The doctor--he was really a surgeon--but everyone called him

Produced by Al Haines.

*THE PENNYCOMEQUICKS*

*A Novel*

BY

S. BARING GOULD

AUTHOR OF

'MEHALAH,' 'COURT ROYAL,' 'JOHN HERRING,' 'THE GAVEROCKS,' ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES

VOL. II.

LONDON

SPENCER BLACKETT & HALLAM

MILTON HOUSE, 35, ST. BRIDE STREET, LUDGATE CIRCUS, E.C.

1889

[_All rights reserved_]

*CONTENTS OF VOL. II.*

CHAPTER

XVII. MISFORTUNES NEVER COME SINGLY

XVIII. JOHN DALE

XIX. BACKING OUT

XX. A FACE IN THE DARK

XXI. HYACINTH BULBS

XXII. YES OR NO?

XXIII. EARLE SCHOFIELD

XXIV. A RECOGNITION

XXV. WITHOUT BELLS

XXVI. HYMEN

XXVII. AN ALARM

XXVIII. THE SPARE ROOM

XXIX. RECOGNITION

XXX. EXEUNT

XXXI. ESTRANGEMENT

XXXII. THE FLIGHT OF EROS

XXXIII. EXILE

*THE PENNYCOMEQUICKS.*

*CHAPTER XVII.*

*MISFORTUNES NEVER COME SINGLY.*

Next morning Salome was agreeably surprised to find her mother better,

brighter, and without the expression of mingled alarm and pain that her

face had worn for the last two days. She refrained from telling her

about the mysterious nocturnal visitor, because it was her invariable

practice to spare the old lady everything that might cause her anxiety

and provoke a relapse. It could do no good to unnecessarily alarm her,

and Salome knew how to refrain from speaking unnecessarily.

Before paying her mother her morning visit, Salome made an attempt to

get at the bottom of the matter that puzzled her and rendered her

uneasy. It was the duty of the housemaid to lock the doors at night.

Salome sent for her, and inquired about that which gave admission to the

garden. The girl protested that she had fastened up as usual, and had

not neglected any one of the doors.

Notwithstanding this assurance, Salome remained unshaken in her

conviction that the open doorway was due to the neglect of the servant.

She knew that in the class of domestics, truth is esteemed too precious

to be wasted by telling it, and that the asseveration of a maid charged

with misdemeanour is to be read like morning dreams. She did not pursue

the matter with the young woman, so as not to involve her in fresh

falsehoods; she, herself, remained of the same opinion.

On her way across the hall to her mother's room, Salome noticed that the

garden-door was not only locked, but that the key had been withdrawn

from it. This Philip had done last night, and he had not replaced it.

It now occurred to her that she had omitted taking a step which might,

and probably would, have led to the detection of the trespasser. The

door led into the garden, but egress from the garden could only be had

through the door in the wall of the lower or vegetable garden, rarely

used, generally locked, through which manure was brought, and the man

occasionally employed in the garden passed when there employed. As this

gate would certainly be locked, the man who had gone out of the house

into the garden could only have escaped thence with difficulty. If he

had been at once pursued, he might have been captured before he could

scale the wall. This had not occurred to her or to Philip at the time.

'Salome, my dear,' said Mrs. Cusworth, after her daughter had kissed her

and congratulated her on her improvement, 'I am thankful to say that I

am better. A load that has troubled and oppressed me for some days has

been lifted off my heart.'

'I am glad, mamma,' said the girl, 'that at last you are reconciled to

the change. It was inevitable. I dare say you will feel better when we

are settled at Redstone.'

'My dear,' answered Mrs. Cusworth, 'I must abandon the idea of going

there.'

'Where? To Redstone?'

'Yes. The house is beyond my means. I cannot possibly afford it.'

'But--mamma.' Salome was startled. 'I have already secured the

lodgings.'

'Only for a quarter, and it would be better to sacrifice a quarter's

rent than turn out again in three months. I could not endure the shift

again, so quickly following this dreadful change.'

'But--mamma!' Salome was greatly taken aback. 'This is springing a

surprise on me. We have no other house into which we can go.'

'A cottage, quite a cottage, such as the artisans occupy, must content

us. We shall have to cut our coat according to our cloth.'

'Mamma! You allowed me to engage Redstone.'

'I did not then know how we were circumstanced. To make both ends meet

we shall have to pinch.'

'But why pinch? You told me before that we had enough on which to live

quietly but comfortably.'

'I was mistaken. I have had a great and unexpected loss.'

'Loss, mamma! What loss?'

'I mean--well,' the old lady stammered, 'I mean a sore disappointment.

I am not so well off as I had supposed. I had miscalculated my

resources.'

'Have you only just discovered what your means really are?'

'You must not excite her,' said Janet reproachfully.

'I do not wish to do so,' explained Salome. 'But I am so surprised, so

puzzled--and this is such an upset of our plans at the last moment,

after I had engaged the lodgings--I do not know what to think about it.'

She paused, considered, and said with a flush in her face: 'Mamma, you

surely had not reckoned on poor uncle's will?'

Mrs. Cusworth hesitated, then said: 'Of course, it is a severe blow to

me that no provision had been made for you and me. We might fairly have

reckoned on receiving something after what was done for Janet, and you

were his favourite.'

'Oh, mamma, you did not count on this?'

'Remember that you are left absolutely destitute. What little I have

saved will hardly support us both. Janet can do nothing for us just

now.'

