manners are--quite the lady. Of course we all know now-a-days that

shop-girls and such-like give themselves the airs of duchesses and ape

their manners, but Miss Durrant's the real thing, or I'm no judge. Very

like her people's come down in the world, and she has to earn her own

living, poor thing!"

"Well, never you mind, Jane Ann," said Matthew. "Lady or no lady, she's

my dairy-maid, and all that I ask of her is that she does her work to my

satisfaction. If she's a lady, you'll see that she'll always bear in

mind that her present position is that of a dairymaid, and she'll behave

according. We'll see what the morrow brings forth."

What the morrow brought forth was the spectacle of the dairymaid, duly

attired in professional garments of spotless hue, busily engaged in the

performance of her duties. Matthew spent all the morning with her in the

dairy, and came in to dinner beaming with satisfaction.

"She's a regular clinker, is that lass!" he exclaimed to his wife and

son. "I've found a perfect treasure."

The perfect treasure settled down into her new life with remarkable

readiness. She accepted the arrangements which Mrs. Dennison had made

without demur. Mrs. Dennison, with a woman's keen observation, noted

that she was never idle. She was in and about the dairy all day long;

at night she worked or read in her own room. She had brought a quantity

of books with her; magazines and newspapers were constantly arriving for

her. As days went on, Mrs. Dennison decided that Miss Durrant's people

had most certainly come down in the world, and that she had had to go

out into it to earn her own living.

"Just look how well she's dressed when she goes to church on a Sunday!"

she said to Matthew. "None of your gaudy, flaunting dressings-up, but

all of the best and quietest, just like the Squire's lady. Eh, dear,

there's nobody knows what that poor young woman mayn't have known. Very

likely they kept their horses and carriages in better days."

"Doesn't seem to be very much cast down," said Matthew. "The lass is

light-hearted enough. But ye women always are fanciful."

While Mrs. Dennison indulged herself in speculations as to what the

dairymaid had been, in the course of which she formed various theories,

inclining most to one that her father had been a member of Parliament

who had lost all his money on the Stock Exchange, and while Matthew

contented himself by regarding Miss Durrant solely in her professional

capacity, William Henry was journeying along quite another path. He

was, in fact, falling head over heels in love. He received a first

impression when he saw Miss Durrant at Marltree station; he received a

second, and much stronger one, next morning when he saw her in the

spotless linen of the professional dairymaid. He began haunting the

dairy until the fact was noticed by his mother.

"Why, I thought you cared naught about dairying, William Henry," she

said, one day at dinner. "I'm sure you never went near it when your

father was laying it out."

"What's the use of seeing anything till it's finished and in full

working order?" said William Henry. "Now that it is in go, one might as

well learn all about it."

"Well, ye couldn't have a better instructress," said Matthew. "She can

show you something you never saw before, can Miss Durrant."

Miss Durrant was certainly showing William Henry Dennison something he

had never seen before. He had always been apathetic towards young

women, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he could be got to

attend tea-parties, or dances, or social gatherings, at all of which he

invariably behaved like a bear who has got into a cage full of animals

whom it does not like and cannot exterminate. But it became plain that

he was beginning to cultivate the society of Miss Durrant. He haunted

the dairy of an afternoon, when Matthew invariably went to sleep; he

made excuses to bring Miss Durrant into the family circle of an evening;

he waylaid her on her daily constitutional, and at last one Sunday he

deliberately asked her to walk to church with him at a neighbouring

village. And at that his mother's eyes were opened.

"Matthew," she said, when William Henry and Miss Durrant had departed,

"that boy's smitten with Miss Durrant. He's making up to her."

Matthew, who was disposed to a peaceful nap, snorted incredulity.

"Ye women take such fancies into your heads," he said. "I've seen

naught."

"You men are so blind," retorted Mrs. Dennison. "He's always going into

the dairy--he's been walks with her--he's always getting me to ask her

in here to play the piano----"

"And uncommon well she plays it, too!" grunted Matthew.

"--and now he's taken her off to church!" concluded Mrs. Dennison.

"He's smitten, Matthew, he's smitten!"

Matthew stirred uneasily in his chair.

"Well, well, my lass!" he said. "Ye know what young folks are--they

like each other's company. What d'ye think I sought your company for?

Not to sit and stare at you, as if you were a strange image, I know!"

"Well, it all went on and ended in the proper way," said his wife,

sharply. "But how do you know where this'll end?"

"I didn't know that aught had begun," said Matthew.

Mrs. Dennison, who was reading what she called a Sunday book, took off

her spectacles and closed the book with a snap.

