I
Crabb Cot, Squire Todhetley's estate in Worcestershire, lay close to
North Crabb, and from two to three miles off Islip, both of which places
you have heard of already. Half way on the road to Islip from Crabb, a
side road, called Brook Lane, branched straight off on the left towards
unknown wilds, for the parts there were not at all frequented. Passing a
solitary homestead here and there, Brook Lane would bring you at the end
of less than two miles to a small hamlet, styled Duck Brook.
I am not responsible for the name. I don't know who is. It was called
Duck Brook long before my time, and will be, no doubt, long after I have
left time behind me. The village rustics called it Duck Bruck.
Duck Brook proper contains some twenty or thirty houses, mostly humble
dwellings, built in the form of a triangle, and two or three shops. A
set of old stocks for the correction of the dead-and-gone evil-doers
might be seen still, and a square pound in which to imprison stray
cattle. And I would remark, as it may be of use further on, that the
distance from Duck Brook to either Islip or Crabb was about equal--some
three miles, or so; it stood at right angles between them. Passing down
Brook Lane (which was in fact a fairly wide turnpike road) into the
high road, turning to the right would bring you to Crabb; turning to the
left, to Islip.
Just before coming to that populous part of Duck Brook, the dwelling
places, there stood in a garden facing the road a low, wide, worn house,
its bricks dark with age, and now partly covered with ivy, which had
once been the abode of a flourishing farmer. The land on which this lay
belonged to a Captain Falkner--some hundred acres of it. The Captain was
in difficulties and, afraid to venture into England, resided abroad.
A Mr. Preen lived in the house now--Gervais Preen, a gentleman by
descent. The Preens were Worcestershire people; and old Mr. Preen, dead
now, had left a large family of sons and daughters, who had for the most
part nothing to live upon. How or where Gervais Preen had lately lived,
no one knew much about; some people said it was London, some thought it
was Paris; but he suddenly came back to Worcestershire and took up his
abode, much to the general surprise, at this old farmhouse at Duck
Brook. It was soon known that he lived in it rent-free, having
undertaken the post of agent to Captain Falkner.
"Agent to Captain Falkner--what a mean thing for a Preen to do!" cried
Islip and Crabb all in a breath.
"Not at all mean; gentlemen must live as well as other people," warmly
disputed the Squire. "I honour Preen for it." And he was the first to
walk over to Duck Brook and shake hands with him.
Others followed the Squire's example, but Mr. Preen did not seem
inclined to be sociable. He was forty-five years old then; a little
shrimp of a man with a dark face, small eyes like round black beads, and
a very cross look. He met his visitors civilly, for he was a gentleman,
but he let it be known that he and his wife did not intend to visit or
be visited. The Squire pressed him to bring Mrs. Preen to a friendly
dinner at Crabb Cot; but he refused emphatically, frankly saying that
as they could not afford to entertain in return, they should not
themselves go out to entertainments.
Thus Gervais Preen and his wife began their career at Duck Brook,
keeping themselves to themselves, locked up in lavender, so to say, as
if they did not want the world outside to remember their existence.
Perhaps that was the ruling motive, for he owed a few debts of long
standing. One or two creditors had found him out, and were driving, it
was said, a hard bargain with him, insisting upon payment by degrees if
it could not be handed over in a lump.
But there was one member of the family who declined to keep herself laid
up in lavender, and that was the only daughter, Jane. She came to Crabb
Cot of her own accord, and made friends with us; made friends with Mrs.
Jacob Chandler and her girls, and with Emma Paul at Islip. She was a
fair, lively, open-natured girl, and welcomed everywhere.
* * * * *
Mr. and Mrs. Preen and Jane were seated at the breakfast-table one fine
morning in the earliest days of spring. A space of about two years had
gone by since they first came to Duck Brook. Breakfast was laid, as
usual, in a small flagged room opening from the kitchen. A piece of cold
boiled bacon, three eggs, a home-made loaf and a pat of butter were on
the table, nothing more luxurious. Mrs. Preen, a thin woman, under the
middle height, poured out the coffee. She must once have been very
pretty. Her face was fair and smooth still, with a bright rose tint on
the cheeks, and a peevish look in her mild blue eyes. Jane's face was
very much like her mother's, but her blue eyes had no peevishness in
them as yet. Poor Mrs. Preen's life was one of rubs and crosses, had
been for a long while, and that generally leaves its marks upon the
countenance. When Mr. Preen came in he had a letter in his hand, which
he laid beside his plate, address downwards. He looked remarkably cross,
and did not speak. No one else spoke. Conversation was seldom indulged
in at meal times, unless the master chose to begin it. But in passing
something to him, Jane's eyes chanced to fall on the letter, and saw
that it was of thin, foreign paper.
