"And who is Lydia Lightowler, Susan Kate?" I inquired.
Susan Kate snorted instead of sniffing.
"She's the new girl at the Spinney Farm," she answered.
"Oh!" I said. "I didn't know they had a new girl at the Spinney Farm.
Where's Rebecca got to?"
"'Becca's mother," replied Susan Kate, "was took ill very sudden, and
'Becca had to leave. So this here Lydia Lightowler come in her place.
And I wish she'd stopped where she came from, wherever that may be!"
"Ah!" I said. "And what has Lydia Lightowler done, Susan Kate?"
Susan Kate, whose stormy eyes were fixed on something in vacancy, and
who was twisting and untwisting her apron, looked as if she would like
to deliver her mind to somebody.
"Well, it isn't right if a young man's been making up to a young woman
for quite six months that he should start carrying on with another!" she
burst out at last. "It's more than what flesh and blood can stand."
"Quite so, quite so, Susan Kate," I said. "I quite appreciate your
meaning. So John Willie----"
"I had to go on an errand to the Spinney Farm last night," said Susan
Kate; "to fetch a dozen of ducks' eggs it was, for the missis, and lo
and behold, who should I come across walking in Low Field Lane but John
William and Lydia Lightowler--a nasty cat! So when I saw them I turned
and went another way, and when John William came home him and me had
words, and this morning he wouldn't speak."
Here Susan Kate's tears began to flow afresh, and hearing the approach
of her mistress she suddenly threw her apron over her head and rushed
from the parlour, no doubt to have a good cry in some of the many
recesses of the ancient farmstead. It was plain that Susan Kate's heart
was fashioned of the genuine feminine stuff.
In the course of my walk that morning I crossed the field in which Mr.
John William Marriner was performing his daily task. Usually he sang or
whistled all day long, and you could locate him by his melody at least a
quarter of a mile away. But on this particular morning--a very
beautiful one--John William was silent. He neither whistled nor sang,
and when I got up to him I saw that his good-natured face was clouded
over. In fact, John William looked glum, not to say sulky. He was
usually inclined to chat, but upon this occasion his answers were short
and mainly monosyllabic, and I did not tarry by him. It was plain that
John William was unhappy.
So there was a cloud over Arcadia. It appeared to increase in density.
It was on a Tuesday when it first arose; after Wednesday Susan Kate wept
no more, but went about with dry eyes and her nose in the air, wearing
an injured expression, while John William conducted his daily avocations
in a moody and sombre fashion. There were no more idylls of the orchard
gate, and the farmhouse kitchen heard no merry laughter.
But on the next Monday morning I found Susan Kate laying the
breakfast-table and showing undoubted signs of grief--in fact, she
looked as if she had cried her eyes out. And this time there was no
need to invite her confidence, for she was only too anxious to pour out
her woes.
"He walked her to church and home again last night!" exclaimed Susan
Kate, nearly sobbing. "And they sat in the same pew and sang out of the
same book, same as what him and me used to do. And Bob Johnson, he saw
them going down Low Field Lane, and he said they were hanging arms!"
"Dear, dear, dear!" said I. "This, Susan Kate, is getting serious."
"And it's the Flower Show at Cornborough this week," continued Susan
Kate, "and he'd promised faithful to take me to it, but now I expect
he'll take her--a nasty, mean, spiteful cat!"
"John William's conduct is most extraordinary," I said. "It is--yes,
Susan Kate, it is reprehensible. Reprehensible!"
Susan Kate looked at me half suspiciously.
"I don't want to say nothing against John Willie," she said. "I know
what's the matter with him. It's 'cause she dresses so fine--I saw her
the first Sunday she came to church. And John Willie has such an eye
for finery. But fine feathers makes fine birds. I could be just as
fine as what she is if I hadn't had to send my wages home to my mother
when father broke his leg the other week. There's a hat in Miss
Duxberry's window at Cornborough that would just suit me if I could only
buy it. I'd like to see what John Willie would say then. 'Cause I'm as
good-looking as what she is, any day, for all she's got yellow hair!"