"Matthew!" she said. "You know that it's always been a settled thing

since they were children that William Henry should marry his cousin

Polly, your only brother John's one child, so that the property of the

two families should be united when the time comes for us old ones to go.

And it's got to be carried out, has that arrangement, Matthew, and we

can't let no dairymaids, ladies as has come down or not, interfere with

it!"

Matthew, who was half asleep, bethought himself vaguely of something

that had been said long ago, when Polly was born, or at her

christening--when the right time came, she and William Henry, then six

years old, were to wed. John, Matthew's younger brother, had gone in for

trade, and was now a very well-to-do merchant in Clothford, of which

city he had been mayor. Matthew woke up a little, made a rapid

calculation, and realized that Polly must now be nineteen years of age.

"Aye, aye, my lass," he said, "but you've got to remember that whatever

fathers and mothers says, children don't always agree to. William Henry

and Polly mightn't hit it off. Polly'll be a fine young lady now, what

with all them French governesses and boarding-schools in London and

Paris, and such-like."

"Our William Henry," said Mrs. Dennison, with heat and emphasis, "is

good enough for any young woman of his own class. And a man as owns six

hundred acres of land is as good as any Clothford worsted merchant, even

if he has been mayor! And now you listen to me, Matthew Dennison. I

had a letter yesterday from Mrs. John saying that she believed it would

do Polly good to go into the country, as she'd been looking a bit

poorlyish since she came back from Paris, and asking if we could do with

her for a few weeks. So to-morrow morning I shall go over to Clothford

and bring her back with me--I've already written to say I should. We

haven't seen her for five years--she was a pretty gel then, and must be

a beauty by now, and we'll hope that her and William Henry'll come

together. And if you take my advice, Matthew, you'll get rid of the

dairymaid."

Matthew slowly rose from his chair.

"Then I'm denged if I do aught of the sort!" he said. "Ye can fetch

Polly and welcome, missis, and naught'll please me better than if her

and William Henry does hit it off, though I don't approve of the

marriage of cousins as a rule. But I'm not going to get rid of my

dairymaid for no Pollies, nor yet no William Henrys, nor for naught, so

there!"

Then Mrs. Dennison put on her spectacles again and re-opened her Sunday

book, and Mr. Dennison mixed himself a drink at the sideboard and

lighted a cigar, and for a long time no sound was heard but the purring

of the cat on the hearth and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the

corner.

Miss Mary Dennison duly arrived the next evening, under convoy of her

aunt, and received a cordial and boisterous welcome at the hands and

lips of her uncle and cousin. She was an extremely pretty and vivacious

girl of nineteen, golden-haired and violet-eyed, who would have been

about as much in place in managing a farmstead as in presiding over a

court of law. But Mrs. Dennison decided that she was just the wife for

William Henry, and she did all that she could to throw them together.

In that, however, no effort was needed. William Henry and his cousin

seemed to become fast friends at once. On the day following Polly's

arrival he took her out for a long walk in the fields; when they

returned, late for tea, there seemed to be a very excellent

understanding between them. After that they were almost

inseparable--there was little doing on the farm just then, and there was

a capable foreman to see after what was being done, so William Henry,

much to his mother's delight, began taking Polly for long drives into

the surrounding country. They used to go off early in the morning and

return late in the afternoon, each in high spirits. And Mrs. Dennison's

hopes rose high, and her spirits were as high as theirs.

But there were two things Mrs. Dennison could not understand. The first

was that Miss Durrant was as light-hearted as ever, and as arduous in

her labours, in spite of the fact that William Henry no longer went

walks with her nor took her to church. The second was that when he and

Polly were not driving they spent a considerable amount of time in the

model dairy of an afternoon with Miss Durrant, and that unmistakable

sounds of great hilarity issued therefrom. But she regarded this with

indulgence under the circumstances.

"When they're together," she said, "young folks is inclined to make

merry. Of course I must have been mistaken about William Henry being

smitten with the dairymaid, considering how he's now devoted to his

cousin. He was no doubt lonelyish--young men does get like that, though

I must say that William Henry never did show himself partial to young

ladies."

However partial William Henry may or may not have been to young ladies

in the past, it was quite certain that he was making up for it at that

stage of his existence. The long drives with Polly continued, and Polly

came back from each in higher spirits than ever. Mrs. Dennison expected

every day to hear that her dearest hopes were to be fulfilled.