"Papa, is that from Oliver?"
"Don't you see it is?" returned Mr. Preen.
"And--is anything different decided?" asked Mrs Preen, timidly, as if
she were afraid of either the question or the answer.
"What is there different to decide?" he retorted.
"But, Gervais, I thought you wrote to say that he could not come home."
"And he writes back to say that he must come. I suppose he must. The
house over there is being given up; he can't take up his abode in the
street. There's what he says," continued Mr. Preen, tossing the letter
to the middle of the table for the public benefit. "He will be here
to-morrow."
A glad light flashed into Jane's countenance. She lifted her
handkerchief to hide it.
Oliver Preen was her brother; she and he were the only children. He had
been partly adopted by a great aunt, once Miss Emily Preen, the sister
of his grandfather. She had married Major Magnus late in life, and was
left a widow. Since Oliver left school, three years ago now, he had
lived with Mrs. Magnus at Tours, where she had settled down. She was
supposed to be well off; and the Preen family--Gervais Preen and all his
hungry brothers and sisters--had cherished expectations from her. They
thought she might provide slenderly for Oliver, and divide the rest of
her riches among them. But a week or two ago she had died after a short
illness, and then the amazing fact came out that she had nothing to
leave. All Mrs. Magnus once possessed had been sunk in an annuity on her
own life.
This was bad enough for the brothers and the sisters, but it was nothing
compared with the shock it gave to him of Duck Brook. For you see he
had to take his son back now and provide for him; and Oliver had been
brought up to do nothing. A mild young man, he, we understood, not at
all clever enough to set the Thames on fire.
Mr. Preen finished his breakfast and left the room, carrying the letter
with him. Jane went at once into the garden, which in places was no
better than a wilderness, and ran about the sheltered paths that were
out of sight of the windows, and jumped up to catch the lower branches
of trees, all in very happiness. She and Oliver were intensely attached
to one another; she had not seen him for three years, and now they were
going to meet again. To-morrow! oh, to-morrow! To-morrow, and he would
be here! She should see him face to face!
"Jane!" called out a stern voice, "I want you."
In half a moment Jane had appeared in the narrow front path that led
between beds of sweet but common flowers from the entrance gate in the
centre of the palings to the door of the house, and was walking up
demurely. Mr. Preen was standing at an open window.
"Yes, papa," she said. And Mr. Preen only answered by looking at her and
shutting down the window.
The door opened into a passage, which led straight through to the back
of the house. On the left, as you entered, was the parlour; on the right
was the room which Mr. Preen used as an office, in which were kept
the account books and papers relating to the estate. It was a square
room, lighted by two tall narrow windows. A piece of matting covered
the middle of the floor, and on it stood Mr. Preen's large flat
writing-table, inlaid with green leather. Shelves and pigeon-holes
filled one side of the walls, and a few chairs stood about. Altogether
the room had a cold, bare look.
It was called the "Buttery." When Mr. and Mrs. Preen first came to the
house, the old man who had had charge showed them over it. "This is the
parlour," he said, indicating the room they were then looking at; "and
this," he added, opening the door on the opposite side of the passage,
"is the Buttery." Jane laughed: but they had adopted the name.
"I want these letters copied, Jane," said Mr. Preen, who was now sitting
at his table, his back to the fire, and the windows in front of him; and
he handed to her two letters which he had just written.
Jane took her seat at the table opposite to him. Whenever Mr. Preen
wanted letters copied, he called upon her to do it. Jane did not much
like the task; she was not fond of writing, and was afraid of making
mistakes.
When she had finished the letters this morning she escaped to her
mother, asking how she could help in the preparations for Oliver. They
kept one maid-servant; a capless young lady of sixteen, who wore a frock
and pinafore of a morning. There was Sam as well; a well-grown civil
youth, whose work lay chiefly out of doors.
