An Encounter
The little freehold of "Walden" was a triangle, consisting of about two
acres of land. Its base abutted on the high road, and its apex was
wedged into another and much larger estate. The owner of this property
resided at Lyngates Hall. The Watsons had as yet only seen him in the
distance, but they knew from report that he was a naturalized German,
and that his name was Hockheimer. They had heard rumours that he was not
popular in the district. So long as he kept his live stock on his own
side of the hedge, Mrs. Watson did not concern herself about her
neighbour. When his cows strayed into her field she drove them back, and
had the gap securely mended to prevent further trespassing. She
considered that to be the end of the matter, and did not give Mr.
Hockheimer another thought. As for the young people, they had not yet
realized his existence. They discovered it one day quite suddenly and
unpleasantly.
The second Monday morning after her start at school, Avelyn was walking
to the station with her brothers to catch the 8.15 train. The weather
was still fine and summer-like, and the late September sunshine gilded
the yellowing nut trees, and turned the dew-drops in the long webs of
gossamer into diamonds. There was an exhilaration in being up and out so
early. The three marched along very cheerily, chatting as they went. As
they rounded the corner beyond the smithy, they could see, about two
hundred yards in front of them, a little figure in blue sports coat and
tam-o'-shanter, also making its way in the direction of Netherton.
"Who's that girl?" asked Anthony. "We see her every day; she goes in to
Harlingden by the same train that we do. She must be going to school,
because she always has a satchel of books with her."
"It looks like Pamela Reynolds," returned Avelyn. "She's new at
Silverside this term, and, now you speak of it, I remember somebody told
me she came from Lyngates, but I'd quite forgotten all about it till
this moment. I don't even know where she lives. Shall we sprint and
catch her up?"
The Watsons hurried their footsteps, and by dint of what might be termed
a forced march overtook Pamela on the brow of the hill. Avelyn greeted
her by name from behind. She turned, surprised. She was a fine-looking
girl of nearly fourteen, with wide-open honest brown eyes, a clear pale
skin, and bronze-brown hair, which curled at the ends, and had a
tendency to make little rings round her forehead. She was really pretty
when she smiled.
"Hallo!" she exclaimed. "I never expected to see you here! Aren't you
Avelyn Watson? I thought you were a boarder!"
"So I am, but only a weekly one. I come home from Friday to Monday. Do
you like being a day girl? Isn't it a long way to go every morning?"
"I don't mind; I used to have much farther to go to school when we lived
in Canada."
"Used you to live in Canada?"
"Yes, I was born there. I've only come to England lately."
"I haven't met you about Lyngates before."
"We've only been here a month."
"Who's 'we'?"
"Just my mother and I."
"Do you like England?"
"Pretty well. It's too cultivated after Canada. All these little walls
and hedges to divide the tiny fields make me laugh. It's like a dolls'
country. And I hate the high roads. Look here--there's a short cut
through that wood to the station. I go that way nearly every day. Will
you come?"
The Watsons were perfectly ready to explore anything in the shape of a
new path or by-lane. They helped Pamela to open the gate, and followed
her into the wood. The long vista of trees was delightful. The short
grass under foot was a vivid emerald green, there were patches of
yellowing bracken, clumps of crimson and orange toad-stools, spindle
bushes covered with scarlet berries, and trails of pale late honeysuckle
twining over the brambles. From the direction they were taking, they
must be cutting off a long corner on their way to the station.
They had walked for perhaps a few minutes, and were strolling on,
chatting as they went, when they suddenly heard a shout in front of
them, and someone came crashing through the undergrowth and stood
barring their path. The somebody in question was undoubtedly very angry.
He was a fair, short, stout, roundabout little man, with a big blond
moustache. His light-blue eyes flashed, and his large teeth gleamed
unpleasantly as he spoke. But he not only spoke, he shouted.
"What are you doing here? Do you know this wood's private property?
You've no business to be in it! Get out as fast as you can, the same way
you came! Be quick about it, or I'll know the reason why. I could have
you all taken up for trespassing if I liked. Why, _Pamela_!"
Pamela was standing staring at the surly objector, with a look of
mingled amazement, disgust, and defiance in her clear eyes.
"It's my fault, Uncle," she replied calmly. "It's a short cut to the
station through this wood, and to-day I brought these--friends"--she
hesitated for a moment over the word--"with me. I come this way nearly
every morning."