And then came the climax. One evening, following one of the day-long

drives, William Henry announced to the family circle that he was going

to Clothford next morning, and should require breakfast somewhat earlier

than usual. By nine o'clock next day he was gone, and Mrs. Dennison,

not without a smirking satisfaction, noticed that Polly was uneasy and

thoughtful, and developed a restlessness which got worse and worse. She

tried to interest the girl in one way or another, but Polly slipped off

to the dairy, and spent the entire day, except for meal-times, with Miss

Durrant. When evening and high tea came she could scarcely eat or

drink, and her eyes perpetually turned to the grandfather clock.

"If William Henry has missed the five-thirty, my dear," said Mrs.

Dennison, "he's certain to catch the six-forty-five. He were never a

one for gallivanting about at Clothford of an evening, and----"

And at that moment the parlour door opened and William Henry walked in.

The girl stood up, and Matthew and his wife, watching keenly, saw her

turn white to the lips. And William Henry saw it, too, and he made one

stride and caught her by the hands.

"It's all right, Polly," he said. "It's all right! See!"

He drew a letter from his pocket, tore the envelope open, and handed his

cousin the enclosure. She glanced its contents over as if she were

dazed, and then, with a wild cry of joy, threw her arms round William

Henry and fairly hugged him. And then she threw herself into the

nearest chair and began to cry obviously from pure happiness.

"Mercy upon us, William Henry Dennison, what's the meaning of this?"

exclaimed William Henry's mother. "What does it mean?"

William Henry picked up the letter.

"It means this, mother," he said. "That's a letter from Uncle John to

Polly, giving his full consent to her marriage with a young gentleman

who loves her and whom she loves--I've been taking her to meet him for

the past month (that's why we went for those long drives), and a real

good 'un he is, and so says Uncle John, now that at last he's met him.

You see, Polly told me all about it the first day she was here--and,

why, of course----"

With that William Henry went out of the room in a meaning silence.

"Of course," said Matthew; "of course, if my brother John approves of

the young man, it's as good as putting the hall-mark on gold or silver."

Polly jumped up and kissed him. Then she kissed Mrs. Dennison.

"But, oh, Polly, Polly!" said Mrs. Dennison. "I meant you to marry

William Henry!"

"But I don't love William Henry--in that way, aunt," replied Polly.

"And besides, William Henry loves----"

And just then William Henry made a second dramatic appearance, holding

himself very stiffly and straight, and leading in Miss Durrant.

"Father and mother," he said, "this lady's going to be your daughter."

So the trouble at Five Oaks Farm came to a good ending. For everybody

was satisfied that the best had happened, and therefore was happy.

*CHAPTER VIII*

*THE SPOILS TO THE VICTOR*

The man of law, bland, courtly, old-world mannered, tilted back his

chair, put the tips of his fingers together and smiled at the

grey-haired, hard-featured man who sat, grim and silent, on the other

side of his desk.

"My dear Mr. Nelthorp!" he said, in the tone of one pronouncing a final

judgment. "It doesn't matter a yard of that tape what either Sutton or

his solicitors say. We know--know, mind!--that it is utterly impossible

for him to take up the mortgages. He is at your mercy."

Martin Nelthorp stared hard at Mr. Postlethwaite's smiling

face--somewhere far back in his mental consciousness he was wondering

why Postlethwaite always smiled in that bland, suave manner when he

dispensed advice from his elbow-chair. It was a smile that seemed to be

always on hand when wanted, and it was never so sweet as when

disagreeable things were to be dealt with. It seemed to Martin Nelthorp

that there was nothing to smile at in the matter they were

discussing--certainly there was no humour or pleasure in the situation

for the immediate subject of discussion, Richard Sutton. But Mr.

Postlethwaite continued to smile and to hold his head a little on one

side, watching his client from between half-closed eyelids.

"At your mercy," he repeated softly. "Ab-so-lute-ly at your mercy."

Martin Nelthorp shook his great frame a little--as a mastiff might if

suddenly stirred into activity. He was a big man, and his burly figure

seemed to fill the office; his voice, when he spoke, was very deep and

strong.

"What you mean," he said, fixing his keen grey eyes on the solicitor,

"what you mean is that if I like I can ruin him?"

Mr. Postlethwaite smiled and bowed.

"You apprehend my meaning exactly, my dear sir," he said blandly. "Ruin

is the word."

"It's not a very nice word to hear or to use in connection with any

man," said Martin Nelthorp.

Mr. Postlethwaite coughed. But the smile remained round his

clean-shaven lips.

"The ruin of most men, my dear friend," he said oracularly, "is brought

about by themselves."