The day passed. The next day was passing. From an early hour Jane Preen
had watched for the guest's arrival. In the afternoon, when she was
weary of looking and looking in vain, she put on a warm shawl and her
pink sun-bonnet and went out of doors with a book.
A little lower down, towards the Islip Road, Brook Lane was flanked on
one side by a grove of trees, too dense to admit of penetration. But
there were two straight paths in them at some distance from each other,
which would carry you to the back of the grove, and to the stream
running parallel with the highway in front; from which stream Duck
Brook derived its name. These openings in the trees were called Inlets
curiously. A few worn benches stood in front of the trees, and also
behind them, and had been there for ages. If you took your seat upon one
of the front benches, you could watch the passing and re-passing (if
there chanced to be any) on the high road; if you preferred a seat at
the back, you might contemplate the pellucid stream and the meads beyond
it, like any knight or fair damsel of romance.
This was a favourite resort of Jane Preen's, a slight relief from the
dullness at home. She generally sat by the stream, but to-day faced the
road, for she was looking for Oliver. It was not a frequented road at
all, but I think this has been said; sometimes an hour would pass away
and not so much as a farmer's horse and cart jolt by, or a beggar
shambling on foot.
Jane had brought out a favourite book of the day, one of Bulwer
Lytton's, which had been lent to her by Miss Julietta Chandler. Shall
we ever have such writers again? Compare a work over which a tremendous
fuss is made in the present day with one of those romances or novels of
the past when some of us were young--works written by Scott, and Bulwer,
and others I need not mention. Why, they were as solid gold compared
with silver and tinsel.
Jane tried to lose herself in the romantic love of Lucy and Paul, or in
the passionate love-letters of Sir William Brandon, written when he was
young; and she could not do so. Her eyes kept turning, first to that way
of the road, then to this: she did not know which way Oliver would come.
By rail to Crabb station she supposed, and then with a fly onwards;
though being strange to the neighbourhood he might pitch upon any
out-of-the-way route and so delay his arrival.
Suddenly her heart stopped beating and then coursed on to fever heat. A
fly was winding along towards her in the distance, from the direction of
Crabb. Jane rose and waited close to the path. It was not Oliver. Three
ladies and a child sat in the fly. They all stared at her, evidently
wondering who she was and what she did there. She went back to the
bench, but did not open her book again.
It must be nearing four o'clock: she could tell it by the sun, for she
had no watch: and she thought she would go in. Slowly taking up the
book, she was turning towards home, which was close by, when upon giving
a lingering farewell look down the road, a solitary foot passenger came
into view: a gentlemanly young man, with an umbrella in his hand and a
coat on his arm.
_Was_ it Oliver? She was not quite sure at first. He was of middle
height, slight and slender: had a mild fair face and blue eyes with a
great sadness in them. Jane noticed the sadness at once, and thought she
remembered it; she thought the face also like her own and her mother's.
"Oliver?"
"Jane! Why--is it you? I did not expect to find you under that peasant
bonnet, Jane."
They clung to each other, kissing fondly, tears in the eyes of both.
"But why are you walking, Oliver? Did you come to Crabb?"
"Yes," he said. "I thought I might as well walk; I did not think it was
quite so far. The porter will send on my things."
There was just a year between them; Oliver would be twenty-one in a
month, Jane was twenty-two, but did not look as much. She took his arm
as they walked home.
As she halted at the little gate, Oliver paused in surprise and gazed
about: at the plain wooden palings painted green, which shut in the
crowded, homely garden; at the old farmhouse.
"Is _this_ the place, Jane?"
"Yes. You have not been picturing it a palace, have you?"
Oliver laughed, and held back the low gate for her. But as he passed
in after her, a perceptible shiver shook his frame. It was gone in a
moment; but in that moment it had shaken him from head to foot. Jane
saw it.
"Surely you have not caught a chill, Oliver?"
"Not at all; I am warm with my walk. I don't know why I should have
shivered," he added. "It was like the feeling you have when people say
somebody's 'walking over your grave.'"
Mr. Preen received his son coldly, but not unkindly; Mrs. Preen did the
same; she was led by her husband's example in all things. Tea, though
it was so early, was prepared at once, with a substantial dish for the
traveller; and they sat down to it in the parlour.