'Because of the Prussians,' said Mrs. Baynes. 'Wait a bit; as soon as we

have swept them from the face of fair France, I shall make you both come

to me at Elboeuf.'

'Mamma,' said Salome, 'I am still puzzled. You knew very well that

uncle's will was worthless when you let me make arrangements for

Redstone, and now that I have settled everything you knock over my

plans. If you had told me----'

'I could not tell you. I did not know,' said the widow. 'That is to

say, I had misreckoned my means.'

'Then there is no help for it. I must try to get out of the agreement

for Redstone, if I can. I am afraid the agent will not let me off. We

shall have to pay double rent, and there is little chance of

underletting Redstone at this time of the year.'

'Better pay double than have to make a double removal; it will be less

expense in the end.'

'Perhaps so,' answered Salome; then she left her mother's room that she

might go upstairs and think over this extraordinary change of plans.

She was painfully aware that she had been treated without due

consideration, subjected unnecessarily to much trouble and annoyance.

In the hall she saw Mr. Philip Pennycomequick. He beckoned to her to

follow him to the garden-door, and she obeyed. He unlocked the door.

'I took away the key last night,' he said, 'and now you see my reason.'

He pointed to the turf.

A slight fall of snow, that comminuted snow that is like meal, had taken

place at sundown, and it had covered the earth with a fine film of

white, fine as dust. No further fall had taken place during the night.

A track of human feet was impressed on the white surface from the door

to the steps that gave access to the vegetable garden.

Without exchanging a word, both followed the track, walking wide of it,

one on each side. A footprint marked each step, and the track led, less

distinctly, down the lower garden to the door in the wall at the bottom,

through which it doubtless passed, as there were no signs of a scramble.

The door was locked.

'Have you the key?' asked Philip.

'I have not. There is one on Mr. Pennycomequick's bunch, and my mother

has a second.'

'It matters not,' said Philip. 'Outside is a path along which the mill

people have gone this morning to their work, and have trampled out all

the traces of our mysterious visitor. The prints are those of unshod

feet. The shape of the impression tells me that.'

They returned to the house.

'This unpleasant incident convinces me of one thing,' said Philip. 'It

will not do for me to live in this place alone. I can explain this

mysterious affair in one or other way. Either one of the servants

having a brother, cousin, or lover, whom she wished to favour with the

pick of my uncle's clothes, that she knew were laid out for

distribution, allowed him to come and choose for himself----'

'Or else----'

'Or else the gardener left the little door in the wall ajar. Some

passing tramp, seeing it open, ventured in, and finding nothing worth

taking in the garden, pursued his explorations to the house, where he

was fortunate enough to find another door open, through which he

effected his entrance and helped himself to what he first laid hands on.

He would have taken more had he not been disturbed by you.'

'He was not disturbed by me.'

'He may have seen you pass down the stairs, and so have taken the alarm

and decamped. My second explanation is the least probable, for it

demands a double simultaneous neglect of fastening doors by two

independent persons, the housemaid and the gardener.'

'The gardener has not been working for some weeks.'

'Then how this has occurred concerns me less than the prevention of a

recurrence,' said Philip. 'I must have a responsible person in the

house. May I see your mother?'

As he asked, he entered the hall, and Janet at the same moment came out

of her mother's sitting-room with a beaming face. She slightly bowed to

Philip, and said eagerly to her sister, 'Salome, the postman is coming

down the road. I am sure he brings me good news. I am going to the

door to meet him.'

Salome admitted Philip into the sitting-room. She would have withdrawn,

but he requested her to stay.

'What I have to say to Mrs. Cusworth,' he said shortly, 'concerns you as

well as your mother.'

He took a chair at the widow's request, and then, in his matter-of-fact

business fashion, plunged at once into the subject of his visit.

'I dare say that you have wondered, madam, that neither Mrs. Sidebottom

nor I have made any call on you lately with a proposal. The fact is

that only yesterday did my aunt and I arrive at a definite and permanent

settlement. You are aware that she has acted as administratrix of my

uncle's property. We have, after some difference, come to an

arrangement, and by that arrangement I take the factory under my

management--that, however, is not a matter of interest to you. What

does concern you is the agreement we have struck about the house, which

is become practically mine, I shall live in it henceforth and conduct

the business so successfully carried on by my uncle, and I hope and

trust without allowing it to decline. You are well aware that Mrs.

Sidebottom gave you formal notice to quit: this was a formality, because

at the time nothing was settled relative to the firm and the house.

Please not to consider for a moment that there was a slight intended.

As far as I am concerned, nothing could have been more foreign to my

wishes. Do not allow that notice to affect your arrangements.'

'We accepted the notice, and have made our plans to leave,' said Salome

quietly.

'In the first uncertainty as to what would be done,' said Philip, 'Mrs.

Sidebottom came to you, Mrs. Cusworth, and I fear spoke with haste and

impetuosity. She was excited, and at the time in a state of irritation

with me, who had withstood her wishes. Since then an arrangement has

been concluded between us which leaves me the house. This house

henceforth belongs to me, and not to my aunt, who ceases to have

authority within its walls. I am going to live here. But, madam, as you

may well believe, I am incapable of managing domestic affairs. I have

been unused to have such duties devolve on me. I shall be engaged in

mastering new responsibilities which will occupy my whole attention, and

it is imperative that I should be spared the distraction of

housekeeping. The event of last night--the appearance of a man invading

this house----'

Mrs. Cusworth turned deadly pale, and a look of fear came into her eyes.