Then Susan Kate retired, presumably to weep some more tears. But next
morning she was all pride again.
"He's going to take her to the Flower Show," she said, as she set the
breakfast-table. "He told Bob Johnson so last night, and Bob told me
this morning."
"That's very bad, Susan Kate," I said. "A man should never break his
promise. I'm surprised at John William. Hasn't he said anything to you
about it?"
"We haven't spoken a word to each other since I gave him a piece of my
mind about meeting him and her in Low Field Lane," said Susan Kate.
"Nay, if he prefers her to me he can have her, and welcome. I shall
have naught no more to do with young men--they're that fickle!"
"Shall you go to the Flower Show, Susan Kate?" I inquired.
"No, I shan't!" snapped out Susan Kate. "They can have it to themselves,
and then they'll happen to be suited."
I walked into Cornborough during the day and discovered the whereabouts
of Miss Duxberry's shop. It was not difficult to pick out the hat to
which Susan Kate had referred, nor to realize that the girl had
uncommonly good taste, and that it would look very well indeed on her
wealth of raven hair. A label attached to its stand announced that it
came from Paris, and that its price was a guinea--well, Susan Kate was
well worthy of twenty-one shillings'-worth of the latest Parisian
fashion. Besides, there was John William's future to consider. So I
dispatched the Paris hat to Sweetbriar Farm by a specially commissioned
boy, who solemnly promised to remember with what duty he was charged.
That evening, after my return to the farm, and following upon my supper
and a short conference with Susan Kate, I made my way to the courtyard,
where Bob Johnson, the second "liver-in," was invariably to be found in
his leisure moments, seated on the granary steps, and engaged either in
plaiting whip-lashes or making whistles out of ash-twigs. Mr. Johnson
was a stolid, heavy-faced, heavily-fashioned young gentleman of twenty,
with just sufficient intelligence to know a plough from a harrow, and a
firm conviction that the first duty of all well-regulated citizens was
to eat and drink as much as possible. I gave him a cigar, at which he
immediately began to suck as if it had been his own pipe, and passed the
time of day with him.
"I suppose you'll be going to the Flower Show to-morrow?" I said.
Mr. Johnson shook his head over his whiplash.
"I'm sure I don't know," he answered. "The master's given us a half-day
off, but I'm none so great on them occasions. I doubt I shan't be
present."
"Look here," I said, "would you like to earn half-a-sovereign?"
In order to emphasize this magnificent offer I drew the coin alluded to
from my waistcoat pocket and let the evening sun shine on it. Mr.
Johnson's eyes twinkled and he opened his mouth cavernously.
"How?" he said, and scratched his right ear.
"Now listen to me," I said; "to-morrow afternoon you're to put your best
things on, and you're to take Susan Kate to the Flower Show. I'll give
you two shillings to pay you in, and five shillings to take with you,
and you shall have five shillings more when you come back."
Mr. Johnson scratched his ear again.
"Happen Susan Kate won't go," he said, dubiously. "I've never walked
her out anywheres."
"Susan Kate will go with you," I said, decisively. "You be ready at
three o'clock. And remember, you're not to say a word about this to
anybody--not one word to John William. If you do, there'll be no ten
shillings."
Mr. Johnson nodded his head.
"John Willie's going to the Flower Show," he remarked. "He's going with
the new servant-lass at the Spinney Farm. Him and Susan Kate's fallen
out. I say, mister!"
"Well?" I replied.
"I'm not a great one for lasses," said Mr. Johnson. "I don't want Susan
Kate to think that I'm courting her. 'Cause I'm not going to."
"Susan Kate will quite understand matters," I said.
"Well, of course ten shilling is ten shilling," murmured Mr. Johnson.
"Otherwise I should have stopped at home."