It was a long room with a beam running across the low ceiling. A homely
room, with a coarse red-and-green carpet and horse-hair chairs. A few
ornaments of their own (for the furniture belonged to the house), relics
of better days, were disposed about; and Jane had put on the table a
glass of early primroses. The two windows, tall and narrow, answered
to those in the Buttery. Oliver surveyed the room in silent dismay: it
wore so great a contrast to the French salons at Tours to which he was
accustomed. He gave them the details of his aunt's death and of her
affairs.
When tea was over, Mr. Preen shut himself into the Buttery; Mrs. Preen
retired to the kitchen to look after Nancy, who had to be watched, like
most young servants, as you watch a sprightly calf. Jane and Oliver went
out again, Jane taking the way to the Inlets. This time she sat down
facing the brook. The dark trees were behind them, the clear stream
flowed past in a gentle murmur; nothing but fields beyond. It was a
solitary spot.
"What do you call this place--the Inlets?" cried Oliver. "Why is it
called so?"
"I'm sure I don't know: because of those two openings from the road, I
suppose. I like to sit here; it is so quiet. Oliver, how came Aunt Emily
to sink all her money in an annuity?"
"For her own benefit, of course; it nearly doubled her income. She did
it years ago."
"And you did not know that she had nothing to leave?"
"No one knew. She kept the secret well."
"It is very unfortunate for _you_."
"Yes--compared with what I had expected," sighed Oliver. "It can't be
helped, Jane, and I try not to feel disappointed. Aunt Emily in life
was very kind to me; apart from all selfish consideration I regret and
mourn her."
"You will hardly endure this dreary place after your gay and happy life
at Tours, Oliver. Duck Brook is the fag-end of the world."
"It does not appear to be very lively," remarked Oliver, with a certain
dry sarcasm. "How was it that the Pater came to it?"
"Well, you know--it was a living, and we had nothing else."
"I don't understand."
"When Uncle Gilbert died, there was no other of our uncles, those who
were left, who could help papa; at least they said so; and I assure you
we fell into great embarrassment as the weeks went on. It was impossible
to remain in Jersey; we could pay no one; and what would have been the
ending but for papa's falling in with Captain Falkner, I can't imagine.
Captain Falkner owns a good deal of land about here; but he is in
difficulties himself and cannot be here to look after it; so he offered
papa the agency and a house to live in. I can tell you, Oliver, it was
as a godsend to us."
"Do you mean to say that my father is an agent?" cried the young man,
his face dyed with a red flush.
Jane nodded. "That, and nothing less. He looks after the estate and is
paid a hundred pounds a-year salary, and we live rent free. Lately he
has taken something else, something different; the agency of some new
patent agricultural implements."
Oliver Preen looked very blank. He had been living the life of a
gentleman, was imbued with a gentleman's notions, and this news brought
him the most intense mortification.
"He will expect you to help him in the Buttery," continued Jane.
"In the what?"
"The Buttery," laughed Jane. "It is the room where papa keeps his
accounts and writes his letters. Letters come in nearly every morning
now, inquiring about the new agricultural implements; papa has to answer
them, and wants some of his answers copied."
"And he has only a hundred a year!" murmured Oliver, unable to get
over that one item of information. "Aunt Emily had from eight to nine
hundred, and lived up to her income."
"The worst is that we cannot spend all the hundred. Papa has back debts
upon him. Have you brought home any money, Oliver?"
"None to speak of," he answered; "there was none to bring. Aunt Emily's
next quarter's instalment would have been due this week; but she died
first, you see. She lived in a furnished house; and as to the few things
she had of her own, and her personal trinkets, Aunt Margaret Preen came
down and swooped upon them. Jane, how have you managed to put up with
the lively state of affairs here?"
"And this lively spot--the fag-end of the world. It was Emma Paul first
called it so. I put up with it because I can't help myself, Oliver."
"Who is Emma Paul?"
"The daughter of Lawyer Paul, of Islip."
"Oh," said Oliver, slightingly.