"Then you won't do it again!" thundered the short man. "Don't let me
ever catch you here any more, or any of your friends. You may understand
that once and for all, and I'll be obeyed. Go back, I tell you!"
He waved them savagely in the direction of the gate through which they
had come.
"Mayn't we go on just this once?" pleaded Pamela. "I'm afraid we'll miss
our train."
"Then miss it! What do I care? It's your own faults for trespassing, and
I hope you'll all get into trouble at school. You richly deserve it.
Back, I tell you, you young rascals!"
With an angry man raving like a lunatic in their path, there was nothing
for it but to beat a retreat as speedily as they could. When they had
passed through the gate, David looked at his watch.
"Five past eight! Thunder! We shall have to sprint if we want to catch
that train."
There was no time for comment. All four immediately set off running.
Each, perhaps, was buoyed up with an obstinate determination to reach
the station by 8.15 in spite of the unamiable hopes of the owner of the
wood. They only wished he could be there to see them defeat his
prophecy. In spite of such hindrances as bumping satchels, streaming
hair, and, in Anthony's case, a trailing bootlace, they panted along,
and covered the ground somehow. They could hear the train rumbling in
the distance, and could see the smoke of the engine as they raced down
the last hill. By the greatest of good luck a special cargo of milk-cans
and butter baskets had to be placed that morning in the luggage van, and
the extra two minutes spent in stowing them away saved the situation.
The guard was just waving his green flag as the Watsons and Pamela,
scarlet with their exertions, popped into the last carriage.
For a few minutes they were too breathless to speak. It was Anthony who
first found words.
"Well, of all raggy old lunatics commend me to that one!"
"Strafe the baity old blighter!" gasped David.
"I never heard of such meanness!" put in Avelyn. "Actually to _want_ us
to miss our train!"
"I'd have knocked him over for two pins," declared David savagely.
"Wish we'd tried!" growled Anthony.
"I don't know who he is, but he's no gentleman!" exploded Avelyn,
divided between her ruffled clothes and her ruffled feelings. "Sorry,
Pamela, if he's your uncle, but I can't help saying what I think."
Pamela was leaning back in a corner. She had taken off her blue
tam-o'-shanter, and was trying to re-tie her bronze-brown hair. She
looked up quickly.
"You needn't mind me. You can say anything you like about him. I only
wish he wasn't my uncle. We don't choose our relations, do we?"
"Nobody'd choose him if they could help it, I should think," replied
Avelyn frankly. "What's his name?"
"Mr. Hockheimer."
"The Mr. Hockheimer who lives at The Hall?"
"Yes."
"Why, he's a German, isn't he?"
"Yes, but I'm not! I'm as English as I possibly can be."
"Then how are you related to him?"
"He married my aunt."
"Oh!"
[Illustration: "DO YOU KNOW THIS WOOD'S PRIVATE PROPERTY?" HE SHOUTED]
There was a long pause, and then Anthony volunteered:
"If Auntie Belle was to marry a German, I'd never call her 'auntie'
again--never!"
"It was before the war, and she's dead now," groaned Pamela. "Uncle
Fritz has lived twenty years in England."
"How is it he's not interned?" asked David.
"He's naturalized, you see."
"Need you call him 'uncle'?"
"I'd rather not, but I've got to. I'd never seen him till I came here a
month ago."
"And you don't like him?"
For answer, Pamela suddenly burst into a storm of passionate tears.
"Like him! I hate him! Oh! why did we ever leave Canada and come to
England? It's wretched here, and I'm miserable. I'd like to run away!"
Then, dabbing her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief: "There, don't take
any notice of me, please. I get these fits sometimes. I'll feel better
soon. Please don't talk any more to me about uncle."
The Watsons glanced at her compassionately, and began to converse among
themselves upon other topics. Pamela stared hard out of the window,
blinked, and presently regained her composure. When the train arrived at
Harlingden, she and Avelyn walked to Silverside together, but they
talked of school concerns, and did not reopen the subject of Mr.
Hockheimer.