"Just so," said Martin Nelthorp. "All the same, the finishing touch is

generally put to things by somebody else. You're sure Sutton's as badly

off as what you make out?"

Mr. Postlethwaite fingered his papers and turned to some memoranda. He

scribbled certain figures on a scrap of paper and faced his client.

"The position, my dear Mr. Nelthorp," he said, "is exactly this. You

hold a first and second mortgage on Sutton's flour mill and on his house

and land--in fact, on his entire property, and the sum you have advanced

represents every penny of the full value. You are now wanting,

principal and interest, exactly nine thousand, seven hundred and

fifty-three pounds, ten shillings, and fourpence. He cannot pay this

money--indeed, I question if he could by any chance find one-fourth of

it, and you are in a position to foreclose at once."

"You mean that I can sell him up?" said Martin Nelthorp bluntly.

"Lock, stock, and barrel!" replied Mr. Postlethwaite.

Martin Nelthorp rubbed his chin.

"It's no very nice thing to ruin a man--and his family with him," he

remarked.

Mr. Postlethwaite again coughed. He took off his gold-rimmed glasses

and affected to exercise great care in polishing them.

"Is there any particular reason why you should consider Sutton before

considering yourself?" he said softly.

Martin Nelthorp's face darkened, and a hard, almost vindictive look came

into his eyes. The hand which held his ash-plant stick tightened about

it.

"No!" he said. "That there isn't! On the contrary----"

"Aye, just so, just so!" said the solicitor. "Of course, that's an old

tale now, but old wounds will rankle, my dear sir, old wounds will

rankle!"

Martin Nelthorp stared hard at Mr. Postlethwaite from beneath his bushy

grey eyebrows. He got up slowly, and buttoned his great driving-coat and

put on his broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, still staring at the man of

law.

"Well, I'll bid you good day," he said "It's time I was getting home,

and I've still to meet a man at the George and Dragon. Do no more in

that matter till you see me again--of course, Sutton doesn't know that I

bought up the two mortgages?"

"He hasn't an idea of it, my dear sir," answered the solicitor.

Martin Nelthorp hesitated a moment, then nodded as if to emphasize what

he had just said, and again exchanging farewells with Mr. Postlethwaite,

went out into the market-place of the little country town, now relapsing

into somnolence at the end of an October day. He stood at the foot of

Mr. Postlethwaite's steps for a moment, apparently lost in thought, and

then moved slowly off in the direction of the George and Dragon. The

man whom he expected to meet there had not yet arrived; he sat down in

the parlour, empty of any presence but his own, and gave himself up to

reflection. At his mercy--at last!--after nearly thirty years of

waiting, at his mercy! The only enemy he had ever known, the only man

he had ever had cause to hate with a bitter, undying hatred, was now by

the decrees of destiny, by the whirling of fortune's wheel, brought

within his power. If he pleased, he, Martin Nelthorp, could ruin

Richard Sutton, could turn him out of the old place in which the Suttons

had lived for generations, could sell every yard of land, every stick of

furniture that he possessed, could leave him and his--beggars.

And as he sat there in the gloomy parlour, staring with brooding eyes

into the fire, he said to himself--Why not? After all, it had been said

in a long distant age--_An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth_! Again

he said to himself--Why not, now that the hour and the opportunity had

come?

Nelthorp let his mind go back. He was now nearly sixty, a hale, hearty

man, the biggest and cleverest farmer in those parts, rich, respected,

made much of by the great folk, looked up to by the little; a man of

influence and power. He was going down into the valley of life under a

fine sunset and soft evening airs, and there were few who did not envy

him a prosperous career and the prospect of a green old age. But Martin

Nelthorp had always carried a trouble, a rankling sorrow in his breast,

and he was thinking of it as he sat staring with sombre eyes at the dull

red glare of the sullen cinders in the grate. It was the worst sort of

sorrow that could befall a man of his type of character, for he was both

sensitive and proud, quick to feel an injury or a slight, slow to let

the memory of either pass from him. It is said of a Yorkshireman that he

will carry a stone in his pocket for ten years in expectation of meeting

an enemy, and turn it at the end of that time if the enemy has not

chanced along. Martin Nelthorp might have turned his stone twice, but

he would have done so with no feeling of vindictiveness. There was

nothing vindictive about him, but he had a stern, Israelitish belief in

justice and in retribution.

The incidents--mean, ignoble--of his wrong came up before him as he sat

there waiting, and their colours were as fresh as ever. Five-and-twenty

years before he had been on the verge of marriage with Lavinia Deane,

celebrated all the countryside over for her beauty and her vivacity.

