STRANGERS, INDEED
Pickering left ruffled breasts behind him. The big farm in the center of
the village was known as the White House, and had been owned by a
Bolland since there were Bollands in the county. It was perched on a
bank that rose steeply some twenty feet or more from the main road.
Cartways of stiff gradient led down to the thoroughfare on either hand.
A strong retaining wall, crowned with gooseberry bushes, marked the
confines of the garden, which adjoined a row of cottages tenanted by
laborers. Then came the White House itself, thatched, cleanly,
comfortable-looking; beyond it, all fronting on the road, were stables
and outbuildings.
Behind lay the remainder of the kitchen garden and an orchard, backed by
a strip of meadowland that climbed rapidly toward the free moor with its
whins and heather--a far-flung range of mountain given over to grouse
and hardy sheep, and cleft by tiny ravines of exceeding beauty.
Across the village street stood some modern iron-roofed buildings, where
Bolland kept his prize stock, and here was situated the real approach to
the couple of hundred acres of rich arable land which he farmed. The
house and rear pastures were his own; he rented the rest. Of late years
he had ceased to grow grain, save for the limited purposes of his
stock, and had gone in more and more for pedigree cattle.
Pickering's words had hurt him sorely, since they held an element of
truth. The actual facts were these: One of his best cows had injured
herself by jumping a fence, and a calf was born prematurely. Oddly
enough, a similar accident had occurred the following year. On the third
occasion, when the animal was mated with Bainesse Boy III, Bolland
thought it best not to tempt fortune again, but sold her for something
less than the enhanced value which the circumstances warranted. From a
similar dam and the same sire he bred a yearling bull which realized
L250, or nearly the rent of his holding, so Pickering had really
overstated his case, making no allowance for the lottery of
stock-raising.
The third calf might have been normal and of great value. It was not.
Bolland suspected the probable outcome and had acted accordingly. It was
the charge of premeditated unfairness that rankled and caused him such
heart-burning.
When Mrs. Bolland, turkey-red in face, and with eyes still glinting
fire, came in and slammed the door, she told Martin, angrily, to be off,
and not stand there with his ears cocked like a terrier's.
The boy went out. He did not follow his accustomed track. He hesitated
whether or not to go rabbiting. Although far too young to attach serious
import to the innuendoes he had heard, he could not help wondering what
Pickering meant by that ironical congratulation on the subject of his
paternity.
His mother, too, had not repelled the charge directly, but had gone out
of her way to heap counter-abuse on the vilifier. It was odd, to say
the least of it, and he found himself wishing heartily that either the
unfortunate cow had not been sold or that his father had met Mr.
Pickering's protests more reasonably.
A whistle came from the lane that led up to the moor. Perched on a gate
was a white-headed urchin.
"Aren't ye coomin' te t' green?" was his cry, seeing that Martin heard
him.
"Not this evening, thanks."
"Oah, coom on. They're playin' tig, an' none of 'em can ketch Jim
Bates."
That settled it. Jim Bates's pride must be lowered, and ferrets were
forgotten.
But Jim Bates had his revenge. If he could not run as fast as Martin, he
made an excellent pawn in the hands of fortune. Had the boy gone to the
rabbit warren, he would not have seen the village again until after
eight o'clock, and, possibly, the current of his life might have entered
a different runnel. In the event, however, he was sauntering up the
village street, when he encountered a lady and a little girl,
accompanied by a woman whose dress reminded him of nuns seen in
pictures. The three were complete strangers, and although Martin was
unusually well-mannered for one reared in a remote Yorkshire hamlet, he
could not help staring at them fixedly.
The Normandy nurse alone was enough to draw the eyes of the whole
village, and Martin knew well it was owing to mere chance that a crowd
of children was not following her already.
The lady was tall and of stately carriage. She was dressed quietly, but
in excellent taste. Her very full face looked remarkably pink, and her
large blue eyes stared out of puffy sockets. Beyond these unfavorable
details, she was a handsome woman, and the boy thought vaguely that she
must have motored over from the castle midway between Elmsdale and the
nearest market town of Nottonby.
Yet it was on the child that his wondering gaze dwelt longest. She
looked about ten years old. Her elfin face was enshrined in jet-black
hair, and two big bright eyes glanced inquiringly at him from the depths
of a wide-brimmed, flowered-covered hat. A broad blue sash girdled her
white linen dress; the starched skirts stood out like the frills of a
ballet dancer.
Her shapely legs were bare from above the knees, and her tiny feet were
encased in sandals. At Trouville she would be pronounced "sweet" by
enthusiastic admirers of French fashion, but in a north-country village
she was absurdly out of place. Nevertheless, being a remarkably
self-possessed little maiden, she returned with interest Martin's covert
scrutiny.
