I.

You will be slow to believe what I am about to write, and say it savours

of romance instead of reality. Every word of it is true. Here truth was

stranger than fiction.

Lying midway between our house, Dyke Manor, and Church Dykely, was a

substantial farm belonging to the Caromels. It stood well back from the

road a quarter-of-a-mile or so, and was nearly hidden by the trees

that surrounded it. An avenue led to the house; which was a rambling,

spacious, very old-fashioned building, so full of queer angles inside,

nooks and corners and passages, that you might lose your way in them and

never find it again. The Caromels were gentlemen by descent; but their

means had dwindled with years, so that they had little left besides this

property. The last Caromel who died, generally distinguished as "Old

Caromel" by all the parish, left two sons, Miles and Nash. The property

was willed to the elder, Miles: but Nash continued to have his home with

him. As to the house, it had no particular name, but was familiarly

called "Caromel's Farm."

Squire Todhetley had been always intimate with them; more like a brother

than anything else. Not but that he was considerably their senior. I

think he liked Nash the best: Nash was so yielding and easy. Some said

Nash was not very steady in private life, and that his brother, Miles,

stern and moral, read him a lecture twice a-week. But whether it was so

no one knew; people don't go prying into their neighbours' closets to

look up their skeletons.

At the time I am beginning to tell of, old Caromel had been dead about

ten years; Nash was now five-and-thirty, Miles forty. Miles had married

a lady with a good fortune, which was settled upon herself and her

children; the four of them were girls, and there was no son.

At the other end of Church Dykely, ever so far past Chavasse Grange,

lived a widow lady named Tinkle. And when the world had quite done

wondering whether Nash Caromel meant to marry (though, indeed, what

had he to marry upon?), it was suddenly found out that he wanted Mrs.

Tinkle's daughter, Charlotte. The Tinkles were respectable people, but

not equal to the Caromels. Mrs. Tinkle and her son farmed a little land,

she had also a small private income. The son had married well. Just now

he was away; having gone abroad with his wife, whose health was failing.

Charlotte Tinkle was getting on towards thirty. You would not have

thought it, to look at her. She had a gentle face, a gentle voice, and

a young, slender figure; her light brown hair was always neat; and she

possessed one of those inoffensive natures that would like to be at

peace with the whole world. It was natural that Mrs. Tinkle should wish

her daughter to marry, if a suitable person presented himself--all

mothers do, I suppose--but to find it was Nash Caromel took her aback.

"You think it will not do," observed the Squire, when Mrs. Tinkle was

enlarging on the grievance to him one day that they met in a two-acre

field.

"How can it do?" returned poor Mrs. Tinkle, in a tone between wailing

and crying. "Nash Caromel has nothing to keep her on, sir, and no

prospects."

"That's true," said the pater. "At present he has thoughts of taking a

farm."

"But he has no money to stock a farm. And look at that tale, sir, that

was talked of--about that Jenny Lake. Other things have been said also."

"Oh, one must not believe all one hears. For myself, I assure you, Mrs.

Tinkle, I know no harm of Nash. As to the money to stock a farm, I

expect his brother could help him to it, if he chose."

"But, sir, you would surely not advise them to marry upon an

uncertainty!"

"I don't advise them to marry at all; understand that, my good lady; I

think it would be the height of imprudence. But I can't prevent it."

"Mr. Todhetley," she answered, a tear rolling down her thin cheeks, on

which there was a chronic redness, "I am unable to describe to you how

much my mind is set against the match: I seem to foresee, by some subtle

instinct, that no good would ever come of it; nothing but misery for

Charlotte. And she has had so peaceful a home all her life."

"Tell Charlotte she can't have him--if you think so strongly about it."

"She won't listen--at least to any purpose," groaned Mrs. Tinkle. "When

I talk to her she says, 'Yes, dear mother; no, dear mother,' in her

dutiful way: and the same evening she'll be listening to Nash Caromel's

courting words. Her uncle, Ralph Tinkle, rode over from Inkberrow to

talk to her, for I wrote to him: but it seems to have made no permanent

impression on her. What I am afraid of is that Nash Caromel will marry

her in spite of us."

"I should like to see my children marry in spite of me!" cried the

Squire, giving way to one of his hot fits. "I'd 'marry' them! Nash can't

take her against her will, my dear friend: it takes two people, you

know, to complete a bargain of that sort. Promise Charlotte to shake her

unless she listens to reason. Why should she not listen! She is meek and

tractable."

"She always has been. But, once let a girl be enthralled by a

sweetheart, there's no answering for her. Duty to parents is often

forgotten then."

"If---- Why, mercy upon us, there _is_ Charlotte!" broke off the Squire,

happening to lift his eyes to the stile. "And Nash too."

Yes, there they were: standing on the other side the stile in the

cross-way path. "Halloa!" called out Mr. Todhetley.

"I can't stay a moment," answered Nash Caromel, turning his good-looking

face to speak: and it cannot be denied it was a good-looking face, or

that he was an attractive man. "Miles has sent me to that cattle sale up

yonder, and I am full late."

With a smile and a nod, he stepped lightly onwards, his slender supple

figure, of middle height, upright as a dart; his fair hair waving

in the breeze. Charlotte Tinkle glanced shyly after him, her cheeks

blushing like a peony.

"What's this I hear, young lady?--that you and Mr. Nash yonder want to

make a match of it, in spite of pastors and masters?" began the Squire.