Everything was arranged; the wedding-day was fixed; the guests invited;

the bride's finery sent home. Suddenly came news that made women weep

and men smile. Almost on the eve of the wedding Lavinia ran away with

Richard Sutton, and was married to him in a distant town. It was a bad

business, said everybody, for Richard Sutton had been Martin Nelthorp's

bosom friend from childhood, and was to have been his best man at the

wedding. Nobody could conceive how the thing had come about; the girl

had always seemed to be in love with Martin, and had never been seen in

company with Sutton. But there the facts were--they were married, and

Martin Nelthorp was a bitterly disappointed and wronged man. The man

who broke the ill news to him would never speak of how he received that

news, of what passed between them, or of what he said on hearing of the

falseness of his sweetheart and the treachery of his friend, but it was

commonly rumoured that he swore some dreadful oath of vengeance on the

man and woman who had wrecked his life. And the neighbours and the

people of the district watched eagerly to see what would happen.

But years went on and nothing happened. Richard Sutton and his wife

stayed away from the village for some time; there was no necessity for

their immediate return, for Sutton had a fine business as a corn-miller

and could afford to appoint a capable manager in his absence. But they

came back at last, and as Martin Nelthorp's farm was within a mile of

the mill, the busybodies wondered how things would go when the two men

met. Somehow they never did meet--at least, no one ever heard of their

meeting. Nelthorp kept himself to his farm; Sutton to his mill. Years

went by, and things resolved themselves into a state of quiescence or

indifferentism: the men passed each other in the market-place or on the

highroad and took no heed. But keen-eyed observers used to note that

when they passed in this way Sutton used to go by with averted head and

downcast eye, while Nelthorp strode or rode on with his head in the air

and his eye fixed straight before him.

Whether there had been a curse put upon them or not, Sutton and his wife

did not thrive. Almost from the time of their marriage the business went

down. In his grandfather's and father's days there had been little

competition; the opening up of the countryside by railways made a great

difference to Sutton's trade. His machinery became out of date, and he

neglected to replace it with new until much of his business had slipped

away from him. One way and another things went from bad to worse; he

had to borrow, and to borrow again, always hoping for a turn in the tide

which never came. And eventually, through the instrumentality of Mr.

Postlethwaite, everything that he had was mortgaged to Martin Nelthorp.

Martin, during these years, had prospered exceedingly. He had been

fortunate in everything in his life, except his love affair. He had

money to begin with--plenty and to spare of it--and he knew how to lay

it out to the best advantage. He was one of the first to see the

importance of labour-saving machinery and to introduce it on his land in

good time. Again, there was nothing to distract his attention from his

land. He put all thought of marriage out of his head when Lavinia

proved false to him; indeed, he was never afterwards known to speak to a

woman except on business. For some years he lived alone in the old

farmhouse in which he had been born. Then his only sister lost her

husband, and came to live with Martin, bringing with her her one child,

a boy, who had been named after his uncle. Very soon she, too, died,

and the boy henceforward formed Martin's one human interest. He devoted

himself to him; educated him; taught him all that he himself knew of

farming, and let it be known that when his time came his nephew would

step into his shoes. The two were inseparable; now, when the boy had

come to man's age and the man had grown grey, they were known for many a

mile round as Old Martin and Young Martin.

Old Martin knew, as he sat by the parlour fire, that the old feeling of

hatred against Richard Sutton was by no means dead within him. He had

robbed him of the woman he loved, the only woman he ever could love,

and, as the solicitor had said, the old wound still rankled. Well, it

was in his power now to take his revenge--his enemy was at his feet.

But--the woman? She, too, would be ruined, she would be a beggar, an

outcast. It would be turning her out on the road. Well--his face grew

stern and his eyes hard as he thought of it--had she not once turned him

out on a road, longer, harder to tread than that? _An eye for an eye, a

tooth for a tooth...._

It never occurred to him to ask himself if there were any children who

might be affected.

The man who presently came in to keep his appointment with Martin

remarked afterwards that he had never known Mr. Nelthorp so hard and

determined in bargaining as he was that evening.

When the bargaining was done Martin Nelthorp got on his horse and rode

home to his comfortable fireside. It was always a pleasure to him to

get under his own roof-tree after a long day on the land or an afternoon

at market or auction. There was the evening meal in company with his

nephew; the easy-chair and the newspaper afterwards; the pipe of tobacco

and the glass of toddy before going to bed. And Old Martin and Young

Martin, as most folk thereabouts were well aware, were more like

companions than uncle and nephew; they had many tastes in

common--hunting, shooting, sport in general, and the younger man was as

keen a farmer as the elder. There was therefore no lack of company nor

of conversation round the parlour fire at the Manor Farm.

