THE SEEDS OF MISCHIEF
Preparations for the forthcoming "Feast" were varied by gossip
concerning "the baroness," her daughter, and the Normandy _bonne_.
Elmsdale had never before set eyes on any human beings quite so foreign
to its environment. At first, the canny Yorkshire folk were much
intrigued by the lady's title. A princess or a duchess they had read of;
a marchioness and a countess they had seen, because the county of broad
acres finds room for a great many noble houses; and baronets' wives,
each a "Lady" by perspective right, were so plentiful as to arouse no
special comment.
But a "baroness" was rather un-English, while Elmsdale frankly refused
to pronounce her name other than "Eedelsteen." The village was ready to
allude to her as "her ladyship," but was still doubtful whether or not
to grant her the prefix "Lady," when the question was settled in a
wholly unexpected way by the announcement that the baroness preferred to
be addressed as "Mrs. Saumarez." In fact, she was rather annoyed that
Angele should have flaunted the title at all.
"I am English by marriage, and proud of my husband's name," she
explained. "He was a gallant officer, who fell in the Boer War, and I
have long since left the use of my German rank for purely official
occasions. It is no secret, of course, but Angele should not have
mentioned it."
Elmsdale liked this democratic utterance. It made these blunt Yorkshire
folk far readier to address her as "your ladyship" than would have been
the case otherwise, and, truth to tell, she never chided them for any
lapse of the sort, though, in accordance with her wish, she became
generally known as Mrs. Saumarez.
She rented a suite at The Elms, a once pretentious country mansion owned
by a family named Walker. The males had died, the revenues had dwindled,
and two elderly maiden ladies, after taking counsel with the vicar, had
advertised their house in a society newspaper.
Mrs. Saumarez said she was an invalid. She required rest and good air.
Francoise, since Angele had outgrown the attentions of a nurse, was
employed mainly as her mistress's confidential servant. Francoise either
could not or would not speak English; Mrs. Saumarez gave excellent
references and no information as to her past, while Angele's volatile
reminiscences of continental society had no meaning for Elmsdale.
But it was abundantly clear that Mrs. Saumarez was rich. She swept aside
the arrangements made by the Misses Walker for her comfort, chose her
own set of apartments, ordered things wholly her own way, and paid
double the terms originally demanded.
The day following her visit to the White House she descended on the
chief grocer, whose shop was an emporium of many articles outside his
trade, but mostly of a cheap order.
"Mr. Webster," she said in her grand manner, "few of the goods you stock
will meet my requirements. I prefer to deal with local tradesmen, but
they must meet my wants. Now, if you are prepared to cater for me, you
will not only save me the trouble of ordering supplies from London, but
make some extra profit. You have proper agents, no doubt, so you must
obtain everything of the best quality. You understand. I shall never
grumble at the prices; but the least inferiority will lead me to
withdraw my custom."
It was a sore point with Mr. Webster that "the squire" dealt with the
Stores. He promised implicit obedience, and wrote such instructions to
Leeds, his supply town, that the wholesale house there wondered who had
come to live at Elmsdale.
The proprietress of the "Black Lion," hearing the golden tales that
circulated through the village, dressed in her best one afternoon and
called at The Elms in the hope of obtaining patronage for wines, bottled
beer, and mineral waters. Mrs. Saumarez was resting. The elder Miss
Walker conveyed Mrs. Atkinson's name and business. Some conversation
took place between Mrs. Saumarez and Francoise, with the result that
Mrs. Atkinson was instructed to supply Schweppe's soda water, but "no
intoxicants."
So Mrs. Saumarez was a teetotaller. The secretary of the local branch of
the Good Templars donned a faded black coat and a rusty tall hat and
sent in a subscription list. It came out with a guinea. The vicar was at
The Elms next day. Mrs. Saumarez received him graciously and gave him a
five-pound note toward the funds of the bazaar which would be opened
next week. Most decidedly the lady was an acquisition. When Miss Martha
Walker was enjoined by her sister, Miss Emmy, to find out how long Mrs.
Saumarez intended to remain at Elmsdale--on the plausible pretext that
the terms would be lowered for a monthly tenancy--she was given a curt
reply.
