The garden attached to North Villa was large and very old-fashioned: a
place crowded with trees and shrubs, intersected with narrow paths and
homely flowers. The Malvern hills could be seen in the distance, as
beautiful a sight in the early morning, with the lights and shadows
lying upon them, as the world can show.
It was summer now, nearly midsummer. The garish day was fading, the
summer moon had risen, its round shield so delicately pale as to look
like silver; and Valentine Chandler was pacing the garden with Jane
Preen in the moonlight. They had been singing a duet together at the
piano, "I've wandered in dreams," and he had taken the accompaniment. He
played well; and never living man had sweeter voice than he. They were
wandering in dreams of their own, those two, had been for some time now.
Silence between them as they paced the walk; a sort of discomforting,
ominous silence. Valentine broke it.
"Why don't you reproach me, Jane?"
"Do I ever reproach you?" she answered.
"No. But you ought to do so."
"If you would only keep your promises, Valentine!"
Young Mr. Valentine Chandler, having stayed his steps while they spoke,
backed against the corner of the latticed arbour, which they were just
then passing. The same arbour in which his aunt, Mrs. Mary Ann Cramp,
had sat in her copper-coloured silk gown to convict her brother Jacob,
Valentine's father, of his sins against Tom Chandler, one Sunday
afternoon, not so very long gone by.
Val did not answer. He seemed to be staring at the moon, to investigate
what it was made of. In reality he saw no moon; neither moon, nor sky
above, nor any earthly thing beneath; he only saw his own reckless folly
in his mind's clouded mirror.
"You know you do make promises, Valentine!"
"And when I make them I fully mean to keep them; but a lot of idle
fellows get hold of me, and--and--I _can't_," said he, in a savage tone.
"But you might," said Jane. "If I made promises I should keep them to
you--whatever the temptation."
"I cannot think who it is that comes tattling to you about me, Jane! Is
it Oliver?"
"Oliver! Never. Oliver does not know, or suspect--anything."
"Then it must be those confounded girls indoors!"
"Nor they, either. It is not anyone in particular, Valentine; but I hear
one and another talking about you."
"I should like to know what they say. You must tell me, Jane."
Jane caught her breath, as if she did not like to answer. But Valentine
was waiting.
"They say you are not steady, Val," she spoke in a whisper; "that you
neglect your business; that unless you pull up, you will go to the bad."
For a few moments Valentine remained quite still; you might have thought
he had gone to sleep. Then he put out his hand, drew Jane gently to him,
and bent down his head to her with a long-drawn sigh.
"I _will_ pull up, Jane. It is not as bad as story-tellers make out. But
I will pull up; I promise you; and I'll begin from this day."
Jane Preen did not like to remind him that he had said the same thing
many times before; rather would she trust to his renewed word. When a
girl is in love, she has faith in modern miracles.
Valentine held her to him very closely. "You believe me, don't you, my
darling?"
"Yes," she whispered.
Down came a voice to them from some remote path near the house, that was
anything but a whisper. "Jane! Jane Preen! Are you in the garden? or are
you upstairs with Julietta?"
Jane stole swiftly forward. "I am here, Clementina--it is cool and
pleasant in the night air. Do you want me?"
"Your boy is asking how long he is to wait. The horse is fresh this
evening, and won't stand."
"Has the gig come!" exclaimed Jane, as she met Miss Clementina. "And has
Sam brought it! Why not Oliver?"
Clementina Chandler shook her head and the yellow ribbons which adorned
it, intimating that she did not know anything about Oliver. It was the
servant boy, Sam, who had brought the gig.
Jane hastily put on her bonnet and scarf, said good night, and was
helped into the gig by Valentine--who gave her hand a tender squeeze as
they drove off.
"Where is Mr. Oliver?" she inquired of Sam.
"Mr. Oliver was out, Miss Jane. As it was getting late, the missis told
me to get the gig ready, and bring it."
After that, Jane was silent, thinking about Valentine and his renewed
promises. It might be that the air was favourable to love catching:
anyway, both the young Preens had fallen desperately into it; Jane with
Valentine Chandler and Oliver with Emma Paul.
Duck Brook was soon reached, for the horse was swift that evening.
On the opposite side of the road to the Inlets, was a large field, in
which the grass was down and lying in cocks, the sweet smell of the hay
perfuming the air of the summer night. Leaping across this field and
then over its five-barred gate into the road, came Oliver Preen. Jane,
seeing him, had no need to wonder where he had been.
For across this field and onwards, as straight as the crow flies, was
a near way to Islip. Active legs, such as Oliver's, might get over the
ground in twenty minutes, perhaps in less. But there was no path, or
right of way; he had to push through hedges and charge private grounds,
with other impediments attending. Thomas Chandler, Conveyancer and
Attorney-at-law, had laughingly assured Oliver that if caught using that
way, he would of a surety be had up before the justices of the peace for
trespass.
"Stop here, Sam," said Jane. "I will get out now."
Sam stopped the gig, and Jane got down. She joined her brother, and the
boy drove on to the stables.
"It was too bad, Oliver, not to come for me!" she cried.
"I meant to be home in time; I did indeed, Jane," he answered; "but
somehow the evening slipped on."
"Were you at Mr. Paul's?"
"No; I was with MacEveril."
"At billiards, I suppose!--and it's very foolish of you, Oliver, for you
know you can't afford billiards."