But on this particular night, for the first time since either of them

could remember, there was an unusual silence and restraint round the

supper-table. Both men as a rule were good trenchermen--a life in the

open air helped them to hearty and never-failing appetite. This night

neither ate much, and neither seemed disposed to talk much. Old Martin

knew why he himself was silent, and why he was not inclined to food--he

was too full of the Sutton affair. But he wondered what made his nephew

so quiet, and why he did not replenish his plate after his usual

fashion. As for Young Martin he had his own thoughts to occupy him, but

he, too, wondered what made the elder so obviously thoughtful.

Old Martin remained quiet and meditative all the evening. He held the

newspaper in his hands, but he was not always reading it. He had his

favourite pipe between his lips, but he let it go out more than once.

Young Martin was similarly preoccupied. He affected to read the _Mark

Lane Express_, but he was more often staring at the ceiling than at the

printed page. It was not until after nine o'clock, at which hour they

generally began to think of bed, that any conversation arose between

them. Young Martin started it, and with obvious confusion and

diffidence.

"There's a matter I wanted to mention to you to-night, Uncle Martin," he

said. "Of course, I won't speak of it if you've aught serious to be

thinking of, but you know I never keep aught back from you, and----"

"What is it, my lad?" asked the elder man. "Speak out--I was only just

studying about a business matter--it's naught."

Young Martin's diffidence increased. He shuffled his feet, became very

red, and opened and shut his mouth several times before he could speak.

"It's like this," he said at last. "If you've no objection I should

like to get married."

Old Martin started as if he had been shot. He stared at his nephew as

though he had said that he was going to fly.

"Married!" he exclaimed. "Why, my lad--goodness be on us, you're naught

but a youngster yet!"

"I'm twenty-six, uncle," said Young Martin.

"Twenty-six! Nay, nay--God bless my soul, well, I suppose you are.

Time goes on so fast. Twenty-six! Aye, of course," said Old Martin.

"Aye, you must be, my lad. Well, but who's the girl?"

Young Martin became more diffident than ever. It seemed an age to him

before he could find his tongue. But at last he blurted the name out,

all in a jerk.

"Lavinia Sutton!"

Martin Nelthorp dropped his pipe and his paper. He clutched the back of

his elbow-chair and stared at his nephew as he might have stared at a

ghost. When he spoke his own voice seemed to him to be a long, long way

off.

"Lavinia Sutton?" he said hoarsely. "What--Sutton of the mill?"

"Yes," answered Young Martin. Then he added in a firm voice: "She's a

good girl, Uncle Martin, and we love each other true."

Old Martin made no immediate answer. He was more taken aback, more

acutely distressed, than his nephew knew. To cover his confusion he got

up from his chair and busied himself in mixing a glass of toddy. A

minute or two passed before he spoke; when he did speak his voice was

not as steady as usual.

"He's a poor man, is Sutton, my lad," he said.

"I know that," said Young Martin stoutly. "But it's Lavinia I want--not

aught from him."

"He's in a very bad way indeed," remarked the elder man. "Very bad."

Young Martin made no reply. Old Martin took a long pull at the contents

of his glass and sat down.

"I didn't know Sutton had children," he said absently.

"There's only Lavinia," said his nephew.

Lavinia! The reiteration of the name cut him like a knife: the sound of

it sent him back nearly thirty years. Lavinia! And no doubt the girl

would be like her mother.

"You're no doubt aware, my lad," he said, after another period of

silence, during which his nephew sat watching him, "you're no doubt

aware that me and the Suttons is anything but friends. They--the man

and his wife--wronged me. Never mind how. They wronged me--cruel!"

Young Martin knew all about it, but he was not going to say that he did.

"That was not Lavinia's fault, uncle," he said softly. "Lavinia--she

wouldn't wrong anybody."

Old Martin thought of the time when he had--faith in women. He sighed,

and drinking off his toddy, rose heavily, as if some weight had been put

on him.

"Well, my lad," he said, "this is one of those things in which a man has

to choose for himself. I shouldn't like to have it on my conscience

that I ever came between a man and a woman that cared for each other.

But we'll talk about it to-morrow. I'm tired, and I've got to look

round yet."

Then he went out to fulfil his nightly task, never neglected, never

devolved to any one else, of looking round the farmstead before retiring

to rest. His nephew noticed that he walked wearily.