Salome hastily turned to Philip, and her appealing glance told him he

must not touch on a subject that would alarm and agitate her mother.

'I mean,' said Philip hastily, 'that a man, inexperienced like myself,

entering a large house in which there are domestics, of whose freaks and

vagaries he knows nothing, and desires to know less, is like a colonist

in Papua, of the natives of which nothing certain has been revealed.

They may be cannibals; they may, on the other hand, be inoffensive. Of

landladies in lodging-houses I have had a long and bitter experience. I

have run the gamut of them, from the reduced gentlewoman to the wife of

an artisan, and I believe it is one of those professions which, like

vivisection, dries up the springs of moral worth. It will be essential

to my happiness, I may say to my success in the business, to have a

responsible person to manage the house for me. You, madam, will relieve

me from grave embarrassments if you will consent to remain here on the

same terms as heretofore. It will indeed be conferring on me a lasting

favour, which I know I am not justified in asking.'

'It is very good of you to suggest this,' began the widow.

'On the contrary,' interrupted Philip, 'it is selfish of me to propose

it--to wish to retain you in a place where you must be surrounded by

sorrowful reminiscences, and tie you to work when you ought to be free

from every care.'

'I thank you,' said Mrs. Cusworth. 'It so happens that I am distressed

by pecuniary losses, and I am therefore glad to accept your offer.'

'I am sorry, madam, that you have met with losses. But I do not wish to

force you to accept obligations for which you do not feel yourself equal

without understanding exactly how matters stand. Mrs. Sidebottom and I

have consulted together about the probable wishes of my deceased uncle,

and we unite in thinking that he never intended to leave Miss Cusworth

unprovided for. The will he had drawn out perhaps erred on the side of

excessive liberality to her and disregard of the claims of his own

relations. That was cancelled--how, we cannot say. Suffice it to say,

it was cancelled, but without cancelling the obligation to do something

for Miss Cusworth. We are quite sure that Mr. Pennycomequick intended

to provide for her, and Mrs. Sidebottom and I agree in proposing for her

acceptance such a sum as was invested by my late uncle for the benefit

of Mrs. Baynes on her marriage a twelve month ago.'

He was the lawyer--formal, cold, stiff--as he spoke, measuring his

sentences and weighing his words. Even when he endeavoured to be

courteous, as when inviting the widow to stay on in his house, he spoke

without ease of manner, graciousness, and softness of tone.

'Of course,' said Mrs. Cusworth, 'it has been a great disappointment to

us that we received nothing from Mr. Pennycomequick----'

'Mother!' interrupted Salome, quivering, flushing to the roots of her

hair, then turning white. Mrs. Cusworth was one of those ordinary women

who think it becomes them not to receive a favour as a favour, but as a

due. Salome at once felt the grace and kindness of the arrangement

proposed for her advantage by Philip, and had little hesitation in

attributing it to him, and freeing Mrs. Sidebottom from the initiative,

at least, in it. But her mother supposed it due to her dignity to

receive it as a concession to a legitimate claim.

Salome did not look in Philip's face. Afraid that her mother might say

something further that was unsuited to the situation, she interposed:

'Mr. Pennycomequick,' she said, in a low, gentle voice, 'you said just

now that you had no claim on our services. You have created such a

claim. Your proposal is so generous, so kindly intentioned, and so far

transcending what we had any right to ask or to expect, that you lay us

under an obligation which it will be a pleasure for us to discharge. My

dear mother is not herself able to do much with her hands, but she is

like a general in a battlefield--on a commanding eminence she issues her

directions, and I am her orderly who fly about carrying her commands. We

accept with gratitude and pleasure your offer to continue in this house,

at least for a while. For that other offer that concerns me alone, will

you allow me time to consider it?'

At that moment, before Philip could reply, the door was burst open, and

Janet rushed in, with a face of despair, holding an open letter before

her.

'Mamma! Oh, mamma! The Prussians have killed him. Albert--has been

shot!'

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*JOHN DALE.*

In the cabin of the _Conquering Queen_, Mr. Pennycomequick had much time

for thought before he was sufficiently recovered to leave his berth. He

fell to wondering what Salome and her mother, Mrs. Sidebottom and his

nephew, had thought of his disappearance.

'Can you get me a back newspaper, or some account of the flood?' he

asked of Ann Dewis. 'I am interested to hear what happened, and whether

I am among those accounted to have fallen victims.'

After several trials, Mrs. Dewis procured what was required in pamphlet

form--a reprint from one of the West Riding papers of its narrative of

the inundation, of the appearance of the country after it had subsided,

from its special correspondent, and full lists of the lost and drowned.

Mr. Pennycomequick read this account by the light that descended from

the hatchway; read about the havoc effected in Keld-dale, the walls

thrown down, the cottages inundated, the roads and the embankments torn

up, and then among the names of those lost he read his own, with the

surprising information that the body had been recovered, and though

frightfully mutilated, had been identified.

This was news indeed. That he was esteemed dead did not surprise Mr.

Pennycomequick when he learned how long he had been ill, but that some

other body should have been mistaken for his was indeed inexplicable.

'By this time,' said he to himself, 'Salome will have proved my will and

Louisa will have exhausted her vituperation of my memory.'