At half-past two next day I took up a position in the garden from which
I could see the setting out to the Flower Show. Presently issued forth
John William, clad in his best and sporting a yellow tea-rose--he
marched valiantly away, but his face was gloomy and overcast. A quarter
of an hour later Miss Sutton and Mr. Johnson appeared round the corner
of the house. The lady looked really handsome in her best gown and the
new hat, and it was very evident to my jaded eyes that she knew her own
worth and was armed for conquest. There was a flush on her cheek and a
light in her eye which meant a good deal. As for Mr. Johnson, who was
attired in a black cut-away coat and slate-blue trousers, and wore a
high collar and a billycock hat two sizes too small for him, he looked
about as happy as if he were going to instant execution, and gazed
miserably about him as though seeking some deliverance. He walked a
yard in the rear of Susan Kate--and Susan Kate seemed to regard him as
one regards a dog at heel.
It might have been about an hour and a half afterwards that Mr. Johnson
came shambling down the meadow towards the farm--alone. He looked
thoughtful, but infinitely relieved, as if some great weight had been
lifted from his mind. I went out into the courtyard, and found him
sitting on the wall of the well.
"You are soon home again," I remarked.
"Yes," he answered, "yes. I didn't see no call to stop there--Flower
Shows is naught in my line. Of course I did what you said, mister--I
took Susan Kate there, and went in with her, and walked her round."
"And where is Susan Kate?" I inquired.
Mr. Johnson took off the too-small billycock and scratched his head.
"Why," he said, "she's with John Willie. Ye see, when her and me got
there I walked her round the big tent, and we met John Willie and that
there Lydia Lightowler from the Spinney. Susan Kate took no notice of
'em, but passed 'em as if they were so much dirt, and John Willie he
looked at us as black as thunder. Well, we went on, and we'd gotten to a
quietish part when up comes John Willie by himself and gets hold of me
by the arm. 'What does thou mean,' he says, fierce-like, 'by walking my
lass out? Thee hook it, else I'll break every bone in thy body!' 'I
didn't know Susan Kate were thy lass now,' I said. 'I thought ye'd
quarrelled.' 'Hook it!' he says. 'Oh, very well,' I says. 'Ye can
settle it among yourselves.' So I left Susan Kate with him and came
home. Ye might give me that other five shilling now, if ye please,
mister."
Then Mr. Johnson retired to assume more comfortable attire, and I went
for a walk to meditate. And coming back in the soft twilight I came
across John William and Susan Kate. They were lingering at the wicket
gate, and his arm was round her waist, and just as I caught sight of
them he stooped and kissed her.
That, of course, accounted for the extraordinary happiness in Susan
Kate's face when she laid the cloth for supper.
*CHAPTER X*
*THE WAY OF THE COMET*
If he should happen to be alive (and if he is he must now be a very old
man, and have had ample time for reflection about more things than one),
Bartholomew Flitcroft will have heard of the comet which is now in our
neighbourhood with what are usually described as mingled feelings. It
is not quite within my recollection as to when it exactly was that the
last comet of any note visited us; if Bartholomew exists, and has
preserved his memory, he has better cause to know than most men. At
least, that may be so or may not be so, because no one can ever tell how
anything is going to turn out. When that particular comet had come and
gone Bartholomew was a sorely disappointed man; whether he really had
reason to be, no one will ever know.
As regards Bartholomew's status in the world, he was a smallish farmer
at Orchardcroft--a middle-aged, raw-boned, hatchet-faced man, whose
greatest difficulty in life was to make up his mind about anything. If
an idea about sowing spring wheat or planting potatoes came into his
head as he walked about his land, he would stand stock still wherever he
was and scratch his ear and think and consider until his mind was in a
state of chaos. He had always been like that, and, being a bachelor, he
got worse as he got older. He would never do anything unless he had
what he called studied it from every side, and once when one of his
stacks got on fire he was so long in deciding as to which of the two
neighbouring towns he would send to for the fire-engines that the stack
was burned, and three others with it.