He would have passed on, but the lady lifted a pair of mounted
eyeglasses and spoke to him.
"Boy," she said in a flute-like voice, "can you tell me which is the
White House?"
Martin's cap flew off.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, pointing. "That is it. I live there."
"Oh, indeed. And what is your name?"
"Martin Court Bolland, ma'am."
"What an odd name. Why were you christened Martin Court?"
"I really don't know, ma'am. I didn't bother about it at the time, and
since then have never troubled to inquire."
Now, to be candid, Martin did not throw off this retort spontaneously.
It was a little effusion built up through the years, the product of
frequent necessity to answer the question. But the lady took it as a
coruscation of rustic wit, and laughed. She turned to the nurse:
"Il m'a rendu la monnaie de ma piece, Francoise."
"J'en suis bien sur, madame, mais qu'est-ce qu'il a dit?" said the
nurse.
The other translated rapidly, and the nurse grinned.
"Ah, il est naif, le petit," she commented. "Et tres gentil."
"Oh, maman," chimed in the child, "je serais heureuse si vous vouliez me
permettre de jouer avec ce joli garcon."
"Attendez, ma belle. Pas si vite.... Now, Martin Court, take me to your
mother."
Not knowing exactly what to do with his cap, the boy had kept it in his
hand. The foregoing conversation was, of course, so much Greek in his
ears. He realized that they were talking about him, and was fully alive
to the girl's demure admiration. The English words came with the more
surprise, seeing that they followed so quickly on some remark in an
unknown tongue.
He led the way at once, hoping that his mother had regained her normal
condition of busy cheerfulness.
Silence reigned in the front kitchen when he pressed the latch. The room
was empty, but the clank of pattens in the yard revealed that the
farmer's thrifty wife was sparing her skirts from the dirt while she
crossed to the pig tub with a pailful of garbage.
"Will you take a seat, ma'am?" said Martin politely. "I'll tell mother
you are here."
With a slight awkwardness he pulled three oaken chairs from the serried
rank they occupied along the wall beneath the high-silled windows.
Feeling all eyes fixed on him quizzically, he blushed.
"Ah, v'la le p'tit. Il rougit!" laughed the nurse.
"Don't tease him, nurse!" cried the child in English. "He is a nice boy.
I like him."
Clearly this was for Martin's benefit. Already the young lady was a
coquette.
Mrs. Bolland, hearing there were "ladies" to visit her, entered with
trepidation. She expected to meet the vicar's aunt and one of that
lady's friends. In a moment of weakness she had consented to take charge
of the refreshment stall at a forthcoming bazaar in aid of certain
church funds. But Bolland was told that the incumbent was adopting
ritualistic practices, so he sternly forbade his better half to render
any assistance whatsoever. The Established Church was bad enough; it was
a positive scandal to introduce into the service aught that savored of
Rome.
Poor Mrs. Bolland therefore racked her brain for a reasonable excuse as
she crossed the yard, and it is not to be wondered at if she was struck
almost dumb with surprise at sight of the strangers.
"Are you Mrs. Bolland?" asked the lady, without rising, and surveying
her through the eyeglasses with head tilted back.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Ah. Exactly. I--er--am staying at The Elms for some few weeks, and the
people there recommended you as supplying excellent dairy produce. I
am--er--exceedingly particular about butter and milk, as my little girl
is so delicate. Have you any objection to allowing me to inspect your
dairy? I may add that I will pay you well for all that I order."
The lady's accent, no less than the even flow of her words, joined to
unpreparedness for such fashionable visitors, temporarily bereft Mrs.
Bolland of a quick, if limited, understanding.
"Did ye say ye wanted soom bootermilk?" she cried vacantly.
"No, mother," interrupted Martin anxiously. For the first time in his
life he was aware of a hot and uncomfortable feeling that his mother was
manifestly inferior to certain other people in the world. "The lady
wishes to see the dairy."
"Why?"
"She wants to buy things from you, and--er--I suppose she would like to
see what sort of place we keep them in."
No manner of explanation could have restored Mrs. Bolland's normal
senses so speedily as the slightest hint that uncleanliness could harbor
its microbes in her house.
"My goodness, ma'am," she cried, "wheae's bin tellin' you that my pleaece
hez owt wrong wi't?"
Now it was the stranger's turn to appeal to Martin, and the boy showed
his mettle by telling his mother, in exact detail, the request made by
the lady and her reference to the fragile-looking child.
Mrs. Bolland's wrath subsided, and her lips widened in a smile.