It took him two days to digest what he had learned. As he recovered, his

mind recurred to those thoughts which had engaged him on the night of

the flood, as he walked on the towpath by the canal.

If he were to return to Mergatroyd when supposed to be dead, he was

confident that Salome and her mother would receive him with unfeigned

delight, and without reluctance surrender to him what they had received

through his bequest. But he was by no means sure of himself, that in

the joy of his return he would be able to control his feelings so as not

to show to Salome what their real nature was.

He recalled his prayer to Heaven, that he might have the way pointed out

to him which he should go, and startlingly, in a manner unexpected, in a

direction not anticipated, the hand of Providence had flashed out of the

sky and had pointed out his course. It had snapped his tie to

Mergatroyd--at all events temporarily; had separated him from Salome,

and set him where he had leisure and isolation in which to determine his

conduct. Jeremiah was a man of religious mind, and this consideration

profoundly affected him. He had been carried from his home, and his

name blotted out of the book of the living.

What would be the probable consequences were he to return to Mergatroyd

as soon as he was recovered? The very desire he felt to be back, to see

Salome again, was so strong within him that it constituted evidence to

his mind that if he were at home, in the exuberant joy of meeting her

again he would let drop those words which his judgment told him ought

not to be spoken. Other thoughts besides these exercised his mind.

He turned to the past, to his dead brother Nicholas, and his conscience

reproached him for having maintained the feud so persistently and so

remorselessly. Nicholas had suffered for what he had done, and by

suffering had expiated his fault. He, Jeremiah, had, moreover, visited

on the guiltless son the resentment he bore to the father. He

endeavoured to pacify his conscience by the reflection that he had made

a provision for Philip in his will; but this reflection did not satisfy

him. Philip was the representative of the family, and Jeremiah had no

right to exclude him from the firm without a trial of his worth.

Then he turned to another train of ideas connected with his present

condition.

Was his health likely to be sufficiently restored to enable him to

resume the old routine of work? Would a resumption of his duties

conduce to the re-edification of his health? Would it not retard, if

not prevent, complete recovery? Would it not be a better course for him

to shake himself free from every care--keep his mind disengaged from

business till his impaired constitution had been given time to recover?

He knew that rheumatic fever often seriously affected the heart, and he

asked himself whether he dare return to the conflict of feeling, the

inner struggle, sure to attend a recurrence to the same condition as

before. Would it not be the wisest course for him to go abroad for a

twelvemonth or more, to some place where his mind might recover its

balance, his health be re-established--and he might acquire that perfect

mastery over his feelings which he had desired, but which he had lost.

What did he care about the fortune he had amassed--by no means a large

one, but respectable? He was a man of simple habits and of no ambition.

He was interested in his business, proud of the good name the firm had

ever borne. He would be sorry to think that Pennycomequick should cease

to be known in Yorkshire as the title of an old-established reliable

business associated with figured linen damasks. But was his presence in

the factory essential to its continuance?

He looked at Ann Dewis squatted by the fire smoking. For seventeen

years she had kept Earle Schofield's pipe going, which he had put into

her mouth, and she had been faithful to a simple request. He had put his

mill into Salome's hands, and had said, 'Keep it going.' Was she less

likely to fulfil his wish than had been Ann Dewis to the desire of Earle

Schofield?

He was not concerned as to his means of subsistence should he determine

to remain as one dead. He had an old friend, one John Dale, at

Bridlington, the only man to whom he was not reserved and

suspicious--the only man of whom he took counsel when in doubt and

difficulty.

John Dale had a robust common-sense, and to him Jeremiah resolved to

apply. When John Dale first went to Bridlington he had been lent a

considerable sum of money by his friend, which had not been repaid, but

which, now that Dale had established a good practice as a surgeon, he

was ready and willing to repay. John Dale had been constituted trustee

on the occasion of Janet's marriage. He had paid visits to Mergatroyd,

and Jeremiah had visited Bridlington; but as both were busy men, such

visits had been short and few. Though, however, they saw little of each

other, their mutual friendship remained unimpaired.

As soon as Mr. Pennycomequick was sufficiently recovered to leave the

barge, he provided himself with a suit of clothes at a slop-shop, and

settled into an inn in the town of Hull, whence he wrote to Dale to come

to him. He had his purse in his pocket when he was carried away from

Mergatroyd, and the purse contained a few sovereigns, sufficient to

satisfy his immediate necessities.

''Pon my word, never was so astonished in my life!' shouted John Dale,

as he burst into the room occupied by his friend, then stood back,

looked at him from head to foot, and roared.

Mr. Pennycomequick was strangely altered. He had been accustomed to

shave his face, with the exception of a pair of cutlets that reached no

lower than the lobe of his ears. Now his face was frouzy with hair:

lips, jaws, cheeks, chin, throat, were overgrown, and the hair had got

beyond the primary stage of stubbledom. He had been wont to attire

himself in black or Oxford mixture of a dark hue, to wear a suit of

formal cut, and chiefly to affect a double-breasted frock coat that gave

a specially substantial mercantile look to the man. The suit in which he

was now invested was snuff-coloured and cut away in stable fashion.

'Upon my word, this is a regeneration! Dead as a manufacturer, alive as

a man on the turf. Is the moral transformation as radical? What is the

meaning of this? I saw your death in the papers. I wrote to Salome

about it, a letter of condolence, and had her reply. How came you to

life again, you impostor, and in this guise?'