So far as was known to any one acquainted with him, Bartholomew never
turned his attention to the subject of marriage until he was well over
forty years of age. Whether it then occurred to him because his
housekeeper married the butler at the Hall nobody ever could say with
any certainty, but it is certain that he then began to look about for a
wife. Naturally he exercised his characteristic caution in doing so,
and he also hit upon a somewhat original plan. He kept his eyes open
whenever he went to church or market, and, it being a fine spring and
summer when the idea of matrimony came to him, he began to ride of a
Sunday evening to the churches and chapels in neighbouring villages with
a view to looking over the likely ladies. That was how he at last
decided to marry Widow Collinson, of Ulceby.
Now, Widow Collinson was a pleasant-faced, well-preserved woman of some
forty summers, whose first husband, Jabez Collinson, had had a very nice
business as corn miller at Ulceby, and had consequently left her
comfortably provided for. When he died she kept the business on, and it
was said that she was already improving it and doing better than Jabez
had done. Such a woman, of course, was soon run after, and all the more
so because she had no encumbrances, as they call children in that part
of the country; there were at least half-a-dozen men making sheep's eyes
at her before Bartholomew came upon the scene. Whatever it was that made
her take some sort of liking to Bartholomew nobody could understand, but
the fact is that she did--at any rate, Bartholomew began riding over to
Ulceby at least three times a week, and it was well known that the widow
always gave him a hot supper, because the neighbours smelt the cooking.
One night she cooked him a couple of ducks, with stuffing of sage and
onions, and, of course, everybody knew then that they were contemplating
matrimonial prospects. And those who were acquainted with Bartholomew's
prevalent characteristic were somewhat surprised that he had made up his
mind so quickly.
It was always considered in Orchardcroft that if it had not been for Mr.
Pond, the schoolmaster, the marriage of Mrs. Collinson and Mr. Flitcroft
would have been duly solemnized that very year. Bartholomew might have
caused some delay at the post, but it was plain that he meant business
if he once got off. And it was certainly the school-master who made him
do what he did. He and Mr. Pond were near neighbours, and they had been
in the habit of smoking their pipes in one or the other's house for many
years. They would have a drop of something comforting, and sit over the
fire, and Mr. Pond used to tell Bartholomew the news, because
Bartholomew never read anything except the market reports and Old
Moore's Almanack. And one night when they were thus keeping each other
company and Bartholomew was thinking of Mrs. Collinson and her mill, Mr.
Pond remarked, with a shake of the head--
"This is very serious news about this comet, Mr. Flitcroft."
"What news?" asked Bartholomew.
"Why about this comet that's hastening towards us," replied Mr. Pond.
"What's a comet?" inquired Bartholomew.
"A comet," said Mr. Pond, in the tones he used when he was teaching the
children, "a comet is a heavenly body of fire which rushes round space
at a prodigious rate of speed. It's rushing towards us now, sir, at
millions and millions of miles a day!"
"How big is it?" asked Bartholomew.
"Much bigger than what our earth is, Mr. Flitcroft," answered the
school-master. "Its tail is twenty millions of miles long."
"And you say it's coming here?" continued Bartholomew.
"So the scientific gentlemen are agreed, sir," said Mr. Pond. "Yes,
this vast body of fire is rushing upon us as wild beasts rush on their
prey. It may be mercifully turned aside and only brush us with its
tail; it may crash right upon us, and then----"
Mr. Pond finished with an expressive "Ah!" and Bartholomew gaped at him.
"Is it all true?" he asked. "Is it in the newspapers?"
"The newspapers, sir, are just now full of it," replied the
school-master. "It's the topic of the hour. Sir Gregory Gribbin, the
great astronomer, says that we shall most certainly be crushed by the
tail. And if the tail is composed of certain gases--as he thinks it
will be--well!"
"What'll happen?" asked Bartholomew.
"We shall all be asphyxiated--smothered!" answered Mr. Pond, solemnly.
"We shall be withered up like chaff by fierce fire."
