The morning following, Anice's father being called away by business left
Riggan for a few days' absence, and it was not until after he had gone,
that the story of Mr. Haviland's lodge-keeper came to her ears. Mr.
Haviland was a Member of Parliament, a rich man with a large estate, and
his lodge-keeper had just left him to join a fortunate son in America.
Miss Barholm heard this from one of her village friends when she was
out with the phaeton and the gray pony, and she at once thought of Sammy
Craddock. The place was the very thing for him. The duties were light,
the lodge was a pretty and comfortable cottage, and Mr. Haviland was
known to be a generous master. If Sammy could gain the situation, he was
provided for. But of course there were other applicants, and who was
to speak for him? She touched up the gray pony with her whip, and drove
away from the woman who had told her the news, in a perplexed frame of
mind. She herself knew Mr. Haviland only by sight, his estate was three
miles from the village, her father was away, and there was really no
time to be lost. She drove to the corner of the road and paused there
for a moment.
“Oh indeed, I must go myself,” she said at last. “It is unconventional,
but there is no other way.” And she bent over and touched the pony again
and turned the corner without any further delay.
She drove her three miles at a pretty steady trot, and at the end of the
third,--at the very gates of the Haviland Park, in fact,--fortune came
to her rescue. A good-humored middle-aged gentleman on a brown
horse came cantering down the avenue and, passing through the gates,
approached her. Seeing her, he raised his hat courteously; seeing him,
she stopped her pony, for she recognized Mr. Haviland.
She bent forward a little eagerly, feeling the color rise to her face.
It was somewhat trying to find herself obliged by conscience to stop a
gentleman on the highway and ask a favor of him.
“Mr. Haviland,” she said. “If you have a moment to spare----”
He drew rein by her phaeton, removing his hat again. He had heard a
great deal of Miss Barholm from his acquaintance among the county
families. He had heard her spoken of as a rather singular young lady who
had the appearance of a child, and the views of a feminine reconstructor
of society. He had heard of her little phaeton too, and her gray pony,
and so, though he had never seen her before, he recognized her at once.
“Miss Barholm?” he said with deference.
“Yes,” answered Anice. “And indeed I am glad to have been fortunate
enough to meet you here. Papa is away from home, and I could not wait
for his return, because I was afraid I should be too late. I wanted to
speak to you about the lodge-keeper's place, Mr. Haviland.”
He had been rather of the opinion that Miss Barholm must be a terrible
young woman, with a tendency to model cottages and night schools.
Young ladies who go out of the ordinary groove are not apt to be
attractive to the average English mind. There are conventional charities
in which they may indulge,--there are Sunday-schools, and rheumatic old
women, and flannel night-caps, and Dorcas societies, and such things
to which people are used and which are likely to alarm nobody. Among a
class of discreet persons these are held to afford sufficient charitable
exercise for any well regulated young woman; and girls whose plans
branch out in other directions are looked upon with some coldness. So
the country gentry, hearing of Miss Barholm and her novel fancies,--her
teaching in a night school with a young curate, her friendship for the
daughter of a dissipated collier, her intimate acquaintance with ragged
boys and fighting terriers, her interest in the unhappy mothers
of nameless babies,--hearing of these things, I say, the excellent
nonenthusiasts shook their heads as the very mildest possible expression
of dissent. They suspected strong-mindedness and “reform”--perhaps even
politics and a tendency to advance irregular notions concerning the
ballot. “At any rate,” said they, “it does not look well, and it is very
much better for young persons to leave these matters alone and do as
others do who are guided wholly by their elders.”
It was an agreeable surprise to Mr. Haviland to see sitting in her
modest phaeton, a quiet girl who looked up at him with a pair of the
largest and clearest eyes he had ever seen, while she told him about
Sammy Craddock.
“I want the place very much for him, you see,” she ended. “But of course
I do not wish to be unfair to any one who may want it, and deserve
it more. If there is any one who really _is_ in greater need of it, I
suppose I must give it up.”
“But I am glad to tell you, there is nobody,” answered Mr. Haviland
quite eagerly. “I can assure you, Miss Barholm, that the half dozen men
who have applied to me are without a solitary exception, unmitigated
scamps--great strong burly fellows, who would, ten to one, spend their
days in the public house, and their nights in my preserves, and leave
their wives and children to attend to my gates. This Craddock is
evidently the very man for me; I am not a model landowner, but I like
to combine charity with subservience to my own interest occasionally.
I have heard of the old fellow. Something of a demagogue, isn't he? But
that will not frighten me. I will allow him to get the better of me in
political discussion, if he will leave my pheasants alone.”
“I will answer for the pheasants,” said Anice, “if you will let me send
him to you.”
“I will see him to-morrow morning with pleasure,” said Mr. Haviland.
“And if there is anything else I can do, Miss Barholm------”
“Thank you, there is nothing else at present. Indeed, you do not know
how grateful I feel.”
Before an hour had passed, Sammy Craddock heard the good news. Anice
drove back to his house and told him, without delay.
“If you will go to-morrow morning, Mr. Haviland will see you,” she
ended; “and I think you will be good friends, Mr. Craddock.”
“Owd Sammy” pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, and looked at her.
“An' tha went at th' business o' thy own accord an' managt it i' haaf
an hour!” he said. “Well, I'm dom'd,--axin your pardin fur takkin th'
liberty; it's a habit I've getten--but I be, an' no mistake.”
He had not time to get over his grateful amazement and recover his
natural balance before she had said all she had come to say, and was
gone, leaving him with “th' owd lass” and his admiration.
“Well,” said Sammy, “I mun say I nivver seed nowt loike it i' my loife.
To think o' th' little wench ha'in' so mich gumption, an' to think
o' her takkin th' matter i' hond th' minnit she struck it! Why! hoo's
getten as mich sense as a mon. Eh! but hoo's a rare un--I said it when I
seed her amongst th' lads theer, an' I say it again. An' hoo is na mich
bigger nor six penn'orth o' copper neyther. An' I warrant hoo nivver
thowt o' fillin her pocket wi' tracks by way o' comfort. Well, tha'st
noan ha' to dee i' th' Union after aw, owd lass, an' happen we con save
a bit to gi' thee a graidely funeral if tha'lt mak' up thy moind to stay
to th' top a bit longer.”