"Oh, did he? How did he take it?"
"Awfully badly."
But Mrs. Petherick did not seem to care twopence about the domestic
trouble of Mavis and Will. Her thoughts were engrossed by her own
affairs.
"Mavis, I do think this: that if there's a will found, I shall be in
it. He wasn't a liar, whatever he was."
That night there seemed to be a tremendous lot of drunkenness in
Rodchurch, and when the Gauntlet Inn closed you could hear the
shouting as far off as the post office. But next day the village was
quietly drowsy as of old: it had got over its excitement.
Weeks passed, and for Mavis time began to glide. All things in the
post office itself had resumed their ordinary course, and she felt
instinctively that up-stairs, as well as down-stairs, a normal order
would rule again before very long. Outwardly she and Dale were just
what they used to be. They were not, however, really living as husband
and wife. She suffered, but made no complaint. All would come right.
X
Mr. Barradine had not died intestate. This fact was made known at the
post office in a sudden and perturbing manner by a letter to Mavis
from Messrs. Cleaver, the Old Manninglea solicitors. Messrs. Cleaver
informed her that the London firm who were acting in the matter of Mr.
Barradine's will had instructed them to communicate with her, because
certain documents--such as attested copies of her birth certificate,
marriage certificate, and so on--would presently be required; and it
would be convenient to Messrs. Cleaver, if she could pay them a call
within the next two or three days.
Mavis gave the letter to Dale when they met at breakfast, and he read
it slowly and thoughtfully.
"What do you suppose it means, Will?"
"I suppose it means that you're one of the leg'tees."
"Yes." Mavis drew in her breath. "It came into my mind that it might
be that."
"I don't see what else it can be."
His face had become dull and expressionless, and he spoke in a heavy
tone.
"I may go over and see Mr. Cleaver, mayn't I?"
"Yes," he said. "But I must go with you."
"When can you get away? I don't think we ought to put it off."
"No. There mustn't be an hour's avoidable delay. I'll take you over
this afternoon."
Then, without another word, he finished his breakfast and went
down-stairs. Mavis was vibrating with excitement, her eyes large and
bright, a spot of poppy color on each cheek; she longed to burst out
into all sorts of conjectures, to discuss every possibility, but she
did not dare speak to him again just then.
Though the market town of Old Manninglea was only eight miles distant,
the roundabout journey thither by rail offered such difficulties that
Dale hired a dog-cart from the Roebuck and drove his wife across by
road.
Their route for the first four miles was the one they would have
followed if they had been going to the Abbey, and as they bowled along
behind a strong and active little horse Mavis felt again, but in an
intensified degree, those sensations of well-being, of comfort, and
hopefulness, that she had experienced when passing through the same
scenery on the day of the funeral. All the country looked so warm and
rich in its fulness of summer tints--corn ready to cut, fruit waiting
to be picked, cows asking to be milked; everywhere plenty and peace;
nature giving so freely, and still promising to give more. It seemed
to her that as surely as there is a law under which the seasons
change, sunshine follows storm, and trees after losing their leaf soon
begin to bud again, so surely is it intended that states of mind
should succeed one another, that after sorrow should come gladness,
and that no one has the right to say "I will keep my heart like a
shuttered room, and because it was dark yesterday the light shall not
enter it to-day."
About a mile out from Rodchurch they passed the Baptist chapel--a
supremely ugly little building that stood isolated and forlorn in a
narrow banked enclosure among flat pasture fields--and Mavis, making
conversation, called Dale's attention to the tablet that largely
advertised its date.
"Eighteen thirty-seven, Will! That's a long time ago."
"Yes," he said, "a many years back--that takes one. Year the Queen
came to the throne."
"I wonder why they built it out here--such a way from everybody--such
a tramp for the worshipers."
"In those days all non-conformists were a deal more down-trodden than
they are now. It was before people began to understan' the meanin' o'
liberty o' conscience; and, like enough, that's a bit of evidence."
"How so, Will?"
"Quite likely there wasn't a landlord lib'ral enough to give 'em a
patch o' ground within reach o' th' village. Shoved 'em off as far as
they could, to please Mr. Parson, and not contam'nate his church with
the sight of an honest dissenter."