When Mr. Pond had departed Bartholomew took up the _Yorkshire Post_, and
for the first time ignored the market reports, over which he generally
pored for an hour every evening. He read a lot of learned matter about
the rapidly approaching comet, and he went to bed with his brain in a
whirl. Next morning he ignored the market reports again, and let his
coffee get cold while he read more about the comet.
It so chanced that Bartholomew was unable to visit Ulceby for several
days after that, owing to sickness breaking out amongst his cattle, and
when he next went the widow noticed that he looked much worried and was
preoccupied. As the cattle were all right again, she wondered what was
the matter, but at first got no satisfactory explanation. Bartholomew
seemed unusually thoughtful, and twiddled his thumbs a great deal.
"I say," he said, "I--I think we'd better put off the idea of being wed
until we see what this comet does--eh?"
"What comet?" asked the amazed widow.
"Why, this comet that's approaching," answered Bartholomew. "It's
coming like a bullet. I was going to put the banns up both here and at
Orchardcroft this week, but I don't see what use it is getting married
if we're all going to be burned to ashes in the twinkling of an eye.
I'll read you all the latest news about it."
With that Bartholomew, whom Mrs. Collinson was by that time regarding
with mingled feelings of apprehension and something closely bordering on
contempt, pulled out a quantity of newspaper cuttings which he had
carefully snipped out of various journals--his taste for science having
suddenly developed. He read out the astronomical terms with sonorous
voice.
"It's a very serious thing," he said. "I think we must put matters off.
The comet 'll be here soon."
"I suppose you're going to look out for it?" said Mrs. Collinson in a
constrained voice.
"Why, me and Mr. Pond, our school-master, has bought a telescope,"
replied Bartholomew, grandly. "Yes, we propose to make what they call
observations."
"I'm sure you couldn't be better employed," remarked Mrs. Collinson.
The next night, and the next, and the next again, and for several nights
Mr. Pond and Mr. Flitcroft engaged in astronomical pursuits. Then,
Sunday coming, Mr. Flitcroft heard strange news which sent him
post-haste to his widow. She met him at her door--coldly. Mr. Flitcroft
gasped out a question.
"Yes," she said, "it is true. Me and Mr. Samuel Green have been cried
in church this morning, and I'm going to marry him. So now you know."
"But what shall I do?" cried Bartholomew, scratching his ear.
"Do?" said Mrs. Collinson. "You can do what your precious comet 'll do.
Go back where you came from!"
*CHAPTER XI*
*BROTHERS IN AFFLICTION*
It used to be said all over the countryside that you might go for a long
day's march and search all the towns and villages you came across and
then return home without finding such an example of
David-and-Jonathan-like affection and devotedness as was seen in the
lives of Thomas and Matthew Pogmore. To begin with, they were twins who
had lost both parents before they themselves attained to manhood; this
sad occurrence seemed to draw them closely together, and at the age of
fifty they were still living, bachelors, in the ancient farmhouse
wherein they had first seen the light of day. They had never ran after
women, young or otherwise, and everybody who knew them--as everybody
did--said that they would live and die single. Some uncharitable people
said they were much too mean to marry, for they had a great reputation
for economy and were well known to look at both sides of a sixpence a
long time before they parted with it. And yet there were other people
who wondered that they never had married, for they were both
well-set-up, good-looking, rosy-cheeked, well-preserved men, who had
been handsome in early manhood and were still good to look upon. In all
respects they were very much alike in appearance--they were alike, too,
in the fact that each possessed a pair of small, sly eyes which always
seemed to be on the outlook.
