It was not the nature of Mr. Philip Meadowes (as may have been gathered
from his talk) to be reticent upon any subject. He had the acumen,
however, which most talkative persons lack, to choose his listeners
carefully; but with those whom he trusted Phil had absolutely no
reserves. Chief among his confidants was Peter, the grave-faced elderly
man-servant who had cuffed his ears in childhood, and now had discreetly
forgotten the fact.
This evening, as Peter brought in his young master’s wine, Phil, lying
back in a chair, the book he had been reading thrown carelessly on the
floor, addressed him quite impatiently.
‘Why, where have you been all afternoon, Peter?’ he said.—‘Now whom do
you think I met to-day, by all that is curious?’
Peter laid down the tray he carried, picked up the book from the floor,
smoothed its ruffled pages, and made a feint of guessing.
‘Mayhap the parson, sir?’ he said.
‘No, no, stupid; more interesting by far!’
‘Mayhap the parson’s daughter, sir?’
‘Wrong again; some one a deuced deal prettier than the parson’s
daughter. But there, you can never guess—who but Carrie Shepley that I
used to play with long ago in town, in the days when you were courting
her maid Patty?’
Phil expected Peter to laugh at this resurrection of his former
flirtations; but instead of laughing he stepped forward and laid his
hand suddenly on his young master’s arm.
‘For the love of Heaven, sir, do you have naught to do with Miss Carrie
Shepley!’ he said.
Phil was surprised beyond measure to see the decorous Peter so startled
out of his usual behaviour.
‘Why, Peter, what the dickens is the matter with you?’ he said.
‘This, sir, that there will be trouble betwixt you and the master if so
be you takes up with Miss Carrie Shepley. I know not the rights nor the
wrongs of the story, but this I knows, that there was a mighty quarrel
once betwixt the master and Miss Carrie’s father, Dr. Shepley of Jermyn
Street as is.’
‘Oh—ho!’ whistled Phil. ‘And what did the gentlemen fall out upon,
Peter?’
‘On a woman, sir,’ said Peter, fidgeting a little uneasily.
‘And who was the woman?’
‘By the name of Anne Champion, as I gathered, sir. I overheard their
quarrel, sir, through the folding-doors betwixt the rooms in St. James’
Square, sir.’
‘So that was why you and Patty were so particular that we met outside,
and altogether—eh, Peter?’
‘The same, sir.’
‘Ah, Peter, I have hope for you yet! Sometimes I think you scarce human,
you are so dutiful and faithful, but you stooped to some deceit, I’m
glad to hear, once, all along of Patty!’
Peter smiled his demure smile.
‘’Twas as you say, sir,—all along of Patty,’ he assented.
Phil reverted then to the quarrel. ‘Anne Champion, Anne Champion,’ he
repeated. ‘And who was Anne Champion, think you, Peter?’
Peter came up to the fireplace, re-arranged the ornaments on the
mantel-shelf, blew away a speck of imaginary dust from the gilt top of
the clock, and then, speaking low, he said at last—
‘Your mother, sir, if I made no mistake, sir.’
‘Eh?’ queried Phil, sitting forward in his chair, becoming suddenly
sober.
‘The same, sir,’ repeated Peter.
‘And Shepley and my father fell out over my mother, by your way of it,
then?’
‘’Twas that way for certain, sir.’
‘And what became of my mother, since you know so much, Peter?’
‘How she came by her death, sir, I have no knowledge, but this I can
tell you as the master knew naught of her death till Shepley told him
the same. I heard them speak it out. Saith the master, “I shall provide
for her,” and saith Shepley, “She wants for naught,” and saith the
master, “’Tis I should support her now,” and then saith Shepley, “Anne
Champion is dead, and her blood be on you, and on your children,” and
with that he walked out of the room and through the hall to the street
door, and the whole was over. I made bold to enter the room, and there
sat the master white and shakin’ like any leaf. “Sir,” says I, “there
hath harm come to you,” but he made little of it, and bade me fetch him
some wine. The same I did, and set to straighten the room, that was in a
disorder such as never was. The master watched me a minute, and then
saith he, “Can you be silent on this, Peter—no word of it to any in the
house?” and with that what think you he did, sir? The most of gentlemen
would have offered me money; the master he held out his hand to me like
any other man. I’ve been silent on it all these years, sir, for that
handshake.’
Phil had been listening breathlessly, his quick wits piecing together
from Peter’s rather incoherent account some skeleton of the truth. But
at this point he fairly laughed.
‘The devil he did!’ he said. ‘Now, was not that like him, Peter? Ah, you
are a clever man, my good father!’
Peter smiled indulgently. ‘Now, sir, you do never give the master his
due, if I may make bold to say so,’ he began. ‘But to finish with the
story, sir. ’Twas not more than six weeks from then that you was brought
to the house, sir, and that’s all I do know—but, sir, from it you’ll
see how ’twould be if you took up with Miss Carrie Shepley.’
‘Well, Peter, if the case be so serious as you say, you and Patty should
have hesitated ere you introduced us,’ said Phil mischievously.
‘Sir, sir, this is no laughing matter,’ said Peter in a sad tone, for
Phil, with the incurable flippancy that characterised him, had burst
into a peal of laughter at the man’s grave face.
‘Peter, you are a Methodist; pour me out my wine and go; there is no
calculating what will come to me “all along of Carrie,”’ he said. But
when Peter had gone Phil rose and stood looking into the glass that hung
on the wall, while he examined his features with a new interest. ‘Anne
Champion,’ he repeated. And as, for the first time, he uttered his
mother’s name a curious thrill passed through him. ‘Poor mother of
mine,’ he said, ‘I hope I have more of you in me than of Richard
Meadowes.’