Before this happening Avelyn, though she had been vaguely aware of
Pamela's existence, had not mentally singled her out among the general
crowd of her schoolfellows. From that Monday morning she began to take
an interest in her. She smiled at her when they passed on the stairs,
and spoke to her occasionally in the playground. As they were in
different forms they had few opportunities of meeting, and even at
dinner the boarders sat at a different table from the day girls. Avelyn
looked out for Pamela on Friday afternoon, but she was not at the
station. She had either left school early, or was travelling by a later
train. She seemed such an attractive, pathetic little figure that
Avelyn's curiosity was aroused. She wanted to know where Pamela lived,
and more about her. She cast round in her mind for any likely source of
information, and decided upon Mrs. Garside, a fat kindly old soul, who
owned a farm close to Walden, and was disposed to be neighbourly and
talkative. On the excuse of going for the weekly butter she tapped at
the house door, and was ushered in. Mrs. Garside was busy washing pots,
but she placed a chair for her visitor, fetched the butter from the
dairy, and, as she packed it in the basket, glided off into
conversation. Once started, it was difficult to stop her, or to lead her
away from the various topics upon which her tongue ran so glibly. It was
only after much manoeuvring and a considerable amount of patience that
Avelyn could get her to concentrate on the subject of Pamela Reynolds.
Even then her mind side-tracked.
"A young lady with dark hair, that wears a blue tam-o'-shanter. Yes,
I've seen her--not that I like tam-o'-shanters, and I wouldn't get one
for Hilda, though she begged hard; I bought her a felt instead. Mr.
Hockheimer's niece? Yes, he lives at The Hall, though many think he's no
right to be there; and if I'd my way, I'd say an internment camp was the
right place for him. With two sons in the trenches it doesn't give one
any patience for these naturalized Germans, coming and turning out
decent English folk, too, that ought to be there instead of him. It was
a queer business, and people ought to make their wills properly before
they come to die, instead of leaving them half-written. I've made mine,
and divided what I've got equal share and share alike among my six
children, so that there won't be any quarrelling after my funeral, for
I've told them beforehand what to expect. And people say the old
Squire's ghost haunts The Hall, and small wonder; though it's not much
use, for a ghost can't sign a will, and he should have had the sense to
do it while he was alive."
Mrs. Garside's statements were so rambling and involved, that it took
Avelyn a very long time indeed to sift the information she wanted from
among the large number of superfluous details supplied by her loquacious
neighbour. By dint of pertinacity and tact, however, she pieced together
the following narrative.--
Pamela's ancestors had for many generations been Squires of Lyngates,
and had resided at The Hall. Her grandfather, Mr. George Reynolds, had
lived there until his death, two years ago. Mrs. Garside could remember
him since her girlhood--a tall, handsome man with a brown beard, who
rode about the country on a favourite white horse named Champion. He had
been a good landlord, and was well liked in the neighbourhood. His wife
had died early, and left two children, a son and daughter. The son, Mr.
Leonard, had been a high-spirited lad, and it was said in the village
that he and his father did not get on well together. There was some
upset and a quarrel, the rights of which nobody ever knew, for the
Squire was too proud to air his troubles, and kept family skeletons
securely locked in their cupboards. At any rate, Mr. Leonard had gone
away to Canada and started farming, and had never returned to his old
home, though he had written that he was married, and, later on, that he
had a daughter. This was all the news that Lyngates people had heard of
him in fourteen years. Whether he had prospered or otherwise on his
far-off Canadian ranch they did not know. Squire Reynolds's other child,
Miss Dora, had been a pretty girl, and her father's favourite. Many
years went by, however, before she married. She had been fond of
hunting, and used to look very smart riding to hounds in her neat
navy-blue habit. It was at a meet that she had first met Mr. Hockheimer.
He rented a shooting-box in the neighbourhood, and came down frequently
from London for week ends. Nobody could understand how this naturalized
German had obtained such a hold over Miss Dora and her father, though it
was rumoured that he had reinvested the Squire's money for him to great
advantage. Being a City man he was well acquainted with finance. Miss
Dora was long past her first youth, but she was still handsome, and
everyone in Lyngates had said that she was far too good for Mr.
Hockheimer. The village worthies, however, were not consulted, and the
wedding took place.
A year afterwards the European war broke out. There was great comment in
Lyngates on the position of Mr. Hockheimer, but he had proved himself to
be a naturalized British subject, and declared he was heart and soul on
the side of the Allies. He had been very energetic on local committees,
and had given large sums to the Belgian Fund.