The domestic life of Thomas and Matthew in their old farmhouse was one
of quiet and peaceful days. They were well-to-do, and the land they
farmed was good. They had a housekeeper, some ten years their senior,
who knew all their ways. They lived the most regular of lives. At
eight o'clock they breakfasted. From nine until one they were out and
about their fields or their folds. At one they dined, glanced at the
newspaper, smoked a pipe, drank one glass, and took a forty seconds nap,
each in his own easy-chair. When they were thus refreshed they went out
into the land again until half-past five, when high tea was set in the
parlour. After its consumption--and they were hearty eaters--the
spirit-case was set out with the cigars, and the peaceful duties of the
evening began. Sometimes they read more of the newspapers; sometimes
they talked of pigs or turnips or the different qualities of artificial
manure. And at precisely ten o'clock, having consumed exactly so much
grog and smoked exactly so many pipes or cigars, they retired to bed and
slept the sleep of the innocent. It was a harmless life and very
soothing.
This life, of course, had its occasional variations. There was, for
instance, the weekly market-day, when they attended the little town four
miles off, did business, dined at the ordinary and took their market
allowance. They were generous about the latter, as they were in all
matters of food and drink, but nobody ever saw them market-merry--they
were much too cautious and wise for that. Then there were occasional
fair-days to attend, and sometimes they journeyed into distant parts of
the country to buy sheep or cattle--these occurrences made a break in
life for them, but it was seldom that their well-fed forms were not
found one on each side of the hearthrug when the shades of evening fell.
And then, greatly to the astonishment of Matthew, Thomas suddenly began
a new departure. As a rule the brothers rode home together from market;
there came a period when he was missing when going home time arrived,
and Matthew had to go home without him. On three occasions he got back
late, and made excuses. He began to make more excuses about riding into
the market-town of an evening, and his twin-brother was often left
alone. Matthew grew alarmed, then frightened. And when at last he
realized that Thomas, when he went off in this mysterious way,
invariably dressed himself up, Matthew broke into a cold sweat and dared
to voice a horrible suspicion.
"He's after a woman!"
He glanced round the comfortable parlour and thought what it might mean
if Thomas introduced a wife into it. She would, of course, want to
alter everything--women always did. She would say that cigars made the
curtains smell, and forbid the decanters to be brought out until
bed-time. And she would expect, no doubt, to have his easy-chair. The
prospects were terrible.
"Who can she be?" he wondered, and his consternation was so great that
he let his cigar go out and his grog turn cold.
Thomas came home that night with very bright eyes and a distinguished
air. He mixed himself a drink and enthroned himself in his easy-chair.
"Matthew, my lad!" he said in his grandest manner. "Matthew, I've no
doubt that people have oft wondered how it was that we never entered
into the matrimonial condition of life."
Matthew shook his head sadly. Something was coming.
"Matrimony, Thomas," he answered feebly, "matrimony, now, is a thing
that never occurred to me."
Thomas waved his hand comprehendingly.
"Just so, just so, Matthew," said he. "Of course, we were too young to
think about such things until--until recently. A man shouldn't think of
them things until he's come to an age of discretion."
Matthew took a moody sip of the contents of his glass.
"Was you thinking of that state of life yourself, Thomas?" he inquired.
Thomas grew in grandeur and importance until he looked like a large
frog.
"I was about to make the announcement, Matthew," he said, "the important
announcement that I am about to lead to the altar Mrs. Walkinshaw----"
"What, her of the Dusty Miller!" exclaimed Matthew, naming a well-known
hostelry in the market-town.
"Mrs. Walkinshaw--Mrs. Thomas Pogmore as will be--certainly is
proprietor of that house, Matthew," replied Thomas. "Yes, she is!"
"Well--well!" said Matthew. "Ah, just so." He glanced at his brother
with the sly Pogmore expression. "I should think she's got a pretty
warmly-lined purse, eh, Thomas?--he was a well-to-do man, was her first
husband."
"I have no doubt Mrs. Thomas Pogmore as will be can bring a nice little
fortune with her, Matthew," said the prospective bridegroom, with great
complacency, "a ve-ry nice little fortune. There'll be what the late
Mr. Walkinshaw left, and what she's saved, and there'll be the goodwill
of the business, which should make a pretty penny."
"And there's no encumbrances, I think," remarked Matthew.