He said all this sententiously and didactically, as one who enjoys
speaking on historical or sociological subjects; but then a cloud
seemed to descend upon him, and he relapsed into gloomy silence.
After another mile they came to Vine-Pits Farm, the home of Mr. Bates
the corn-merchant. It was one of the few stone houses of the district,
a compact snug-looking nucleus from which an irregular wing, rather
higher than the main building, advanced to the very edge of the
roadway. A much smaller wing, merely an excrescence, on the other
side, seemed as if it had gone as far as it could in the direction of
making a quadrangle and had then given over the task to a broad low
wall. The square piece of garden, though untidy and neglected, derived
a great air of dignity from its stone surrounding, and importance was
added to the house by the solid range of outbuildings, barns, and
stables. A rick yard with haystacks so big that they showed above the
tops of fruit trees and yews, three or four wagons and carts, half a
dozen busy men, made the whole Bates establishment seem quite like a
thriving little town all to itself.
"It's a funny name, Vine-Pits," said Mavis, still making conversation.
"I wonder why ever they called it that."
"There was formerly a quantity of old pits 'longside the
rick-bargan--same as you see forcing-pits at a market-gardener's--and
the tale goes that they were orig'nally placed there for the purpose
of growing grapes on the same principle as cucumbers or melons."
"What a funny idea!"
"'Twas a failure. Sort of a gentleman farmer had the notion he knew
better than others, and tried it on year after year till he made a
laughing-stock of himself. Anyhow, that's the tale. Mr. Bates has
shown me the basis of the pits--built over now by the buildings you
were looking at. Ah, here is the old fellow."
Mr. Bates driving toward them in his gig pulled up, and invited Dale
to do so also.
"How are you, William?" And he took off his hat to Mrs. Dale. "Your
servant, madam. Turn head about, William, and come into my place and
take a bit of refreshment."
"No, thank you, Mr. Bates. Not to-day. Some other time."
"No time like the present. A cup of tea, Mrs. Dale. I don't care to
see those I count as friends pass my place without stopping."
"I know you mean what you say," said Dale cordially; "but we're for
Old Manninglea--business appointment."
"Then I mustn't hinder you. But look in on your way back. Your
servant, madam."
Mavis liked the fresh clean complexion and the silvery white hair of
Mr. Bates, and there was something very pleasing in his old-fashioned
mode of address, his courteous way of saluting her, and his gentle
friendly smile as he spoke to her husband.
"Will," she said, as they drove on, "I believe Mr. Bates is really
fond of you."
Dale gave a snort; and then after a long pause spoke with strong
emphasis.
"I'll tell you, Mavis, what Mr. Bates is. He's a _good_ man, every bit
and crumb of him. There's no one between the downs and the sea that I
feel the same respect for that I do for that old gentleman."
"Yes, Will, I know you've always praised him."
"And since you make the remark, I'll admit its truth. I do verily
believe that Mr. Bates _is_ fond of me." Then he laughed bitterly.
"I'm not aware of any one else I could say it of."
"Oh, Will--there's lots are fond of you."
"No--none. That was one small part of my lesson last month in London.
I got that tip, straight, at the G.P.O."
"Will!"
They were driving now through the woods, and Mavis, glancing from time
to time at her husband's face, saw that it had become fearfully
somber. She guessed that this indicated an unfortunate turn of
thought, and she talked incessantly in the hope of rendering such
thought difficult, if not impossible.
After crossing the bridge over the stream that runs serpentining
through the Upper Hadleigh Wood on its way to join the Rod River, they
were soon at the Abbey Cross Roads. Here, as they turned into the
highroad by the Barradine Arms and the cluster of adjacent cottages,
they had a splendid panoramic view of the Abbey estate rolling
downward on their left in wide, sylvan beauty as far as the eye could
see. From this higher ground, the park showed like an irregular
pattern of lighter color on a dark green carpet, and a few of the main
rides were visible here and there as truncated straight lines that
began and ended capriciously; but all the houses and buildings lay
hidden by the undulating woodland. Mavis turned her eyes toward the
point where North Ride Cottage shyly concealed itself, and then she
glanced back at Dale. He was staring straight in front, not looking to
left or right, as if focusing the roadway between the horse's ears.
