WAITING THE ISSUE
In the morning Ran and Judy woke up to look, for the first time, by
daylight on their new home.
Ran opened the windows and let in the light of the December day upon
their bedchamber, a vast, peaceful, slumberous room, upholstered
throughout in olive green and gold, and looking out upon a park, full of
sunny glades and shady groves, even now in winter when the light of day
shone down on burnished dry grass in the glades and evergreen trees in
the groves.
The young couple, though lord and lady of the Manor of Haymore, had as
yet neither valet nor maid. So Ran rang no bell, but from a hodful of
coal at the chimney corner, with his own hand, replenished the fire in
the grate and then went to make his toilet.
Judy lay still, with her eyes looking through the large windows on two
sides of the spacious chamber, out upon the sunny and shady park until
Ran had finished dressing and left the room. Then she arose and took her
bath and opened her large sea trunk to find a dress suitable for her
morning wear.
She finally selected a plain suit of dark gray velveteen, with crimped
linen ruffles at the throat and wrists. She put it on and went
downstairs.
In the hall below she found the wide doors open in front, admitting the
winter sunshine, and a great coal fire burning in the broad fireplace in
the back; and between the two, near the front of the stairs, Ran, Will
Walling, Mike and Dandy standing in conversation.
Dandy was the spokesman.
“I did think,” he was saying, “that Longman would have come back last
night to bring me news of Julie. But, Lord, I do suppose he got so
wrapped up into his mother that he clean forgot me and mine, or else,
maybe, he could not well get away.”
“That was it, Dandy,” said Ran.
“Same time, if, as how I had thought it might be so, myself would have
gone to the rectory with him. And ’deed I’d agone, anyhow, only I didn’t
like to be intruding into a strange place.”
“I can’t understand,” said Will Walling, speaking for the first time,
“how you fortune-seekers can bear to stay away for years from your
native country without hearing a word from any of your friends at home,
and then, when you make up your mind to return, and once set foot in
your native land, you straightway get into a fever of anxiety and
impatience to meet them.”
“No more do I, but so it is!” confessed Dandy.
“Yis,” added Mike. “Sure it was the very same wid Mister Longman himself
when he was gitting nigh onto the ould farrum where he left his mother.
It is curious.”
“You see, if I only knowed she were alive and well,” said Dandy
apologetically.
“Oh, you may be sure of that,” cheerfully exclaimed Ran, “but I don’t
think she is at the rectory.”
“Why don’t you then, sir?” inquired Dandy.
“Because if she had been Longman would have seen her and told her about
you, and she would certainly have run over last night or early this
morning to see you.”
“So she would! So she would! And yet I dunno—I dunno! Even darters in
these days ain’t none too dutiful to feythers, let alone nieces to
uncles, ’specially when they’ve been parted twenty years,” said Dandy,
shaking his bald head.
“I don’t think she is at the rectory, or, under the circumstances, she
would have run over here to see you,” said Ran.
“I dunno! I dunno!”
“It is most likely she is married and away.”
“Or dead and buried, poor wench,” sighed Dandy.
“Come, come, don’t be so downhearted. Longman will be here soon. He
promised to come early this morning, and no doubt he will bring good
news of your niece. Now here is Judy, and we will go in to our
breakfast,” concluded Ran.
Judy, stepping from the bottom stair to the hall floor, greeted Will
Walling, Mike and Dandy with a cordial good-morning and led the way to
the breakfast room.
It was just under the bedchamber Judy had left, and had the same outlook
from windows on the east and north of sunny glades, of burnished dry
grass and shady groves of Scotch firs.
The table was laid for five, and the old butler was in attendance; not
that His Importance, Mr. Basset, the butler, ever waited at any other
meal except dinner, and then only at the sideboard; but on this
particular occasion of the first breakfast of the bridal pair at Haymore
he thought proper to volunteer his attendance in their honor.
The consequence was that Mike, Dandy and even Judy were almost afraid to
speak, lest they should expose their ignorance of high life to this
imposing personage.
The five sat down to table under the cloud of the butler’s greatness.