The doctor--he was really a surgeon--but everyone called him Dr. Dale,

was a stout, florid man, with his hair cut short as that of a Frenchman,

like the fur on the back of a mole. He was fresh, boisterous in manner

when out of the sick-room, but when engaged on a patient, laid aside his

roughness and noise. His cheeriness, his refusal to take a gloomy view

of a case, made him popular, and perhaps went some way towards

encouraging nature to make an effort to throw off disease.

Jeremiah told him the story of his escape.

'And now,' said Dale, 'I suppose you are going back. By Jove, I should

like to see the faces when you reappear in the family circle thus

dressed and behaired.'

'Before I consider about going back, I want you to overhaul me,' said

Jeremiah, 'and please to tell me plainly what you find. I'm not a woman

to be frightened at bad news.'

'At once, old man. Off with those togs,' shouted the surgeon.

When the medical examination was over, Dale told Mr. Pennycomequick that

his heart was weak, but that there was no organic derangement. He must

be careful of himself for some time to come. He must avoid climbing

hills, ascending many stairs.

'As, for instance, the several flights of my factory.'

'Yes--you must content yourself with the office.'

'I might as well give up at once the entire management if I may not go

to the several departments and see what is going on there.'

'You must economize the pulsations of your heart for awhile. You will

find yourself breathless at every ascent. Your heart is at fault, not

your lungs. The machine is weak, and you must not make an engine of

one-horse power undertake work that requires one of five. If you could

manage to knock off work altogether----'

'For how long?'

'That depends. You are not a boy with super-abundant vitality and any

amount of recuperative power. After the age of fifty we have to husband

our strength; we get well slowly, not with a leap. A child is down

to-day and up to-morrow. An old man who is down to-day is up perhaps

that day month. The thing of all others for you would be to go abroad

for a bit, to--let us say, the South of France or Sicily, or better

still, Cairo, lead a _dolce far niente_ life, forget worries, neglect

duties, disregard responsibilities, and let Nature unassisted be your

doctor and nurse.'

'Now look here, Dale,' said Mr. Pennycomequick, 'your advice jumps with

my own opinion. I have been considering whilst convalescent what was

the good of my drudging on at Mergatroyd. I have made a fortune--a

moderate one, but one that contents me--and have no need to toil through

the last years of life, to fag out the final straws of existence.'

'Fag out!' exclaimed Dale, 'you dog, you--why, you have gone into the

Caldron of Pelias, and have come forth rejuvenated.'

'If I remember the story aright,' retorted Jeremiah, 'Pelias never came

out of the caldron. I am like Pelias in this, that I have gone into the

waters of Lethe.'

'Now, Jeremiah, old boy,' said the surgeon, 'let this be a settled

thing, you husband your strength for a twelvemonth at least, and you

will then be vigorous as ever. If you insist on going into harness at

once, in two years I shall be attending your funeral.'

'Very well,' said Jeremiah, 'if things are in order at Mergatroyd, I

will go, but I cannot allow the business to fall into confusion. To

tell you the truth, I have reasons which make me wish not to go back

there till I am quite restored, but I should like to know what is going

on there.'

'That I can perhaps tell you. I have had a letter from Salome. Do you

know, my friend, when I have been away from Bridlington, on a holiday, I

have been on thorns, thinking that everything must be going out of gear

on account of my absence, that my _locum tenens_ has let patients slip

and mismanaged difficult cases; yet when I have returned I have found

that I was not missed--all has gone on swimmingly without me. You will

find that it has been the same at Mergatroyd.'

'But what says Salome?'

'In the first place that cricket, Janet, is back. She was sent home

lest an Uhlan should fall in love with her or she fall in love with an

Uhlan, and now her husband is dead. Like a fool he served as a

volunteer, uncalled for, as he was an Englishman.'

'Albert Baynes dead! Then you will have some work on your hands as

trustee.'

'So I shall. Now about your affairs. It seems that the will you drew

up against my advice, without taking legal opinion, was so much

waste-paper; Salome says merely that it proved invalid, so Mrs.

Sidebottom had to take out letters of administration, and divide your

property between her and your nephew Philip.'

'What!--Salome get nothing! I shall go back at once and send those two

vultures to the right about.'

'Have patience; they came out better than you might have expected. It

has been arranged that Philip shall live in your house and undertake the

management of the factory, and he has asked Mrs. Cusworth to remain on

in the old place in the same position as she occupied before.'

'I am glad they have had the grace not to turn her out.'

'That is not all. As it was clearly your wish that Salome should be

liberally provided for, your sister and nephew have agreed to fund for

her the same amount that was invested for her sister Janet. Now I do

not know what your will was, but it seems to me that nothing could have

been better, even if you had the disposing of it. Your natural heirs

get their rights, and your pet Salome is honourably and even handsomely

treated by them.'

Jeremiah said nothing; his chin fell on his breast. He had not thought

that Mrs. Sidebottom would do a generous thing. Of Philip he knew

nothing; but what he had just heard predisposed him in his favour.

'Now take my advice, Jeremiah,' continued Dr. Dale. 'Let Philip go on

where he is. He has thrown up his place in a solicitor's office at

Nottingham, and, as Salome writes, is devoting himself energetically to

the work of the mill, and learning all the ramifications of the

business. You wanted someone to relieve you, and you have the man--the

right man, already in the place.'