"It's uphill now, Will, all the way, isn't it? Oh, that's a new
cottage. How red the bricks are!"
They had left all the trees behind them now, and, going up the slope
through the last strip of fields, they soon emerged on the open heath.
For a mile or two the landscape was wildly sad in aspect, just a waste
of sand and heather, with naked ridges and boggy hollows, one or two
wind-swept hillocks that bore a ragged crest of blackened firs, and in
the farthest distance massive contours of grassy down rising as a
barrier to guard the fertile valleys of another county. It was here
that the riderless horse had galloped about and been hunted by the
people from the cross road cottages.
"You _have_ driven well. I think it's wonderful, considering what a
little practise you get.... Look, I believe that's a hawk. Must be!
Nothing but a hawk could stand so still in the air. He can see
something down under him, I suppose. Rabbits, perhaps. Though I don't
suppose he'd strike at anything as big as a rabbit, would he?"
Mavis chattered vigorously, to prevent her husband from brooding on
painful things; but, even while talking, she did not obliterate her
own real thoughts. Inside her there seemed to be a running chorus of
unuttered words, and she listened to the inner voice even when at her
busiest with the outward sounding voice.
"Has he truly left me money? If so, how much?" These mute questions
were perpetually repeated. "A hundred pounds? Perhaps more than that.
He gave me two hundred when I married. Suppose he has left me quite a
lot of money."
It was not market-day, and the town therefore was not at its best and
brightest. Nevertheless, the appearance of shops, pavements, and
nicely dressed young ladies, had a most exhilarating effect on Mavis
when, after putting up the horse and cart, Dale solemnly conducted her
through the High Street to the solicitor's office in Church Place.
The interview with Mr. Cleaver did not take long, although such
weighty concerns were spoken of. Dale sat on a chair near the wall,
his hat held between his knees, his eyes lowered; while Mavis sat on
a chair close to the solicitor, talking, flushing, throbbing,
gradually ascending a scale of excitement so feverishly strong that it
seemed as if it must eventually consume her just as fire consumes.
Mr. Barradine had left her two thousand pounds, and this sum was to be
paid to her free of all duties. The will had not yet been proved, but
everything was in order and probate would be granted any day now;
minor legacies would then immediately be cleared off; and, since Mavis
would have no difficulty in satisfying the executors as to her
identity, she might really consider the money as safe in her pocket.
Mr. Cleaver, having made this stimulating communication and described
the formalities that she must fulfil, asked a few questions about
certain of her relatives.
"Ruby Millicent Petherick. That is a cousin of yours? Yes." And he
jotted down a note of any facts that Mavis could supply. "Still a
spinster. About your own age, and living abroad. Thank you. That is
all you can tell me? There seems to be doubt as to her whereabouts.
Your aunt--Mrs. John Edward Petherick--does not know her address. But
she will no doubt present herself in due course."
Then Mr. Cleaver indicated that he need not further detain them, and
Dale, rising slowly and still looking at the crown of his hat, spoke
for the first time and in a very ponderous way.
"This has come as a complete surprise to my wife."
"Yes," and the solicitor smiled, "but not by any means as an
unpleasant surprise, Mr. Dale!"
"No, sir, naturally not. My wife having been connected with the family
since childhood would be naturally one to be thought of by the head
of the family if wishful to benefit _all_ old friends after he was
called away."
"Quite so," said Mr. Cleaver.
"Will," said Mavis, "we mustn't waste Mr. Cleaver's time by telling
him our history;" and she gave a nervous fluttered laugh.
"Mr. Cleaver," said Dale glumly, "will pardon me for desiring to learn
how others stand, as well as yourself."
"Oh, well," said Mr. Cleaver, "I think it might be premature to go
into matters that do not directly concern Mrs. Dale."
"Yes," said Mavis, nervously, "we mustn't ask for secrets."