But soon the fragrant Mocha, the luscious waffles and the savory venison
steaks and other appetizing edibles combined to dispel the gloom and
enliven their spirits.
After breakfast Judy sent for the housekeeper, and claimed her promise
to show them through the building.
Mrs. Basset was only too willing to oblige. The five friends, led by
their conductress, went first up the grand staircase that led from the
lower to the upper halls on every floor to the top of the house.
“We had better go to the top first, ma’am, while we are fresh, else we
might find the stairs hard to climb,” said Mrs. Basset.
And Judy, as she knew that the old woman spoke chiefly in the interests
of her own infirmities, answered promptly:
“You know best, Mrs. Basset. Suit yourself, and you will suit us.”
They went upstairs to the low-ceiled rooms under the roof, which Mrs.
Basset described as servants’ bedrooms—storerooms for furniture out of
season, boxes, etc.
Then to the next below, all extra bedrooms, and to the next below that,
all family suites of apartments; and down to the next, on which were the
long drawing and the ballroom, which, with the broad hall between them,
took up the whole flat.
Lastly, they came down to the first floor, on which were the long
dining-room, the breakfast room, the parlor, the library and the picture
gallery, which was the last place to be inspected.
The family portraits were arranged in chronological order, beginning
with the Saxon ancestor of the eighth century, who, with rudest arms and
in rudest clothing, resisted the first invasion of the Danes, and whose
“counterfeit presentment” here was probably but the work of the rough
artist’s imagination, executed, or rather perpetrated, at a much later
date.
Then in regular order came the barons who had rallied around Hereward in
his last desperate stand against the usurper, William of Normandy; the
iron-clad knights who had followed Richard of the Lion heart to the Holy
Land; the barons who had taken up arms in support of the House of York
against that of Lancaster; the plumed cavaliers who had insanely flocked
with all their retainers to the standard of the Stuarts in every mad
attempt of that unhappy family to regain their lost throne;
periwig-pated courtiers of the Georgian dynasty; and, lastly, the
swallowtail coated and patent leather booted gentlemen of the Victorian
age, as represented by the late squire and his three sons.
The ladies of the chiefs were all there, too, each by the side of her
“lord,” and dressed in costume of her time, or in what was supposed to
be such, for there is little doubt that many of the earlier portraits
were merely fancy pictures.
Before the group of the late squire and his family Judy suddenly caught
her breath and clasped her hands and stood stock-still, gazing on the
full-length picture of a beautiful dark girl.
“It is like, isn’t it now, ma’am?” inquired the housekeeper.
“Like! Why, the picture might be taken for his portrait if it were not
for the dress!” exclaimed Judy, gazing at her husband.
“It is still more like my Cousin Palma,” said Ran.
“Why, so it is,” assented Judy; “and does not need change of dress to
make it perfect. The hair of that lady in the picture is worn exactly as
Palma wears hers, and that costume of dark blue is not unlike the dress
Palma wore to our wedding in color and make.”
“It is indeed a wonderful likeness to Mrs. Stuart,” remarked Mr.
Walling. “Who is the lady?” he demanded, turning to the housekeeper.
“The last Mrs. Hay, of Haymore, the grandmother of the young squire
here. She died at the age of twenty-three, leaving three boys, of one,
two and three years of age—to give the figures in round numbers,”
replied Mrs. Basset.
“Yes, I know she was the wife of the late squire; but whose daughter was
she?” persisted Will Walling.
The housekeeper was silent.
“Faix, Misther Walling, is it in the coorthoose ye are, with Misthress
Basset intil the witness box, that ye would be cross-examining herself?”
demanded Mike.
Will Walling turned a deprecating, apologetic glance upon Ran, who
quietly replied:
“She was the daughter of a gypsy chief. Her name was Gentyl Tuinquer.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Will. Then, feeling rather uncomfortable, he added,
to cover his confusion. “How beautiful she must have been!”
“And how much more beautiful she must be now!” exclaimed Judy.
The lawyer stared at her.
“Up there in heaven, I mean; for, of course, she is in heaven, for you
may see by her face how good she is,” added Judy.