'He may get everything wrong.'

'I do not believe it. You have an aversion to lawyers, but let me tell

you that a lawyer's office is an excellent school; there men learn to

know human nature, how to deal with men, and get business habits. The

fellow must have a good heart, or he would not have come to an

arrangement with his aunt to part with a large sum of money for Salome.

Besides, Salome is no fool, and she writes of him in high praise for his

diligence, his regular habits, and his kindness and consideration for

her mother.'

John Dale paused for Jeremiah to say something; but his friend remained

silent, with his head down, thinking.

'If you go back,' said the doctor, 'you will throw everything wrong.

You will worry yourself and will take the spirit out of Philip. Trust

him. He is on his mettle. If he makes a blunder, that is natural, and

he will suffer for it; but he will commit none that is fatal; he is too

shrewd for that.'

'Dale,' said Mr. Pennycomequick, 'if I make up my mind not to return to

Mergatroyd, I make up my mind at the same time to leave those there in

ignorance that I am still alive.'

'As you like. It would not be amiss. Then Philip would work with

better energy. If things go wrong I can always drop you a line and

recall you, and you can appear as _Deus ex machina_, and set all to

rights. I have often thought that half the aggravation of leaving this

world must be the seeing things going to sixes and sevens without being

able to right them, a business we have got together being scattered, a

reputation we have built up being pulled down; to have to see things

going contrary to our intentions, and be unable to put out a finger to

mend them; to hear ourselves criticised, and ill-natured, and false

stories told of us, and be incapable of saying a word in our own

defence. I will tell you a story. At one time when I went to

dinner-parties I was the first to go. But on one occasion I stayed, and

Mr. and Mrs. Smith left before me. No sooner were their backs turned

than the company fell to criticising the Smiths, their pretensions, the

airs they gave themselves, till the Brownes departed, whereupon the

conversation became scandalous about the Brownes: then the Jones family

departed. Thereupon I learned that the Joneses were living beyond their

means, and were on the verge of bankruptcy. So on till the last was

gone. After that I have never been the first to leave; I try to be

last, so as to leave only my host and hostess behind to discuss and

blacken me. Now, Jeremiah, you have gone out quickly and unexpectedly,

and if you could steal back to Mergatroyd unperceived, then you will

find that the maxim _De mortuis nil nisi bonum_ is not being observed.

You are fortunate; you can return at will and correct false estimates.

That is not given save to the exceptionally privileged.'

'You will go to Mergatroyd for me,' said Mr. Pennycomequick, 'and see

with your own eyes how things are?'

'Certainly I will. Do you know, old fellow,' said Dale, with a twinkle

in his eye, 'I have sometimes feared for you, feared lest you should

make a ghastly fool of yourself, and make that dear little piece of

goods, Salome, your wife. It would not do, old boy; if you had done it

I would have ceased to respect you; you would have lost the regard and

provoked the ridicule of everyone in Mergatroyd. Old boy, it would

never have done.'

'No,' said Mr. Pennycomequick, 'it would never have done; you are right,

it would never have done.'

'It would have been a cruelty to her,' pursued Dale, 'for Nature never

designed Winter to mate with Spring, to bring a frost on all the sweet

blossoms of youth, and in checking the rising sap, perhaps to kill the

plant.'

'No,' said Jeremiah, 'it would never have done.'

*CHAPTER XIX*

*BACKING OUT.*

'You will dine with us to-night, Philip,' said Mrs. Sidebottom. 'Now

that we have settled our business, it will be quite fascinating to have

a bright and cheerful evening together. We will take the crape off our

heads and hearts. Lamb shall sing us some of his comic songs, and I

will play you any music you like on the piano. You shall listen, and

the _motif_ of our entertainment shall be "Begone, dull care." I wish

there were anyone invitable in this place, but there is not, and,

moreover, though I do not care for the opinion of these barbarians, it

is too soon after the funeral to have a dinner-party; we must mind the

proprieties wherever we are.'

Mrs. Sidebottom was in good spirits. She had managed for herself well.

The estate of Mr. Pennycomequick had been divided between herself and

Philip, but as the business was already charged with her jointure, he

deducted this from the total before dividing. She still retained her

hold on the factory, remained as a sleeping partner in the firm, though,

as Philip found to his cost before long, she was a sleeping partner

given to walking in her sleep. Philip was to be the active member of

the firm. It was by no means her wish that the mill should be sold and

the business pass away, because it was prosperous. If it had fallen

into Lambert's hands it would have been different, for she knew well

that her son would have been incompetent to conduct it. She was

cheerful now that all was concluded, perfectly satisfied with herself,

for the terms she had made with her nephew did not err on the side of

generosity.

'And now,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, 'I really do intend to get Lamb to

insert a hyphen in his name, and spell the final syllable with a capital

Q. I have ascertained from a really learned man that our name is most

respectful; and, like all good names, is territorial. It is of ancient

British origin, and means the Wick or settlement as the head of a Combe,

that is a valley. When you know this you feel that it has an

aristocratic flavour, and that is older than trade. I think that when

written Penycombe-Quick it will have an air, Philip, an air of such

exalted respectability as will entitle us to look on those who were

entered on the Roll of Battle Abbey as parvenus. I intend to have

Lamb's cards printed thus. I like the American way of combining the

paternal name with that acquired at marriage. If I call myself Mrs.