"There is no encumbrances," said Thomas. "No, it's a comfortable thing
to reflect upon is that. I--I couldn't abear to have a pack of--of
children about the place."
Matthew glanced about him once more and once more sighed.
"Well, of course, it'll make a difference," he began.
Thomas raised a deprecatory hand.
"Not to you, Matthew!" he said. "Not in the least, brother. Mrs.
Thomas Pogmore as will be knows that one-half of everything here is
yours. It'll only mean buying another armchair, which can be placed in
the middle of the hearth there."
"Well, of course, with having been in the public line she'll know what
men is," said Matthew, somewhat reassured. "I couldn't like to see
anything altered in the old place nor my habits interfered with."
Mr. Thomas Pogmore intimated that everything would continue on the old
lines, and presently marched off to bed, humming a gay tune. He was
evidently in high good humour with himself, and he continued to be so
for some weeks, during which period Mrs. Walkinshaw, who was a handsome,
black-eyed widow of presumably forty-five, occasionally drove over and
took tea with the twins, possibly with the view of getting acquainted
with her future home. She was a sprightly and vivacious dame, and
Matthew thought that Thomas had shown good taste.
And then came a night when Thomas, arriving home earlier than usual,
entered the parlour looking much distressed, threw himself into a chair
and groaned. That he felt in a very bad way Matthew immediately deduced
from the fact that he neglected to supply himself with spirituous
refreshment.
"What's the matter, Thomas?" inquired the younger twin.
Thomas groaned still more loudly.
"Matter!" he exclaimed at last, making a mighty effort and resorting to
the decanters and cigars. "Matter a deal, Matthew. I dare say," he
continued, after he had drunk his potion with a suggestion of its being
bitter as aloes, "I dare say I should have been warned, for there's a
many proverbs about the frailty and deceit of women. But, of course,
never having had aught to do with them I was unarmed for the contest, so
to speak."
"Then she's been a-deceiving of you, Thomas?" asked Matthew.
"Deceived me cruel," sighed Thomas. "I shall never believe in that sex
again."
Matthew blew out a few spirals of blue smoke before he asked a further
question.
"I could hope," he said at last, "I could hope, Thomas, that it were not
on the money question?"
Thomas shook his head dolefully, afterwards replenishing his glass.
"It were on the money question, Matthew," he said. "I understood that
she'd come to me with a considerable fortune; a very considerable
fortune!"
"Well?" asked Matthew, breathlessly.
Thomas spread out his hands with a despairing gesture.
"All passes from her if she marries again!" he said tersely.
"Is it true?" inquired Matthew.
"Told me so herself--this very evening," answered Thomas.
A dead silence came over the farmhouse parlour. Thomas lighted a cigar
and smoked pensively; Matthew refilled his churchwarden pipe and puffed
blue rings at the ceiling, whereat he gazed as if in search of
inspiration. It was he who spoke first.
"It's a bad job, this, Thomas," he said; "a very bad job. Of course,
you'll not be for carrying out your part of the arrangement?"
"I have been cruel deceived," said Thomas.
"At the same time," said Matthew, "when this here engagement was made
between you, you didn't make it a condition that the fortune should come
with her?"
"No-o!" answered Thomas.
"Then, of course, if you throw her over she can sue you for breach of
promise, and as you're a well-to-do man the damages would be heavy,"
remarked Matthew.
Thomas groaned.
"What must be done, Thomas, must be done by management," said the
younger twin. "We must use diplomacy, as they term it. You must go
away for a while. It's a slack time with us now, and you've naught
particular to do--go and have a fortnight at Scarborough Spaw, and when
that's over go and see Cousin Happleston at his farm in Durham; he'll be
glad to see you. And while you're away I'll get the matter
settled--leave it to me."
Thomas considered that very good advice and said he would act on it, and
he went off to his room earlier than usual in order to pack a
portmanteau, so that he could set off from the immediate scene of his
late woes early next morning. When he had departed Matthew mixed
himself his usual nightcap, and, having taken a taste of it to see that
it was according to recipe, proceeded to warm his back at the fire, to
rub his hands, and to smile.