"I am a creature of moods. I may be here a day, a year. At present the
place suits me. And Angele is brimming over with health. But it is fatal
if I am told I must remain a precise period anywhere. That is why I
never go to Carlsbad."
Miss Martha did not understand the reference to Carlsbad; but the nature
of the reply stopped effectually all further curiosity as to Mrs.
Saumarez's plans. It also insured unflagging service.
Hardly a day passed that the newcomer did not call at the White House.
She astounded John Bolland by the accuracy of her knowledge concerning
stock, and annoyed him, too, by remarking that some of his land required
draining.
"Your lower pastures are too rank," she said. "So long as there is a
succession of fine seasons it does not matter, but a wet spring and
summer will trouble you. You will have fifty acres of water-sodden
meadows, and nothing breeds disease more quickly."
"None o' my cattle hev had a day's illness, short o' bein' a trifle
overfed wi' oil cake," he said testily.
"Quite so. You told me that in former years you raised wheat and oats
there. I'm talking about grass."
Martin and Angele became close friends. The only children of the girl's
social rank in the neighborhood were the vicar's daughter, Elsie
Herbert, and the squire's two sons, Frank and Ernest Beckett-Smythe. Mr.
Beckett-Smythe was a widower. He lived at the Hall, three-quarters of a
mile away, and had not as yet met Mrs. Saumarez. Angele would have
nothing to do with Elsie.
"I don't like her," she confided to Martin. "She doesn't care for boys,
and I adore them. She's trop reglee for me."
"What is that?"
"Well, she holds her nose--so."
Angele tilted her head and cast down her eyes.
"Of course, I don't know her, but she seems to be a nice girl," said
Martin.
"Why do you say, 'Of course, I don't know her'? She lives here, doesn't
she?"
"Yes, but my father is a farmer. She has a governess, and goes to tea at
the Hall. I've met her driving from the Castle. She's above me, you
see."
Angele laughed maliciously.
"O la la! c'est pour rire! I'm sorry. She is--what do you say--a little
snob."
"No, no," protested Martin. "I think she would be very nice, if I knew
her. You'll like her fine when you play with her."
"Me! Play with her, so prim, so pious. I prefer Jim Bates. He winked at
me yesterday."
"Did he? Next time I see him I'll make it hard for him to wink."
Angele clapped her hands and pirouetted.
"What," she cried, "you will fight him, and for me! What joy! It's just
like a story book. You must kick him, so, and he will fall down, and I
will kiss you."
"I will not kick him," said the indignant Martin. "Boys don't kick in
England. And I don't want to be kissed."
"Don't boys kiss in England?"
"Well ... anyhow, I don't."
"Then we are not sweethearts. I shan't kiss you, and you must just leave
Jim Bates alone."
Martin was humiliated. He remained silent and angry during the next
minute. By a quick turn in the conversation Angele had placed him in a
position of rivalry with another boy, one with whom she had not
exchanged a word.
"Look here," he said, after taking thought, "if I kiss your cheek, may I
lick Jim Bates?"
This magnanimous offer was received with derision.
"I forbid you to do either. If you do, I'll tell your father."
The child had discovered already the fear with which Martin regarded the
stern, uncompromising Methodist yeoman--a fear, almost a resentment, due
to Bolland's injudicious attempts to guide a mere boy into the path of
serious and precise religion. Never had Martin found the daily reading
of Scripture such a burden as during the past few days. The preparations
for the feast, the cricket-playing, running and jumping of the boys
practicing for prizes--these disturbing influences interfered sadly with
the record of David's declining years.
Even now, with Angele's sarcastic laughter ringing in his ears, he was
compelled to leave her and hurry to the front kitchen, where the farmer
was waiting with the Bible opened. At the back door he paused and looked
at her. She blew him a kiss.
"Good boy!" she cried. "Mind you learn your lesson."
"And mind you keep away from those cowsheds. Your nurse ought to have
been here. It's tea time."
"I don't want any tea. I'm going to smell the milk. I love the smell of
a farmyard. Don't you? But, there! You have never smelt anything else.