The housekeeper sighed. All the ladies of the long line of Hays had been
“angel born” before this gypsy girl from the tents came into the family.
And though the woman could not help loving the memory of the lovely
young creature, she equally could not help suffering in her own pride at
any mention of the gypsy birth.
Ran kissed the hand of the pictured lady and then turned with his party
to leave the gallery.
On stepping out into the hall a footman met him, and with a respectful
salute said:
“If you please, sir, there is—a—person waiting to see you.”
“A person? Who? What sort of a person?” demanded Ran.
“A foreign-looking tall man, sir; might be a Patagonian, only he can
speak English.”
“Show him in here.” And with these words Ran crossed the hall and
entered a morning parlor on the same floor. Then looking back he saw
that, though his footman had gone on his errand, his friends lingered in
the hall.
“Come in, all of you. It is only Longman. You will all want to see him,
especially will Mr. Quin.”
“I do want to see him. Yes, that is so,” assented Dandy, as they all
followed Ran into the parlor, where they found quite a variety of
comfortable chairs.
They were scarcely seated when Longman entered.
Ran sprang up and met him; but Dandy pushed between them, his round,
bald head, as well as his face, glowing red with excitement as he
demanded:
“Have you seen my Juley? Is she well and happy? Is she still in the
service of the minister?”
“She is well and happy, but no longer in service anywhere. She is
married to John Legg, the greengrocer of your native village, Medge. So
I have not had the pleasure of making her acquaintance,” Longman
replied, with a laugh.
“The Lord above us! Well, I did sort of hope she was an old-maid woman
as would have been a housekeeper and a daughter to myself in my old
days. Well, and now she is married, and, I do dare say, with a baker’s
dozen of children. Yes, that is so,” said Dandy, with a heavy sigh.
“No, but it isn’t so. She only married a few months ago, when she was
over forty years old, and John Legg, the widower, who took her for his
second wife, over fifty; so she has no baker’s dozen of children as
yet.”
“Oh, I’s warrant he has a house full o’ young uns for her to be
stepmother to! And that will be a heap worse than if the wench had a
score of her own! It is as bad as if I had found her dead! Yes, that is
so,” sighed Dandy.
“No, it isn’t so. You are all out again. John Legg has no children at
home. He has a son and daughter, and gave them both a grand education
above his means, and to repay him they did all they could to break his
heart. They had worldly ambitions above their state, and despised the
calling of their father. The son took ‘holy orders,’ not for the love of
the Lord or the neighbor, but for love of self and the world. He became
a professional preacher only, not a minister of religion. Mr. Hay,” said
the speaker, suddenly turning toward Ran, “I shall presently have
something to say to you in reference to this man, in which you have an
especial interest.”
“Thank you, Longman. I will remember to remind you of it,” replied Ran.
“Now will you please go on telling me about the family my niece married
into?” said Dandy impatiently.
“Certainly!” smiled Longman, good-humoredly. “The son utterly ignores
his father and hangs on the skirts of influential people; but as yet has
had but little success. The daughter went out as a governess, less it
seems to be of service to children than to seek her own fortune, through
her beauty, among the rich and noble. She also ignores her father. Both
these hopefuls are ‘married and settled,’ to use the common phrase. And
the newly-wedded, middle-aged couple are alone.”
“And what could have tempted my gal to agone and married of a old
widdyman, whose son and darter had showed sich bad blood?”
“Well, to get out of service, perhaps; to have a house and home and a
good husband, whom she could love, in this John Legg.”
“I don’t memorize the name of no John Legg at Medge, though, to be sure,
I have been away from them parts for twenty years—yes, that is so!”
“No, you can’t remember him. He was not a Medge man. He came from the
borough in London about two years ago. After his wife died,
broken-hearted, it is said, by the conduct of his children, he sold out
his business in London and came down to Medge, where he had a married
sister and many nieces and nephews, his only relatives, except his
undutiful son and daughter. He had enough to live on in retirement, but
could not enjoy himself in idleness. So he took the first chance to go
into business again. It happened that the only greengrocer in the place,
an aged man, wanted to sell out and go to live with his married
daughter, who was the wife of a farmer in the neighborhood.”