"Is it true?"

Charlotte stood like a goose, making marks on the dusty path with the

end of her large grass-green parasol. Parasols were made for use then,

not show.

"Nash has nothing, you know," went on the Squire. "No money, no house,

no anything. There wouldn't be common sense in it, Charlotte."

"I tell him so, sir," answered Charlotte, lifting her shy brown eyes for

a moment.

"To be sure; that's right. Here's your mother fretting herself into

fiddlestrings for fear of--of--I hardly know what."

"Lest you should be tempted to forget your duty to me, Lottie," struck

in the mother. "Ah, my dear! you young people little think what trouble

and anxiety you bring upon us."

Charlotte Tinkle suddenly burst into tears, to the surprise of her

beholders. Drying them up as soon as she could, she spoke with a sigh.

"I hope I shall never bring trouble upon you, mother, never; I wouldn't

do it willingly for the world. But----"

"But what, child?" cried the mother, for Charlotte had come to a

standstill.

"I--I am afraid that parents and children see with different eyes--just

as though things were for each a totally opposite aspect," she went on

timidly. "The difficulty is how to reconcile that view and this."

"And do you know what my father used to say to me in my young days?" put

in the Squire. "'Young folks think old folks fools, but old folks know

the young ones to be so.' There was never a truer saying than that, Miss

Charlotte."

Miss Charlotte only sighed in answer. The wind, high that day, was

taking her muslin petticoats, and she had some trouble to keep them

down. Mrs. Tinkle got over the stile, and the Squire turned back towards

home.

A fortnight or so had passed by after this, when Church Dykely woke one

morning to an electric shock; Nash Caromel and Charlotte had gone and

got married. They did it without the consent of (as the Squire had put

it) pastors and masters. Nash had none to consult, for he could not be

expected to yield obedience to his brother; and Charlotte had asked Mrs.

Tinkle, and Mrs. Tinkle had refused to countenance the ceremony, though

she did not actually walk into the church to forbid it.

Taking a three weeks' trip by way of honeymoon, the bride and bridegroom

came back to Church Dykely. Caromel's Farm refused to take them in; and

Miles Caromel, indignant to a degree, told his brother that "as he

had made his bed, so must he lie upon it," which is a very convenient

reproach, and often used.

"Nash is worse than a child," grumbled Miles to the Squire, his tones

harder than usual, and his manner colder. "He has gone and married this

young woman--who is not his equal--and now he has no home to give her.

Did he suppose that we should receive him back here?--and take her in as

well? He has acted like an idiot."

"Mrs. Tinkle will not have anything to do with them, I hear," returned

the Squire: "and Tinkle, of Inkberrow, is furious."

"Tinkle of Inkberrow's no fool. Being a man of substance, he thinks they

may be falling back upon him."

Which was the precise fear that lay upon Miles himself. Meanwhile Nash

engaged sumptuous lodgings (if such a word could be justly applied

to any rooms at Church Dykely), and drove his wife out daily in the

pony-gig that was always looked upon as his at Caromel's Farm.

Nash was flush of money now, for he had saved some; but he could not go

on living upon it for ever. After sundry interviews with his brother,

Miles agreed to hand him over a thousand pounds: not at all too large

a sum, considering that Nash had given him his services, such as they

were, for a number of years for just his keep as a gentleman and a bonus

for pocket-money. A thousand pounds would not go far with such a farm

as Nash had been used to and would like to take, and he resolved to

emigrate to America.

Mrs. Tinkle (the Squire called her simple at times) was nearly wild when

she heard of it. It brought her out of her temper with a leap.

Condoning the rebellious marriage, she went off to remonstrate with

Nash.

"But now, why need you put yourself into this unhappy state?" asked

Nash, when he had heard what she had to say. "Dear Mrs. Tinkle, do admit

some common sense into your mind. I am not taking Charlotte to the

'other end of the world,' as you put it, but to America. It is only a

few days' passage. Outlandish foreigners! Not a bit of it. The people

are, so to speak, our own countrymen. Their language is ours; their laws

are, I believe, much as ours are."

"You may as well be millions of miles away, practically speaking,"

bewailed Mrs. Tinkle. "Charlotte will be as much lost to me there as she

would be at the North Pole. She is my only daughter, Nash Caromel, she

has never been away from me: to part with her will be like parting with

life."

"I am very sorry," said poor Nash, who was just a woman when any appeal

was made to his feelings. "Live with you? No, that would not do: but,

thank you all the same for offering it. Nothing would induce me to

spunge upon you in that way: and, were I capable of it, your son Henry

would speedily turn us out when he returned. I must get a home of my

own, for Charlotte's sake as well as for mine: and I know I can do that

in America. Land, there, may be had for an old song; fortunes are made

in no time. The probability is that before half-a-dozen years have gone

over our heads, I shall bring you Charlotte home a rich woman, and we

shall settle down here for life."

There isn't space to pursue the arguments--which lasted for a week or

two. But they brought forth no result. Nash might have turned a post

sooner than the opinions of Mrs. Tinkle, and she might as well have

tried to turn the sun as to stop his emigrating. The parish looked upon

it as not at all a bad scheme. Nash might get on well over there if he

would put off his besetting sin, indolence, and not allow the Yankees to

take him in.

So Nash Caromel and Charlotte his wife set sail for New York; Mrs.

Tinkle bitterly resenting the step, and wholly refusing to be

reconciled.