Every place has its own smell. Paris smells like smoky wood. London
smells of beer. Here there is always the smell of cows...."
"Martin!" called a harsh voice from the interior, and the boy perforce
brought his wandering wits to bear on the wrongdoing of David in taking
a census of the people of Israel.
He read steadily through the chapter which described how a pestilence
swept from Dan to Beersheba and destroyed seventy thousand men, all
because David wished to know how many troops he could muster.
He could hear Angele talking to the maids and making them laugh. A
caravan lumbered through the street; he caught a glimpse of carved
wooden horses' heads and gilded moldings. His quick and retentive brain
mastered the words of the chapter, but to-day there was no mysterious
and soul-awakening glimpse of its spirit.
"What did David say te t' Lord when t' angel smote t' people?" said
Bolland when the moment came to question his pupil.
"He said, 'Lo, I have sinned; but what have these sheep done?'"
"And what sin had he deaen?"
"I don't know. I think the whole thing was jolly unfair."
"What!" John Bolland laid down the Bible and rested both hands on the
arms of the chair to steady himself. Had he heard aright? Was the boy
daring to criticize the written word?
But Martin's brain raced ahead of the farmer's slow-rising wrath. He
trembled at the abyss into which he had almost fallen. What horror if he
lost an hour on this Saturday, the Saturday before the Feast, of all
days in the year!
"I didn't quite mean that," he said, "but it doesn't say why it was
wrong for a census to be taken, and it does say that when the angel
stretched his hand over Jerusalem the Lord repented of the evil."
Bolland bent again over the book. Yes, Martin was right. He was letter
perfect.
"It says nowt about unfairness," growled the man slowly.
"No. That was my mistake."
"Ye mun tak' heed ageaen misteaeks o' that sort. On Monday we begin t'
Third Book o' Kings."
So, not even the Feast would be allowed to interfere with the daily
lesson.
Angele had departed with the belated Francoise. Martin, running through
the orchard like a hare, doubled to the main road along the lane. In two
minutes he was watching the unloading of the roundabout in front of the
"Black Lion." Jim Bates was there.
"Here, I want you," said Martin. "You winked at Angele Saumarez
yesterday."
"Winked at wheae?" demanded Jim.
"At the young lady who lives at The Elms."
"Not afore she pulled a feaece at me."
"Well, if you wink at her again I'll lick you."
"Mebbe."
"There's no 'mebbe' about it. Come down to the other end of the green
now, if you think I can't."
Jim Bates was no coward, but he was faced with the alternative of
yielding gracefully and watching the showmen at work or risking a defeat
in a needless battle. He chose the better part of valor.
"It's neaen o' my business," he said. "I deaen't want te wink at t' young
leddy."
At the inn door Mrs. Atkinson's three little girls were standing with
Kitty Thwaites, the housemaid. The eldest, a bonnie child, whose fair
skin was covered with freckles, ran toward Martin.
"Where hae ye bin all t' week?" she inquired. "Are ye always wi' that
Saumarez girl?"
"No."
"I heerd tell she was at your pleaece all hours. What beautiful frocks
she has, but I should be asheaemed te show me legs like her."
"That's the way she dresses," said Martin curtly.
"How funny. Is she fond of you?"
"How do I know?" He tried to edge away.
Evelyn tossed her head.
"Oh, I don't care. Why should I?"
"There's no reason that I can tell."
"You soon forget yer friends. On'y last Whit Monday ye bowt me a packet
of chocolates."
There was truth in this. Martin quitted her sheepishly. He drew near
some men, one of whom was Fred, the groom, and Fred had been drinking,
as a preliminary to the deeper potations of the coming week.
"Ay, there she is!" he muttered, with an angry leer at Kitty. "She
thinks what's good eneuf fer t' sister is good eneuf fer her. We'll see.
Oad John Bollan' sent 'im away wiv a flea i' t' lug a-Tuesday. I reckon
he'll hev one i' t' other ear if 'e comes after Kitty."
One of the men grinned contemptuously.
"Gan away!" he said. "George Pickerin' 'ud chuck you ower t' top o' t'
hotel if ye said 'Booh' to 'im."