“More fool he!” exclaimed Dandy. “I saw the play of ‘Lear’ once.”
“But there was a _Cordelia_ in it, you know, Dandy!”
“Yes; go on.”
“John Legg bought out the old greengrocer, shop, stock, house, furniture
and good will. The rectory people dealt with him, as why not when he was
the only greengrocer in the village? And so he made the acquaintance of
their servant, Julia Quin, and soon proposed to marry her, and as she
did not wish to leave Medge and go with the rector and his wife to
Haymore, she accepted honest John Legg. And I hear that they make a very
comfortable couple.”
“How do you know all this here you are a-telling me of so confident
like?”
“Because in your interests I made very minute inquiries into all the
circumstances, and Mr. Campbell was so good as to give me all the
particulars,” replied Longman. “And, Dandy, will you let me speak to my
other friends—they are waiting, you see?”
“Sartinly, Mr. Longman. Who’s a-hindering on you? I myself am going into
the town to send a telescope message to my niece,” replied the old man,
and with a low bow, intended for all the company, he turned and left the
room.
Ran hastily shook hands with Longman, then leaving him with the others,
hurried out after his old friend, whom he found on the drive.
“Dandy! Dandy, I say! Please stop!” he called.
“Well, Mr. Hay, what’s your will, sir?” the old fellow demanded, turning
to face his host.
“You must not walk into the village. Take the dogcart.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Hay, sir; but——”
“I will have my way. Come down with me to the stables. I have not seen
them yet. But I know there is a dogcart, because Mr. Walling, who is
always wide awake, took a drive in it this morning to get an appetite
for his breakfast before we were up,” said Ran, as he turned into a
footpath leading through the grounds to the rear of the hall, far behind
which were the stables.
Dandy followed him, if the truth is to be told, not unwilling to spare
his old limbs by riding instead of walking to the village.
The stable yard occupied full a square quarter acre of ground, walled in
by massive stone buildings, consisting of stables proper, carriage
houses, harness rooms, coachman’s and groom’s quarters and kennels.
It was full of activity on this morning; for all the fourlegged
creatures there, horses and hounds, seemed spoiling for a run, and were
venting their impatience of restraint—the horses by neighing and kicking
and the hounds by howling and scratching.
“Yo’ ought to have a good hunting party of gentlemen down here for a few
weeks, sir, to take the devil out of the brutes,” said the old head
groom, touching his hat to his master.
“All in good time—a——Tell me your name.”
“Hobbs, sir, at your sarvice.”
“Well, Hobbs, if you have a steady-going horse, have him put to a
dogcart, and find a careful boy to drive Mr. Quin to the village.”
“Yes, sir. Old Dick will be the hoss and Young Sandy the driver. I’ll go
and give the order.”
The groom went across the yard on his errand, while Ran and Dandy walked
off to the kennels to look at the dogs.
“Not one on ’em to be compared to your Tip or my Lion, Mr. Hay, in my
poor opinion!” said Dandy.
“These cannot excel ours in courage, or affection, or fidelity, I am
sure,” replied Ran.
And both men gave deep sighs to the memory of the faithful creatures
they had been compelled by circumstances to leave behind them at the
fort, where, it is true, the two dogs were sure of the kindest treatment
from their new owners—Surgeon Hill, who had adopted Tip, and Adjutant
Rose, who had taken Lion.
“Do you think we will ever see them again, Mr. Hay?”
“Yes, I do. In this world or the next.”
“The next! Mr. Hay, sir!”
“Why not? I believe the creature that once lives, lives forever.
Especially the creature capable of love, courage, fidelity and
self-sacrifice, as so many of the quadrupeds are, must be immortal.”
What Dandy would have said in reply was arrested on his lips by the
approach of the dogcart, driven by one of the under-grooms.
Ran helped his old friend upon the seat, tucked the rug well over his
knees and then inquired:
“Where do you wish to go?”
“To the telescope office in the village.”
“Drive this gentleman to the telegraph office,” said Ran.
“Beg pardon, sir; but there is no telegraph office in the village, and
none nearer than Chuxton,” said the young groom, touching his hat.