Outside, in the fold around which horses and cattle were resting or

asleep in stall or byre, Martin Nelthorp stood and stared at the stars

glittering high above him in a sky made clear by October frost. He was

wondering what it was that had brought this thing upon him--that the one

thing he cared for in the world should seek alliance with the enemies of

his life who now, by the ordinance of God, lay in his power. He had

given Young Martin all the love that had been crushed down and crushed

out; he was as proud of him as if the lad had been his own son by the

woman he cared for; he meant to leave him all that he had; he was

ambitious for him, and knowing that he would be a rich man he had some

dreams of his nephew's figuring in the doings of the county, as

councillor or magistrate--honours which he himself had persistently

refused. And it had never once come within his scheme of things that

the boy should fix his affections on the daughter of the enemy--it had

been a surprise to him to find out that he even knew her.

Martin Nelthorp walked up and down his fold and his stackyard for some

time, staring persistently at the stars. Though he did not say so to

himself, he knew that that astute old attorney, Postlethwaite, was right

when he said that old wounds rankle. He knew, too, that however much a

man may strive to put away the thought from himself, there is still

enough of the primitive savage left in all of us to make revenge sweet.

And he had suffered through these people--suffered as he had never

thought to suffer. He looked back and remembered what life had been to

him up to the day when the news of a man's treachery and a woman's

weakness had been brought to him, and he clenched his fists and set his

teeth, and all the old black hatred came welling up in his heart.

"He shan't have her!" he said. "He shan't have her! A good girl!--what

good could come of stock like that?"

Then he went indoors and up to his chamber, and Young Martin heard him

walking up and down half the night. When he himself got down next

morning his uncle had gone out: the housekeeper, greatly upset by the

fact, seeing that such a thing had never happened within her fifteen

years' experience of him, said that the master had had no more breakfast

than a glass of milk and a crust of bread, and she hoped he was not

sickening for an illness.

At that moment Martin Nelthorp was riding along the russet lanes towards

the market-town. There had been a strong frost in the night, and the sky

above him was clear as only an autumn sky can be. All about him were

patches of red and yellow and purple, for the foliage was changing fast,

and in the hedgerows there were delicate webs of gossamer. Usually, as

a great lover of Nature, he would have seen these things--on this

morning he rode straight on, grim and determined.

He was so early at Mr. Postlethwaite's office that he had to wait nearly

half-an-hour for the arrival of that gentleman. But when Mr.

Postlethwaite came his client lost no time in going straight to his

point.

"I want all papers of mine relating to that Sutton affair," he said.

"Before I settle what I shall do I must read through 'em myself. Give me

the lot."

Mr. Postlethwaite made some would-be facetious remark as to legal

phraseology, but Martin Nelthorp paid no attention to it. He carried

the papers away with him in a big envelope, and riding straight home at

a smart pace, took them into the little room which he used as an office,

and went carefully through them merely to see that they were all there.

That done, he tore certain of them in half, and enclosing everything in

another cover, he addressed it to Richard Sutton.

Then Old Martin went into the parlour and found Young Martin there,

cleaning a gun. He clapped him on the shoulder, and the young man,

looking up, saw that something had gone out of his elder's eyes and

face.

"Now, my lad!" said Old Martin cheerily. "You can marry the girl--and

you can go and make the arrangements this morning. And while you're

there you can give this packet to Richard Sutton--he'll understand what

it is."

Then, before his nephew could find his tongue, Martin Nelthorp strode

over to the kitchen door and called lustily for his breakfast.

*CHAPTER IX*

*AN ARCADIAN COURTSHIP*

Sweetbriar Farm, when I went to visit my cousin there, seemed to me a

crystallization of all the storied sweets of Arcadia as one reads of

them in the poets and the dreamers. The house itself was some five

hundred years old; it had diamond-paned windows framed in ivy; on one

side, where there was no ivy, the grey walls were covered with clematis

and honeysuckle and jessamine. There was a walled garden, gay with

blossom; there was an orchard, where the blossom fell on lush grass in

which golden daffodils sprang up. At the end of the orchard ran a

stream, brown and mysterious, in whose deeper pools lurked speckled

trout. All about the house and the garden and the orchard the birds

sang, for the nesting and breeding season was scarce over, and at night,

in a coppice close by, a nightingale sang its heart out to the rising

moon.