"Oah, if that's all," she said, "coom on, ma'am, an' welcome. Ye canna
be too careful about sike things, an' yer little lass do look pukey, te
be sure."
The lady, gathering her skirts for the perilous passage of the yard,
followed the farmer's wife.
Martin and the girl sat and stared at each other. She it was who began
the conversation.
"Have you lived here long?" she said.
"All my life," he answered. Pretty and well-dressed as she was, he had
no dread of her. He regarded girls as spiteful creatures who scratched
one another like cats when angry and shrieked hysterically when they
played.
"That's not very long," she cried.
"No; but it's longer than you've lived anywhere else."
"Me! I have lived everywhere--in London, Berlin, Paris, Nice,
Montreux--O, je ne sais--I beg your pardon. Perhaps you don't speak
French?"
"No."
"Would you like to learn?"
"Yes, very much."
"I'll teach you. It will be such fun. I know all sorts of naughty words.
I learnt them in Monte Carlo, where I could hear the servants chattering
when I was put to bed. Watch me wake up nurse. Francoise, mon chou! Cre
nom d'un pipe, mais que vous etes triste aujourd'hui!"
The _bonne_ started. She shook the child angrily.
"You wicked girl!" she cried in French. "If madame heard you, she would
blame me."
The imp cuddled her bare knees in a paroxysm of glee.
"You see," she shrilled. "I told you so."
"Was all that swearing?" demanded Martin gravely.
"Some of it."
"Then you shouldn't do it. If I were your brother, I'd hammer you."
"Oh, would you, indeed! I'd like to see any boy lay a finger on me. I'd
tear his hair out by the roots."
Naturally, the talk languished for a while, until Martin thought he had
perhaps been rude in speaking so brusquely.
"I'm sorry if I offended you," he said.
The saucy, wide-open eyes sparkled.
"I forgive you," she said. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen. And you?"
"Twelve."
He was surprised. "I thought you were younger," he said.
"So does everybody. You see, I'm tiny, and mamma dresses me in this baby
way. I don't mind. I know your name. You haven't asked me mine."
"Tell me," he said with a smile.
"Angele. Angele Saumarez."
"I'll never be able to say that," he protested.
"Oh, yes, you will. It's quite easy. It sounds Frenchy, but I am
English, except in my ways, mother says. Now try. Say 'An'----"
"Ang----"
"Not so much through your nose. This way--'An-gele.'"
The next effort was better, but tuition halted abruptly when Martin
discovered that Angele's mother, instead of being "Mrs. Saumarez," was
"the Baroness Irma von Edelstein."
"Oh, crikey!" he blurted out. "How can that be?"
Angele laughed at his blank astonishment.
"Mamma is a German baroness," she explained. "My papa was a colonel in
the British army, but mamma did not lose her courtesy title when she
married. Of course, she is Mrs. Saumarez, too."
These subtleties of Burke and the Almanach de Gotha went over Martin's
head.
"It sounds a bit like an entry in a stock catalogue," he said.
Angele, in turn, was befogged, but saw instantly that the village youth
was not sufficiently reverent to the claims of rank.
"You can never be a gentleman unless you learn these things," she
announced airily.
"You don't say," retorted Martin with a smile. He was really far more
intelligent than this pert monitress, and had detected a curious
expression on the stolid face of Francoise when the Baroness von
Edelstein's name cropped up in a talk which she could not understand.
The truth was that the canny Norman woman, though willing enough to take
a German mistress's gold, thoroughly disliked the lady's nationality.
Martin could only guess vaguely at something of the sort, but the mere
guess sufficed.
Angele, however, wanted no more bickering just then. She was about to
resume the lesson when the Baroness and Mrs. Bolland re-entered the
house. Evidently the inspection of the dairy had been satisfactory, and
the lady had signified her approval in words that pleased the older
woman greatly.
The visitor was delighted, too, with the old-world appearance of the
kitchen, the heavy rafters with their load of hams and sides of bacon,
the oaken furniture, the spotless white of the well-scrubbed ash-topped
table, the solemn grandfather's clock, and the rough stone floor, over
which soft red sandstone had been rubbed when wet.
By this time the tact of the woman of society had accommodated her words
and utterance to the limited comprehension of her hearer, and she
displayed such genuine interest in the farm and its belongings that Mrs.
Bolland gave her a hearty invitation to come next morning, when the
light would be stronger. Then "John" would let her see his prize stock
and the extensive buildings on "t' other side o' t' road.... T' kye (the
cows) were fastened up for t' neet" by this time.
The baroness was puzzled, but managed to catch the speaker's drift.