“Oh! Chuxton is ten miles off! Where we left the train last night you
know, Mr. Quin,” said Ran.
“Yes, I know! Well, let him drive me there, then! That is if you can
spare the carriage.”
“Of course I can! All day, if you want it.”
“’Cause, you see, I don’t feel aquil to traveling all the way back to
the south of England, after having come all the way up to the north, and
I do want to see my niece very bad. And I mean to send a telescope as
will be sartin to fetch her. Yes, that is so.”
“Very well, then. Drive to Chuxton telegraph office, and then wherever
Mr. Quin wishes to go. You are at his orders.”
The boy took the reins and drove off, and Ran turned again to question
the old groom.
“Has there been much sport about here?”
“None at all, sir. Since the young squire were killed, the old squire
never had no heart for nothing as long as he lived.”
“Ah! How are the preserves?”
“Well, sir, the game is increasing and multiplying to that degree for
the want of sporting gents among ’em to thin ’em out, that for once in a
way poachers is a blessing.”
“Poachers! Why, what is the gamekeeper about, to permit poachers to
trespass?”
“Well, sir, there ain’t no gamekeeper here, nor likewise been none since
the old squire died. The last gamekeeper went off to Australia to seek
his fortune.”
“Thank Heaven!” breathed Ran with fervency, not loud but deep, that now
he could put his friend in office without hurting any one’s feelings.
“You see, it was this a way, sir. When Kirby went to foreign parts, the
old squire was too ill to be bothered about his successor, and after he
died the place was left without one. But surely, sir, Mr. Prowt wrote to
you about all these matters, for he sartinly told me as you had wrote
back how you would wait till you come down here in person to see the
place before you would appoint aither gamekeeper or coachman.”
“What! has the coachman gone too?”
“Surely, sir, Mr. Prowt wrote and told you that, too! He left to better
himself, so he said—took sarvice along of the Duke of Ambleton.”
“What wages do you get as groom here, Hobbs?”
“Head groom, sir, and twenty pund a year and my keep, and bin in the
famberly, man and boy, fifty years, and hope to continuate in it for
fifty more, I was gwine to say, but anyways as long as I can work, and
that will be as long as I live, for I’d scorn to retire.”
“Excellent, Hobbs. Have you a family?”
“Wife, sir, keeping house for me in the cottage there,” said the old
man, pointing to a little stone cottage built in the wall next the
stable, “and one son, sir—boy that driv the dogcart. Steady lad, sir,
though his feyther says it; and one darter, sir, upper housemaid at the
Hall—good girl, sir.”
“You are blessed in your family, Hobbs.”
“Thanks be to Heaven, sir!”
“Now, then, you said your wages as head groom were twenty pound a year.
How much did the coachman get?”
“Just twice as much, sir, forty pound a year, and a good sound house
over his head, and his livery and his beer. And left all that, sir, for
ten pund more, and gold lace on his coat, and the honor of driving a
duke. May the de’il fly away with him!—begging your pardon, sir.”
“Don’t mention it,” laughed Ran. “But you would not have left Haymore
under the same circumstances?”
“Me!—why, sir, I never had the chance, so what would be the use of
boasting? But, indeed, I don’t think I would.”
“Hobbs, can you drive?”
“None better in the world, sir, though I say it.”
“Then you shall be my coachman at the same wages that your predecessor
now gets from his new master,” said Ran, smiling benignly down on the
stupefied face of the man before him.
“Oh, sir! sir! but this is too much, too much for poor me! Such a
permotion as to be coachman! I can hardly believe it, sir! I can’t,
indeed! And at a rise of wages, too! I can’t hardly believe it!” droned
Hobbs, fairly dazed by his good fortune.
“Go and tell your wife, then. And begin to see about your livery, and
fix up the coachman’s cottage—at my cost, Hobbs. All that will help you
to believe it. Good-day.”
With these words the gracious young master left the stable yard and
walked back to the Hall, happy in the feeling of having made others so,
yet grave and thoughtful in the recognition of his responsibilities for
all who were dependent on him.