But Fred, too, grinned, blinking like an owl in daylight.
"Them as lives t' longest sees t' meaest," he muttered, and walked toward
the stables, passing close to Kitty, who looked through him without
seeing him.
Suddenly there was a stir among the loiterers. Mrs. Saumarez was walking
through the village with Mr. Beckett-Smythe. Behind the pair came the
squire's two sons and Angele. The great man had called on the new
visitor to Elmsdale, and together they strolled forth, while he
explained the festivities of the coming week, and told the lady that
these "feasts" were the creation of an act of Charles II. as a protest
against the Puritanism of the Commonwealth.
Martin stood at the side of the road. Mrs. Saumarez did not notice him,
but Angele did. She lifted her chin and dropped her eyelids in clever
burlesque of Elsie Herbert, the vicar's daughter, but ignored him
otherwise. Martin was hurt, though he hardly expected to be spoken to in
the presence of distinguished company. But he could not help looking
after the party. Angele turned and caught his glance. She put out her
tongue.
He heard a mocking laugh and knew that Evelyn Atkinson was telling her
sisters of the incident, whereupon he dug his hands in his pockets and
whistled.
A shooting gallery was in process of erection, and its glories soon
dispelled the gloom of Angele's snub. The long tube was supported on
stays, the target put in place, the gaudy front pieced together, and
half a dozen rifles unpacked. The proprietor meant to earn a few honest
pennies that night, and some of the men were persuaded to try their
prowess.
Martin was a born sportsman. He watched the competitors so keenly that
Angele returned with her youthful cavaliers without attracting his
attention. Worse than that, Evelyn Atkinson, scenting the possibility of
rustic intrigue, caught Martin's elbow and asked quite innocently why a
bell rang if the shooter hit the bull's-eye.
Proud of his knowledge, he explained that there was a hole in the iron
plate, and that no bell, but a sheet of copper, was suspended in the box
at the back where the lamp was.
Both Angele and Evelyn appreciated the situation exactly. The boy alone
was ignorant of their tacit rivalry.
Angele pointed out Martin to the Beckett-Smythes.
"He is such a nice boy," she said sweetly. "I see him every day. He can
fight any boy in the village."
"Hum," said the heir. "How old is he?"
"Fourteen."
"I am fifteen."
Angele smiled like a seraph.
"Regardez-vous donc!" she said. "He could twiddle you round--so," and
she spun one hand over the other.
"I'd like to see him try," snorted the aristocrat. The opportunity
offered itself sooner than he expected, but the purring of a
high-powered car coming through the village street caused the
pedestrians to draw aside. The car, a new and expensive one, was driven
by a chauffeur, but held no passengers.
Mr. Beckett-Smythe gazed after it reflectively.
"Well, I thought I knew every car in this district," he began.
"It is mine, I expect," announced Mrs. Saumarez. "I've ordered one, and
it should arrive to-day. I need an automobile for an occasional long
run. For pottering about the village lanes, I may buy a pony cart."
"What make is your car?" inquired the Squire.
"A Mercedes. I'm told it is by far the best at the price."
"It's the best German car, of course, but I can hardly admit that it
equals the French, or even our own leading types."
"Oh, I don't profess to understand these things. I only know that my
banker advised me to buy none other. He explained the matter simply
enough. The German manufacturers want to get into the trade and are
content to lose money for a year or so. You know how pushful they are."
Beckett-Smythe saw the point clearly. He was even then hesitating
between a Panhard and an Austin. He decided to wait a little longer and
ascertain the facts about the Mercedes. A month later he purchased one.
Mrs. Saumarez's chauffeur, a smart young mechanic from Bremen, who spoke
English fluently, demonstrated that the buyer was given more than his
money's worth. The amiable Briton wondered how such things could be, but
was content to benefit personally. He, in time, spread the story. German
cars enjoyed a year's boomlet in that part of Yorkshire. With nearly
every car came a smart young chauffeur mechanic. Surely, this was wisdom
personified. They knew the engine, could effect nearly all road repairs,
demanded less wages than English drivers, and were always civil and
reliable.
"Go-ahead people, these Germans!" was the general verdict.