Within the old farmstead everything was as Arcadian as without. The

sitting-room--otherwise the best parlour--was a dream of old oak, old

china, old pewter, and old pictures. It smelt always of roses and

lavender--you could smoke the strongest tobacco there without offence,

for the flower-scent was more powerful. A dream, too, was my

sleeping-chamber, with lavender-kept linen, its quaint chintz hangings,

and its deep window-seat, in which one could sit of a night to see the

moonlight play upon garden and orchard, or of an early morning to watch

the dew-starred lawn sparkle in the fresh sunlight. And, once free of

the house, there was the great kitchen to admire, with its mighty

hearth, its old brass and pewter, its ancient grandfather clock, its

flitches and hams hanging, side by side with bundles of dried herbs,

from the oaken rafters; and beyond it the dairy, a cool and shadowy

place where golden butter was made out of snow-white cream; and beyond

that, again, the deep, dungeon-like cellar where stood the giant casks

of home-brewed ale--nectar fit for the gods.

Nor were the folk who inhabited this Arcadia less interesting than the

Arcadia itself. My cousin Samuel is a fine specimen of an Englishman,

with a face like the rising sun and an eye as blue as the cornflowers

which grow in his hedgerows. There was his wife, a gay and bustling

lady of sixty youthful years, who was never without a smile and a cheery

word, and who, like her good man, had but one regret, which each bore

with admirable resignation--that the Lord had never blessed them with

children. There were the people who came and went about the

farm--ruddy-faced and brown-faced men, young maidens and old crones,

children in all stages of youthfulness. And there was also John William

and there was Susan Kate.

John William Marriner--who was usually spoken of as John Willie--was the

elder of the two labourers who lived in the house. He was a youth of

apparently one-and-twenty years of age, and as straight and strong as a

promising ash-sapling. Whether in his Sunday suit of blue serge, or in

his workaday garments of corduroy, John Willie was a picture of rustic

health--his red cheeks always glowed, his blue eyes were always bright;

he had a Gargantuan appetite, and when he was not smiling he was

whistling or singing. Up with the lark and at work all day, he spent

his evenings in the company of Susan Kate.

Susan Kate was the maid-of-all-work at Sweetbriar Farm--a handsome,

full-blown English rose of nineteen, with cherry cheeks and a pair of

large, liquid, sloe-black eyes which made her white teeth all the

whiter. It was an idyll in itself to see Susan Kate--whose surname was

Sutton--milking the cows, or feeding the calves out of a tin bucket; it

was still more of an idyll to watch her and John William hanging over

the orchard gate of an evening, the day's work behind them and the

nightingale singing in the neighbouring coppice.

It seemed to me that Mr. Marriner and Miss Sutton were certainly lovers,

and that matrimony was in their view. Now and then they went to church

together, Susan Kate carrying a clean handkerchief and a Prayer Book,

John Willie carrying Susan Kate's umbrella. Sometimes they went for

walks on a Sunday afternoon; I more than once encountered them on these

occasions, and curiously observed the manner of their love-making. We

invariably met in shady lanes or woodland paths--Mr. Marriner in his

Sunday suit, with some hedgerow flower in his buttonhole, invariably

came first, bearing Miss Sutton's umbrella, with which he would

occasionally switch the grass; Miss Sutton, very rosy-cheeked, followed

at a distance of two yards. They never seemed to hold any discourse one

with the other, but if they looked sheepishly conscious, they were

undeniably happy.

Into this apparent Paradise suddenly entered a serpent.

There came into the sitting-room one morning, when I happened to be

alone there, a Susan Kate whom I had certainly not seen before. This

Susan Kate had evidently spent a considerable part of the night in

affliction--her eyes were red and heavy, and there was even then a

suspicious quiver at the corners of her red and pouting lips. She laid

the tablecloth, set the plates and the knives and forks upon the table

as if it was in her mind to do an injury to them.

"Why, Susan Kate!" said I. "What is the matter?"

Susan Kate's only immediate answer was to sniff loudly, and to retire to

the kitchen, whence she presently returned with a cold ham, uncarven as

yet, and a crisp lettuce, either of which were sights sufficient to

cheer up the saddest heart. But Susan Kate was apparently indifferent

to any creature comforts. She sniffed again and disappeared again, and

came back with the eggs and the toast and the tea.

"I'm afraid, Susan Kate," said I, with all the dignified gravity of

middle age, "I'm afraid you are in trouble."

Susan Kate applied a corner of her apron to her left eye as she

transferred a bowl of roses from the sideboard to the middle of the

breakfast-table. Then she found her tongue, and I noticed that her

hands trembled as she rearranged my cup and saucer.

"It's all that there Lydia Lightowler!" she burst out, with the

suddenness of an April shower. "A nasty, spiteful Thing!"