When red war flamed in Flanders, and Britain summoned all her sons to
her standard, Leonard Reynolds, on his far-away ranch in the Rockies,
had heard the call and answered it. He had joined one of the first
Canadian contingents, and had come over the sea to "do his bit" for the
Motherland, leaving his wife and child at the ranch to carry on the
brave but wellnigh impossible task of keeping the home fires burning. In
his passage through England he had had thirty-six hours' leave, and had
visited his father at Lyngates. The villagers had seen him again after
fourteen years' absence, and had admired him in his khaki uniform. He
had spoken to several of them--words of fire and patriotism and
enthusiasm for the coming conflict.
Everybody lived for the newspapers in those first months of war, and
Lyngates was no exception to the general rule. In farm-house and
cottage they read of the retreat from Mons. Duke's son and plough-boy,
Oxford graduate and City clerk, scientist, shopman and crossing-sweeper
alike, had paid the great sacrifice, and the name of Leonard Reynolds
stood among them. The Squire was in bed at the time, recovering from a
severe operation. The news was broken to him by an injudicious nurse at
a crisis in his illness, and it proved his death-blow. In his few last
gasping words he had tried to say something about a will, but those who
were with him could not understand what he meant to convey. With the
incoherent message still trembling on his stricken lips he had passed
away into the silence. He was buried with his ancestors in Lyngates
churchyard, but there was no cross to mark the grave of his son Leonard.
The survivors of the Canadian contingent could give no details beyond
the fact that a certain portion of them had been utterly wiped out by a
terrific explosion. It was impossible to identify the dead. War was
reaping a red harvest of human lives.
After Squire Reynolds's funeral, Mr. and Mrs. Hockheimer had taken
possession of The Hall. Though search was made everywhere the only will
which could be discovered was one in the custody of the family
solicitor, which was dated fifteen years back. In the briefest terms it
left a certain sum of money to his daughter, and the estate of Lyngates
to his son, but in the event of the death of either, the survivor was to
inherit the whole property. As it had been drawn up before his son's
marriage, no mention was made in it of Leonard's wife and child. It was
a perfectly valid will, and it was duly proved, Mrs. Hockheimer
succeeding to the entire estate of her late father. She lived only six
months to enjoy it, and was laid to rest with her dead baby in her arms.
She had executed a will bequeathing everything to her husband, so that
Mr. Hockheimer, the naturalized German, assumed absolute command of the
Reynolds property.
Meanwhile, matters had gone hardly with the wife and child of Leonard
Reynolds. It had been impossible for them to farm the ranch, and they
had no private means. By the advice of her friends Mrs. Reynolds had
sold up her few possessions and had come to England with her daughter,
to find out at first hand from the lawyers whether any provision had
been made for her out of the estate. The solicitors were polite and
sympathetic: they acknowledged the keen injustice of the matter, but
assured her that there was no redress, and, according to British law,
Mr. Hockheimer had full rights of possession in the Lyngates property,
while she and her child could not claim so much as a solitary farthing.
They represented the case, however, to Mr. Hockheimer, and he at once
offered Mrs. Reynolds the use of a cottage on his land, together with a
small annual income, and promised to pay for Pamela's education at a day
school in Harlingden. As she had no other means of livelihood, Mrs.
Reynolds had accepted this help, and had settled down at Lyngates
shortly before this story begins. She was a fragile little woman,
gentle and clinging in disposition, and so battered by misfortune that
she was glad to rest anywhere where she could find a home. She received
Mr. Hockheimer's dole quite gratefully. With the loss of her husband
life had for her practically stopped. Through her daughter it held a
second-hand kind of interest. She welcomed the idea of Pamela attending
a good school, and her crushed soul even began to indulge in timid
little day-dreams concerning her child's future. These hopes, pathetic
and tender, were like wild sweet violets springing up over the
desolation of a battle-field.
Pamela viewed the situation from an utterly different standpoint. She
had inherited her grandfather's strength of character along with the
Reynolds features, and also a considerable share of his pride. Her early
life in Canada had made her more independent than most English girls of
her age. She considered that by all rights of justice an equal half of
the Lyngates estate should have been hers, and that her uncle, Mr.
Hockheimer, had managed to steal her inheritance. She hated to accept
from him as charity what she felt ought to have been her own, and she
bitterly resented the patronizing attitude which he adopted towards
herself and her mother. She, too, had her day-dreams, and most of them
centred round a time when she would be old enough to shake off this
thraldom of dependence and strike out a line of her own in the world.