"I can't afford anything, Janey, as it seems to me," returned Oliver,
kicking up the dust in the road as they walked along. "Billiards don't
cost much; it's only the tables: anyway, MacEveril paid for all."
"Has MacEveril talked any more about going away?"
"He talks of nothing else; is full of it," answered Oliver. "His uncle
says he is not to go; and old Paul stopped him at the first half-word,
saying he could not be spared from the office. Dick says he shall start
all the same, leave or no leave."
"Dick will be very silly to go just now, when we are about to be so
gay," remarked Jane, "There's the picnic coming off; and the dance at
Mrs. Jacob Chandler's; and no end of tea-parties."
For just now the neighbourhood was putting on a spurt of gaiety, induced
to it perhaps by the lovely summer sunshine. Oliver's face wore a look
of gloom, and he made no answer to Jane's remark. Several matters, cross
and contrary, were trying Oliver Preen; not the least of them that he
seemed to make no way whatever with Miss Emma.
* * * * *
When we left school for the midsummer holidays that year, Mr. and Mrs.
Todhetley were staying at Crabb Cot. We got there on Friday, the
eleventh of June.
On the following Monday morning the Squire went to his own small
sitting-room after breakfast to busy himself with his accounts and
papers. Presently I heard him call me.
"Have you a mind for a walk, Johnny?"
"Yes, sir; I should be glad of one." Tod had gone to the Whitneys for
a couple of days, and without him I felt like a fish out of water.
"Well, I want you to go as far as Massock's. He is a regular cheat; that
man, Johnny, needs looking after---- What is it, Thomas?"
For old Thomas had come in, a card between his fingers. "It's Mr.
Gervais Preen, sir," he said, in answer, putting the card on the
Squire's table. "Can you see him?"
"Oh, yes, I can see him; show him in. Wait a bit, though, Thomas," broke
off the Squire. "Johnny, I expect Preen has come about that pony. I
suppose we may as well keep him?"
"Tod said on Saturday, sir, that we should not do better," I answered.
"He tried him well, and thinks he is worth the price."
"Ay; ten pounds, wasn't it? We'll keep him, then. Mr. Preen can come in,
Thomas."
Some few days before this the Squire had happened to say in Preen's
hearing that he wanted a pony for the two children to ride, Hugh and
Lena. Preen caught up the words, saying he had one for sale--a very nice
pony, sound and quiet. So the pony had been sent to Crabb Cot upon
trial, and we all liked him. His name was Taffy.
Mr. Preen came into the room, his small face cool and dark as usual; he
had driven from Duck Brook. "A fine morning," he remarked, as he sat
down; but it would be fiery hot by-and-by, too hot for the middle of
June, and we should probably pay for it later. The Squire asked if he
would take anything, but he declined.
"What of the pony--Taffy--Squire?" went on Mr. Preen. "Do you like him?"
"Yes, we like him very well," said the Squire, heartily, "and we mean to
keep him, Preen."
"All right," said Mr. Preen. "You will not repent it."
Then they fell to talking of horses in general, and of other topics. I
stayed on, sitting by the window, not having received the message for
Massock. Mr. Preen stayed also, making no move to go away; when it
suddenly occurred to the Squire--he mentioned it later--that perhaps
Preen might be waiting for the money.
"Ten pounds, I think, was the price agreed upon," observed the Squire
with ready carelessness. "Would you like to be paid now?"
"If it does not inconvenience you."
The Squire unlocked his shabby old bureau, which stood against the wall,
fingered his stock of money, and brought forth a ten-pound bank-note.
This he handed to Preen, together with a sheet of paper, that he might
give a receipt.
When the receipt was written, Mr. Preen took up the note, looked at it
for a moment or two, and then passed it back again.
"Would you mind writing your name on this note, Squire?"
The Squire laughed gently. "Not at all," he answered; "but why should I?
Do you think it is a bad one? No fear, Preen; I had it from the Old Bank
at Worcester."
"No, I do not fear that," said Preen, speaking quietly. "But since a
disagreeable trouble which happened to me some years ago, I have always
liked, when receiving a bank-note, to get, if possible, the donor's name
upon it in his own handwriting."
"What was the trouble?"
"I was playing cards at the house of a man of fashion, who was brother
to an earl, and lived in a fashionable square at the West End of
London, and I had a ten-pound note paid me, for I won, by a man who, I
understood, had recently retired with honours from the army, a Major
D----. I will not give you his name. The next day, or next but one,
I paid this note away to a tradesman, and it was found to be forged;
cleverly forged," repeated Preen, with emphasis.
"What did you do?" asked the Squire.
"I got Major D.'s address from the house where we had played, carried
the note to him, and inquired what it meant and whence he got it. Will
you believe, Mr. Todhetley," added the speaker, with slight agitation,
"that the man utterly repudiated the note, saying----"
"But how could he repudiate it?" interrupted the Squire, interested in
the tale.
"He said it was not the note he had paid me; he stood it out in the most
impudent manner. I told him, and it was the pure truth, that it was
impossible there could be any mistake. I was a poor man, down on my luck
just then, and it was the only note I had had about me for some time
past. All in vain. He held to it that it was not the note, and there the
matter ended. I could not prove that it was the note except by my bare
word. It was my word against his, you see, and naturally I went to the
wall."