Penycombe-Quick-Sidebottom I flatter myself I shall carry weight.'

There is a characteristic of some persons, not so rare as might be

supposed, but subdued in England as a token of ill-breeding, yet one

which among foreigners, judging from our experience, is not forbidden by

the social code. This characteristic is the sudden transformation of

manner and behaviour at the touch of money. We meet with and enjoy

ready hospitality, suavity of manner, that lasts till some difference

arises about a coin, when all at once the graces we admired give place

to roughness, a coarseness and greed quite out of proportion to the

amount under dispute. In England we may feel aggrieved, but we strive

to conceal our chagrin; not so the foreigner, who will fall into a

paroxysm of fury over a sou or a kreutzer.

Mrs. Sidebottom was a lady of this calibre. Chatty, cordial with those

who did not cross her, she was transformed, when her interests were

touched, into a woman pugnacious, unscrupulous and greedy. A phenomenon

observed in certain religious revivals is the impatience of wearing

clothes that takes those seized by spiritual frenzy. In the ecstasy of

devotion or hysteria, they tear off their garments and scatter them on

the ground. So, when Mrs. Sidebottom was possessed by the spirit of

greed, she lost control over herself, she flung aside ordinary courtesy,

divested herself of every shred of politeness, stripped off every

affectation of disinterestedness, and showed herself in bald, unblushing

rapacity. In dealing with Philip about the inheritance of Jeremiah, her

masterful pursuit of her own advantage, her overbearing manner, her

persistency, had gained for her notable advantages. She had used the

privileges of her age, relationship, sex, to get the better of her

nephew, and only when her ends were gained did she smilingly, without an

apology, resume those trappings of culture and good breeding which she

had flung aside.

Now that all was settled, as she supposed, she was again the woman of

the world, and the agreeable, social companion.

'Yes, aunt,' said Philip, 'I am glad we have come to a settlement. If

it be not all that I could have desired, it at all events leaves me

vastly better off than I was before the death of my uncle. With the

help of Providence, and a good heart, I trust that the respectable old

house of Pennycomequick will maintain its character and thrive

continuously.'

'You like trade,' said his aunt. 'Lambert never could have accustomed

himself to it. By the way, there will be no necessity for you to change

the spelling of your name.'

'I have not an intention to do so.'

'Right. Of course it is as well to keep on the name of the firm

unaltered. With us, moving in a higher and better sphere, it is other.'

'There is one matter, aunt, that has not yet been definitely arranged,

and that is the last about which I need trouble you.'

'What matter? I thought all was done.'

'That relative to Miss Cusworth.'

'What about Miss Cusworth?'

'You surely have not forgotten our compact.'

'Compact? Compact?'

'The agreement we came to that she was to receive acknowledgment from

us.'

'Acknowledgment! Fiddlesticks!'

'I am sorry to have to refresh your memory,' said Philip harshly, 'but

you may perhaps recall, now that I speak of it, that I threatened to

enter a _caveat_ against your taking out powers of administration,

unless you agreed to my proposition that the young lady should be given

the same sum as was invested for her sister, which was the least that

Uncle Jeremiah intended to do for her.'

'Now--what nonsense, Philip! I never heard such stuff. I refused to

listen to your proposal. I distinctly recall my words, and I can swear

to them. I told you emphatically that nothing in the world would induce

me to consent.'

'The threat I used did, however, dispose you to alter your note and

yield.'

'My dear Philip,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, assuming an air of solemnity, 'I

have taken out administrative authority and have administered, or am in

the process of administering.'

'Exactly. You have acted, but you were only enabled to act because I

held back from barring your way. You know that very well, aunt, and you

know on what terms I withdrew my opposition. You accepted my terms, and

I look to you to fulfil your part of the compact.'

'I do not find it in the bond,' said Mrs. Sidebottom. 'I can quote

Shakespeare. Come, Phil, I thought we had done with wrangling over

sordid mammon. Let us enjoy ourselves. I did not ask you to stay for

dinner that we might renew our disputes. The tomahawk is buried and the

calumet drawn forth.'

'It was a bond, not, indeed, drawn up in writing, between us, because I

relied on your honour.'

'My dear Phil, I gave no definite promise, but I had to swear before the

man at the Probate Court that I would administer faithfully and justly

according to law, and the law was plain. Not a word in it about

Cusworths. I am in conscience bound to stand by my oath. I cannot

forswear myself. If there is one thing in the world I pride myself on,

it is my strict conscientiousness.'

'The cow that lows loudest yields least milk,' muttered Philip. He was

greatly incensed. 'Aunt,' he said angrily, 'this is a quibble unworthy

of you. A perfectly clear understanding was come to between us, by the

terms of which you were to go halves with me in raising four or five

thousand pounds to fund, or otherwise dispose of for the benefit of Miss

Cusworth.'

'Four or five thousand fiddlesticks!'

'If I had opposed you,' said Philip grimly, 'some awkward questions

might have been asked relative to the cancelled will.'

'What questions?' asked Mrs. Sidebottom, looking him straight in the

face with defiance.

'As to how that will came to have the signature torn off.'

'They were perfectly welcome to ask that question, but I defy you to

find anyone who could answer it.'

She was right, and Philip knew it. Whatever his suspicions might be, he

was without a grain of evidence to substantiate an accusation against

anyone. Moreover, much as he mistrusted his aunt, he could not bring

himself to believe her capable of committing so daring and wicked an

act.