"It were a good conception on my part to speak to Lawyer Sharpe on that
matter," he thought to himself. "I wonder Thomas never considered of
it."
He drew a letter from his breast-pocket, and read it slowly through.
This is what he read--
"PRIVATE
10, _Market Place, Cornborough_,
_May_ 11, 18--.
"MR. MATTHEW POGMORE.
"DEAR SIR,--In accordance with your instructions I have caused the will
of the late Mr. Samuel Walkinshaw, of the Dusty Miller Hotel in this
town, to be perused at Somerset House. With the exception of a few
trifling legacies to servants and old friends, the whole of the
deceased's fortune was left unconditionally to the widow, there being no
restriction of any kind as to her possible second marriage. The gross
personalty was L15,237 odd; the net, L14,956 odd. In addition to this
the freehold, good-will, stock and furniture of the Dusty Miller was
also left to the widow.
"I am, dear sir, yours faithfully,
"SAMUEL SHARPE."
Matthew folded this epistle carefully in its original folds and restored
it to his pocket, still smiling.
"Ah!" he murmured. "What a thing it is to have a little knowledge and
to know how to take advantage of it!"
Then he, too, retired to bed and slept well, and rose next morning to
see his twin-brother off, bidding him be of good cheer and prophesying
that he should return a free man. Left alone, he chuckled.
Matthew allowed some days to elapse before he went into Cornborough.
Mrs. Walkinshaw looked somewhat surprised to see him, though of late he
had taken to visiting the house occasionally. As a privileged visitor
he passed into her private parlour.
"And pray what's become of Thomas these days?" she inquired, when
Matthew was comfortably placed in the cosiest chair.
Matthew shook his head. His manner was mysterious.
"Don't ask me, ma'am," he said, sorrowfully. "It's a painful subject.
Of course, however, between you and me and the post, as the saying is,
Thomas has gone to Scarborough Spaw, ma'am."
"To Scarborough!" exclaimed Mrs. Walkinshaw. "What for?"
Matthew sighed and then gave her an expressive look.
"He's very fond of a bit of gay doings, is Thomas, ma'am," he said.
"Likes to shake a loose leg, now and then, you understand. It gets a bit
dull at our place in time. But I'm all for home, myself."
Mrs. Walkinshaw, who had listened to this with eyes which grew wider and
wider, flung down her fancy sewing in a pet.
"Well, upon my word!" she exclaimed. "Gone gallivanting to Scarborough
without even telling me. Then I'll take good care he never comes back
here again. A deceitful old rip!--I don't believe he was ever after
anything but my money, for I tried a trick on him about it the other
night, and he went off with a face as long as a fiddle and never said
good-night. Old sinner!"
"We're all imperfect, ma'am," remarked Matthew. "Only some of us is
less so."
Then he proceeded to make himself agreeable, and eventually went home
well satisfied. And about five weeks later Thomas, whose holiday had
been prolonged on Matthew's advice, received a letter from his
twin-brother which made him think harder than he had ever thought in his
life.
"DEAR BROTHER" (it ran),--"This is to tell you that you can return home
safely now, as I was married to Mrs. Walkinshaw myself this morning. I
have decided to retire from farming, and she will retire from the public
way of business, as we find that with our united fortunes we can live
private at Harrogate and enter a more fashionable sphere of life, as is
more agreeable to our feelings. Business details between you and me can
be settled when you return. So no more at present, from your
affectionate brother,
"MATTHEW POGMORE.
"P.S.--You was misinformed in your meaning of what Mrs. Matthew Pogmore
meant when she spoke of her fortune passing at her second marriage. She
meant, of course, that it would pass to her second husband.
"P.S. again.--Which, naturally, it has done."
After this Mr. Thomas Pogmore concluded to go home and lead the life of
a hermit amongst his sheep and cattle.
*CHAPTER XII*
*A MAN OR A MOUSE*