"And the nicest girl in the world," added Jane. "But I can tell you this
much, Oliver," she continued, after a pause: "when we came first to
Duck Brook it seemed to me as a haven of refuge. Our life in Jersey had
become intolerable, our life here was peaceful--no angry creditors, no
daily applications for debts that we could not pay. Here we were free
and happy, and it gave me a liking for the place. It is dull, of course;
but I go pretty often to see Emma Paul, or to take tea at Mrs. Jacob
Chandler's, and at Crabb Cot when the Todhetleys are staying there. Sam
brings the gig for me in the evening, when I don't walk home. You will
have to bring it for me now."
"Oh, there's a gig, is there?"
"Papa has to keep that for his own use in going about the land:
sometimes he rides."
"Are the debts in Jersey paid, Jane?"
A shadow passed over her face, and her voice dropped to a whisper.
"No. It makes me feel very unhappy sometimes, half-frightened. Of course
papa hopes he shall not be found out here. But he seems to have also two
or three old debts in this neighbourhood, and those he is paying off."
The sun, setting right before them in a sea of red clouds, fell upon
their faces and lighted up the sadness of Oliver's. Then the red ball
sank, on its way to cheer and illumine another part of the world,
leaving behind it the changes which set in after sunset. The bright
stream became grey, the osiers bordering it grew dark. Oliver shook
himself. The whole place to him wore a strange air of melancholy. It
was early evening yet, for the month was only February; but the spring
had come in with a kindly mood, and the weather was bright.
Rising from the bench, they slowly walked up the nearest Inlet, side by
side, and gained the high road just as a pony-chaise was passing by, an
elderly gentleman and a young lady in it; Mr. and Miss Paul.
"Oh, papa, please pull up!" cried the girl. "There's Jane Preen."
She leaped out, almost before the pony had stopped, and ran to the
pathway with outstretched hands.
"How pleasant that we should meet you, Jane! Papa has been taking me
for a drive this afternoon."
Oliver stood apart, behind his sister, looking and listening. The
speaker was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, with a
blushing, dimpled face, a smiling mouth displaying small white teeth,
shy blue eyes, and bright hair. Her straw hat had blue ribbons and her
dress was one of light silk. Never in his life, thought Oliver, had he
seen so sweet a face or heard so sweet a voice.
"Have you been for a walk?" she asked of Jane.
"No," answered Jane. "We have been down the Inlet, and sitting to watch
the sun set. This is my brother, Emma, of whom you have heard. He
arrived this afternoon, and has left Tours. Will you allow me to
introduce him to you? Oliver, this is Miss Paul."
Mr. Oliver Preen was about to execute a deep bow at a respectful
distance, after the manner of the fashionable blades of Tours, and
swung off his hat to begin with; but Emma Paul, who was not fashionable
at all, but sociable, inexperienced and unpretending, held out her hand.
She liked his looks; a slender young fellow, in deep mourning, with a
fair, mild, pleasing face.
"Papa," she said, turning to the gig, which had drawn up close to the
foot-path, "this is Mr. Oliver Preen, from France. He has come home,
Jane says."
John Paul, a portly, elderly gentleman, with iron-grey hair and a face
that looked stern to those who did not know him, bent forward and shook
hands with the stranger.
Emma began plunging into all sorts of gossip, for she liked nothing
better than to talk. Jane liked it too.
"I have been telling Oliver we call Duck Brook the fag end of the
world, and that it was you who first said it," cried Jane.
"Oh, how could you?" laughed Emma, turning her beaming face upon Oliver.
And they might have gone on for ever, if left alone; but Mr. Paul
reminded his daughter that it was growing late, and he wanted to get
home to dinner. So she lightly stepped into the low chaise, Oliver Preen
assisting her, and they drove off, Emma calling to Jane not to forget
that they were engaged to drink tea at North Villa on the morrow.
"What's Preen going to do with that young fellow?" wondered the lawyer,
as he drove on.
"I'm sure I don't know, papa," said Emma. "Take him into the Buttery,
perhaps."
Old Paul laughed a little at the idea. "Not much more work there than
Preen can do himself, I expect."
"When I last saw Jane she said she thought her brother might be coming
home. It may be only for a visit, you know."
Old Paul nodded, and touched up the pony.
Oliver stood in the pathway gazing after the chaise until it was out of
sight. "What a charming girl!" he cried to his sister. "I never saw one
so unaffected in all my life."