"I do not rise very early," she said. "I breakfast about eleven"--she
could not imagine what a sensation this statement caused in a house
where breakfast was served never later than seven o'clock--"and it takes
me an hour to dress; but I can call about twelve, if that will suit."
"Ay, do, ma'am," was the cheery agreement. "You'll be able te see t'
farmhands havin' their dinner. It's a fair treat te watch them men an'
lads puttin' away a beefsteak pie."
"And this is your little boy?" said the other, evidently inclined for
gossip.
"Yes, ma'am."
"He is a splendid little fellow. What a nice name you gave him--Martin
Court Bolland--so unusual. How came you to select his Christian names?"
The question caused the farmer's wife a good deal of unnoticed
embarrassment. The baroness was looking idly at an old colored print of
York Castle, and the boy himself was far too taken up with Angele to
listen to the chat of his elders.
Mrs. Bolland laughed confusedly.
"Martin," she said. "Tak t' young leddy an' t' nurse as far as t' brig,
an' show 'em t' mill."
The baroness was surprised at this order, but an explanation was soon
forthcoming. In her labored speech and broad dialect, the farmer's wife
revealed a startling romance. Thirteen years ago her husband's brother
died suddenly while attending a show at Islington, and the funeral took
John and herself to London. They found the place so vast and noisy that
it overwhelmed them; but in the evening, after the ceremony at Abney
Park, they strolled out from their hotel near King's Cross Station to
see the sights.
Not knowing whither they were drifting, they found themselves, an hour
later, gazing at St. Paul's Cathedral from the foot of Ludgate Hill.
They were walking toward the stately edifice, when a terrible thing
happened.
A young woman fell, or threw herself, from a fourth-floor window onto
the pavement of St. Martin's Court. In her arms was an infant, a boy
twelve months old. Providence saved him from the instant death met by
his mother. A projecting signboard caught his clothing, tore him from
the encircling arms, and held him a precarious second until the rent
frock gave way.
But John Bolland's sharp eyes had noted the child's momentary escape. He
sprang forward and caught the tiny body as it dropped. At that hour,
nearly nine o'clock, the court was deserted, and Ludgate Hill had lost
much of its daily crowd. Of course, a number of passers-by gathered; and
a policeman took the names and address of the farmer and his wife, they
being the only actual witnesses of the tragedy.
But what was to be done with the baby? Mrs. Bolland volunteered to take
care of it for the night, and the policeman was glad enough to leave it
with her when he ascertained that no one in the house from which the
woman fell knew anything about her save that she was a "Mrs. Martineau,"
and rented a furnished room beneath the attic.
The inquest detained the Bollands another day in town. Police inquiries
showed that the unfortunate young woman had committed suicide. A letter,
stuck to a dressing-table with a hatpin, stated her intention, and that
her name was not Martineau. Would the lady like to see the letter?
"Oh, dear, no!" said the baroness hastily. "Your story is awfully
interesting, but I could not bear to read the poor creature's words."
Well, the rest was obvious. Mrs. Bolland was childless after twenty
years of married life. She begged for the bairn, and her husband allowed
her to adopt it. They gave the boy their own name, but christened him
after the scene of his mother's death and his own miraculous escape. And
there he was now, coming up the village street, leading Angele
confidently by the hand--a fine, intelligent lad, and wholly different
from every other boy in the village.
Not even the squire's sons equaled him in any respect, and the teacher
of the village school gave him special lessons. Perhaps the lady had
noticed the way he spoke. The teacher was proud of Martin's abilities,
and he tried to please her by not using the Yorkshire dialect.
"Ah, I see," said the baroness quietly. "His history is quite romantic.
But what will he become when he grows up--a farmer, like his adopted
father?"
"John thinks te mak' him a minister," said Mrs. Bolland with genial
pride.
"A minister! Do you mean a preacher, a Nonconformist person?"
"Why, yes, ma'am. John wouldn't hear of his bein' a parson."
"Grand Dieu! Quelle betise! I beg your pardon. Of course, you will do
what is best for him.... Well, ma belle, have you enjoyed your little
walk?"
"Oh, so much, mamma. The miller has such lovely pigs, so fat, so tight
that you can't pinch them. And there's a beautiful dog, with four puppy
dogs. I'm so glad we came here. J'en suis bien aise."
"She's a queer little girl," said Mrs. Bolland, as Martin and she
watched the party walking back to The Elms. "I couldn't tell half what
she said."
"No, mother," he replied. "She goes off into French without thinking,
and her mother's a German baroness, who married an English officer. The
nurse doesn't speak any English. I wish I knew French and German.
French, at any rate."