"It's just this," said Dale, with stolid insistence. "I do hope he has
done something equally handsome for those relations of my wife whose
names you mentioned--especially for her aunt, Mrs. J.E. Petherick, who
is now past her youth, and to whom it would be a comfort. Also my
wife's cousin Ruby, who is earning her livelihood on the continent by
following the profession of a musician. Such a windfall would come as
a blessing to her."
"Mr. Dale," said the solicitor, "I may safely say as much as this. No
one who had the smallest grounds for expecting anything will find
himself left out in the cold."
"Thank you, sir." Dale had raised his eyes, and, while speaking now,
in the same sententious manner, he seemed to be observing Mr.
Cleaver's face very closely. "The fact is, my wife and I had no
grounds whatever for expecting to be singled out for special rewards.
On the contrary, it was never in my wife's power to render the long
and faithful service rendered by the others; so that if a bequest had
fallen to us while others of the Petherick clan--if I may employ that
expression--had bin passed over, it might have bin difficult for us to
benefit to the detriment of the rest of 'em--at least, without causing
fam'ly squabbles."
"Then I'll freely reassure you. Such a contingency will not arise.
No," and Mr. Cleaver's tone became heartily enthusiastic. "It is a
beautiful will. You'll see all the particulars in the newspapers
before a week is over, and you'll say that no critic--however hard to
please--could find fault. It is a will that is bound to attract the
attention of the press."
"Then thank you again, sir. And good afternoon--with renewed thanks
for the courteous way you wrote to my wife, and received the two of us
to-day."
"Good afternoon." Mr. Cleaver smiled and shook hands good-humoredly.
"My congratulations, Mrs. Dale; and one word of advice, free gratis.
Invest your legacy wisely, and don't confound capital with income.
You're going to have two thousand pounds all told, not two thousand a
year, you know."
"Oh, no, sir--I wouldn't be so foolish as to think so."
They had tea at a pastry-cook's in complete silence, and they were
half-way home again before Mavis ventured to rouse her husband from
his ominous gloom.
"Will," she said, with an assumption of calmness and confidence, "I
didn't at once catch the drift of what you were saying to Mr. Cleaver,
and when I tried to stop you it was because I was all on edge from
hearing such a tremendous piece of news. Such a lot more than ever I
could have _dreamed_ of."
He did not answer. Steadily watching the horse's ears, and holding the
reins in both hands with the conscientious care of an unpractised
coachman, he drove down the slope to the Cross Roads and round the
corner into the woods.
"No, but I soon saw what was passing through your mind, Will. You
wanted to make quite sure that there would be nothing to cause talk. I
don't myself believe people would have really noticed if I had been
the only one. But, of course, as I am one of several, it stands to
reason nobody can say anything nasty."
Still he did not answer.
"Will, you'll let me take the money, won't you?"
"I don't know. I must think."
"Yes, dear, but you'll think sensibly, won't you? Think of the use--to
both of us. If it's mine in name, I count it all as yours every bit as
much as mine."
"That's enough now. Don't go on talking about it."
"All right. Are you going to stop at Mr. Bates'?"
"No."
"He was very pressing."
"I've no spirit to tell him--or any one else--what we've heard over
there."
"Will," and she drew close to him, nestling against him as much as she
could venture to do without causing him difficulty in driving, "you
said we were to look forward, not back. Don't get thinking of the
past. What's done is done--and it _must_ be right to be happy if we
can."
"Ah," and he gave a snort, "that's what the heathens used to say. I
thought you were a Christian."
"So I am, Will. Christ preached mercy--yes, and happiness too."
"Thought He preached remorse for sins before you reach pardon and
peace. But never mind religion--don't let's drag _that_ in. And leave
me alone. Don't talk. I tell you I want to think."
"Very well, dear. Only this one thing. Keep this before you. Now that
he's dead--"
"I've asked you to hold your tongue."
"And I will. But let me finish. However lofty you choose to look at
it, it can't be wrong to take the money now he's gone."
"I wish his money had gone with him. Look at it lofty or low--take it
or leave it--this cursed legacy reminds me of all I was trying to
forget."