'I wish that the old witch-drowning days were back,' said Mrs.

Sidebottom. 'It is clear to me that Salome has been exercising her

fascinations upon you. Oh, that she could be pitched into a pool--that

one of scalding water, swarming with gold-fish, would suit admirably,

because of the colour of her hair. Then sink or swim would be all

one--sink for innocence, swim for guilt--clear of her anyway.'

'Do you seriously mean to evade the arrangement come to between us?'

asked Philip. He would not be drawn from his point to side issues.

'I never went into it.'

'I beg your pardon, you did agree to what I proposed.'

'Upon compulsion. No, were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the

world, I would not yield on compulsion. There you have Shakspeare

again, Phil. I wonder whether you can tell me from what play I quote.

If you were a man of letters, you would cap my quotations.'

'There can be no question as to what were the intentions of Uncle

Jeremiah.'

'Ah, there I agree with you. Having made a preposterous will, he tore

it up, to show that he did not intend to constitute Salome his heiress.'

What was Philip to say? How bring his aunt to her terms of agreement?

He remained silent, with closed lips and contracted brows.

'Now, look here, Philip,' said Mrs. Sidebottom good-humouredly, 'I have

ordered shoulder of mutton and onion sauce: also quenilles of macaroni

and forced-meat, and marmalade pudding. Come and discuss these good

things with us, instead of mauling these dry bones of business.'

'I have already spoken to Mrs. and Miss Cusworth. Relying on your word,

I told them what we purposed doing for them.'

'Then you made a mistake, and must eat your words. What a pity it is,

Philip, that we are continually floundering into errors of judgment, or

acts that our common-sense reproves, so that we come out scratched and

full of thorns! You will be wiser in the future. Never make

promises--that is, in money matters. If you persist in paying the hussy

the four or five thousand pounds, I have no objection to the sum coming

out of your own pocket. Excuse me, I must laugh, to think how you, a

lawyer, have allowed yourself to be bitten.'

'I do not see how I am to pay the sum you mention without jeopardizing

the business. I must have money in hand wherewith to carry it on. If

you draw back----'

'There is no _if_ in the case. I do draw back. Do me the justice to

admit that I never rushed into it. You did, dazzled by the girl's eyes,

drawn by her hair.'

Philip rose.

'What--are you going, Phil? Lamb will be here directly. He is at the

White Hart, I believe, playing billiards. It is disgusting that he can

find no proper gentlemen to play with, and no good players either.

Come, sit down again. You are going to dine with us. Some of your

uncle's old port and Amontillado sherry. It must be drunk--we shall

hardly move it to York.'

'I cannot dine with you now.'

'Why not?'

'Under the circumstances I cannot.' he said coldly. 'I trusted to your

honour--I trusted to you as a lady, and,' he raised his head, 'as a

Pennycomequick----'

'How spelled?' asked Mrs. Sidebottom laughingly.

'I cannot sit down with you now, with my respect and confidence shaken.

I trust that you have spoken in jest, and that to-morrow you will tell

me so; but I am not fond of jokes--such jokes as these leave a scar. I

could not accept my share of Uncle Jeremiah's property without making

recognition of the claims of the Cusworth family. The father died in my

uncle's service; the mother and daughters have devoted themselves to

making uncle's life easy--and now to be cast out! If you hold back, and

refuse to pay your share of two thousand pounds, I must pay the entire

amount; and if the business suffers, well, it suffers. The

responsibility will be yours, and the loss yours also, in part.'

'Nonsense, Phil; you will not run any risk.'

'If you had taken your part, and I mine, we could have borne the loss

easily; but if I have the whole thrown on me, the consequences may be

serious. Ready money is as necessary as steam to make the mill run.'

'I don't believe--I cannot believe--that you, a man of reason--you, a

man with legal training--can act such a quixotish part?' exclaimed Mrs.

Sidebottom, becoming for the moment alarmed. Then she calmed down

again. 'I see through you, Philip,' she said. 'Having failed to

persuade me, you seek to terrify me. It will not do. I do not believe

so badly of humanity as to think that you will act so wickedly. Come,

think no more of this. I hope you like sirloin?'

'I refuse to sit down with you,' said Philip angrily.

'Then go!' exclaimed his aunt, with an explosion of spleen. 'Go as an

impracticable lout to your housekeeper's room, to sup on a bowl of gruel

and cottage-pie!'

*CHAPTER XX.*

*A FACE IN THE DARK.*

Mrs. Sidebottom was not at ease in her mind after the suggestion thrown

out by Philip that the business might suffer if so much capital were

suddenly withdrawn from it. She recalled how it had been when her

brother Nicholas had insisted on taking out of it his share--how angry

Jeremiah had been; how, for awhile, the stability of the firm had been

shaken, and how crippled it had been for some years. She remembered how

that her share of the profits had been reduced, and she had no desire to

meet with a recurrence of this shrinkage. When Nicholas made that great

call on the resources of the firm, there was Jeremiah in the office,

thoroughly experienced, and he was able, through his ability and

knowledge, to pull through; but it was another matter now with Philip, a

raw hand, in authority.

Then, again, Mrs. Sidebottom knew her brother Jeremiah had contemplated

a large outlay in new and improved machinery. To keep up with the

times, abreast with other competitors, it was necessary that this costly

alteration should be made. But could it be done if four or five

thousand pounds were sacrificed to a caprice?