I
The windows of the room, called the Buttery, which Mr. Preen used as an
office in his house at Duck Brook, were thrown open to the warm, pure
air. It was about the hottest part of the afternoon. Oliver Preen sat
back in his chair before the large table covered with papers, waiting in
idleness and inward rebellion--rebellion against the untoward fate which
had latterly condemned him to this dreary and monotonous life. Taking
out his pocket-handkerchief with a fling, he passed it over his fair,
mild face, which was very hot just now.
To-day, of all days, Oliver had wanted to be at liberty, whereas he was
being kept a prisoner longer than usual, and for nothing. When Mr. Preen
rode out after breakfast in the morning he had left Oliver a couple of
letters to copy as a beginning, remarking that there was a great deal
to do that day, double work, and he should be back in half-an-hour. The
double work arose from the fact that none had been done the day before,
as Mr. Preen was out. For that day, Monday--this was Tuesday--was the
day Mr. Preen had paid us a visit at Crabb Cott, to be paid for Taffy,
the pony, and had then gone to Norton, and afterwards to Stoulton,
and it had taken him the best part of the day. So the double work was
waiting. But the half hours and the hours had passed on, and Mr. Preen
had not yet returned. It was now three o'clock in the afternoon, and
they had dined without him.
Oliver, who did not dare to absent himself without permission, and
perhaps was too conscientious to do so, left his chair for the window.
The old garden was quite a wilderness of blossom and colour, with all
kinds of homely flowers crowded into it. The young man stretched forth
his hand and plucked a spray or two of jessamine, which grew against the
wall. Idly smelling it, he lost himself in a vision of the days gone by;
his careless, happy life at Tours, in his aunt's luxurious home, when he
had no fear of a dark future, had only to dress well and ride or drive
out, and idly enjoy himself.
Suddenly he was brought back to reality. The sound of hoofs clattering
into the fold-yard behind the house struck upon his ear, and he knew his
father had come home.
Ten minutes yet, or more, and then Mr. Preen came into the room, his
little dark face looking darker and more cross than usual. He had been
snatching some light refreshment, and sat down at once in his place at
the table, facing the windows; Oliver sat opposite to him.
"What have you done?" asked he.
"I have only copied those two letters; there was nothing else to do,"
replied Oliver.
"Could you not have looked over the pile of letters which came this
morning, to see whether there were any you could answer?" growled Mr.
Preen.
"Why, no, father," replied Oliver in slight surprise; "I did not know I
might look at them. And if I had looked I should not have known what to
reply."
Mr. Preen began reading the letters over at railroad speed, dictating
answers for Oliver to write, writing some himself. This took time. He
had been unexpectedly detained at the other end of Captain Falkner's
land by some business which had vexed him. Most of these letters were
from farmers and others, about the new patent agricultural implements
for which Mr. Preen had taken the agency. He wished to push the sale of
them, as it gave him a good percentage.
The answers, addressed and stamped for the post, at length lay ready on
the table. Mr. Preen then took out his pocket-book and extracted from it
that ten-pound bank-note given him the previous morning by Mr. Todhetley
for the children's pony, the note he had got the Squire to indorse, as I
have already told. Letting the bank-note lie open before him, Mr. Preen
penned a few lines, as follows, Oliver looking on:--
"DEAR SIR,--I enclose you the ten pounds. Have not been able to send it
before. Truly yours, G. PREEN."
Mr. Preen folded the sheet on which he had written this, put the
bank-note within it, and enclosed all in a good-sized business envelope,
which he fastened securely down. He then addressed it to John Paul,
Esquire, Islip, and put on a postage stamp.
"I shall seal this, Oliver," he remarked; "it's safer. Get the candle
and the wax. Here, you can seal it," he added, taking the signet ring
from his finger, on which was engraved the crest of the Preen family.
Oliver lighted a candle kept on a stand at the back for such purposes,
brought it to the table, and sealed the letter with a large, imposing
red seal. As he passed the ring and letter back to his father, he spoke.
"If you are particularly anxious that the letter should reach Mr. Paul
safely, father, and of course you are so, as it contains money, why did
you not send it by hand? I would have taken it to him."
"There's nothing safer than the post," returned Mr. Preen, "and I want
him to have it to-morrow morning."
Oliver laughed. "I could have taken it this evening, father. I can do so
still, if you like."
"No, it shall go by post. You want to be off to MacEveril, I suppose."
"No, I do not," replied Oliver. "Had I been able to finish here this
morning I might have gone over this afternoon; it is too late now."
"You had nothing to do all day yesterday," growled his father.
"Oh, yes, I know. I am not grumbling."
Mr. Preen put the letter into his pocket, gathered up the pile of other
letters, handed half of them to his son, for it was a pretty good heap,
and they started for the post, about three minutes' walk.
The small shop containing the post-office at Duck Brook was kept by Mrs.
Sym, who sold sweetstuff, also tapes and cottons. Young Sym, her son,
a growing youth, delivered the letters, which were brought in by a
mail-cart. She was a clean, tidy woman of middle age, never seen out of
a muslin cap with a wide border and a black bow, a handkerchief crossed
over her shoulders, and a checked apron.
Oliver, of lighter step than his father, reached the post-office first
and tumbled his portion of the letters into the box placed in the window
to receive them. The next moment Mr. Preen put his in also, together
with the letter addressed to Mr. Paul.
"We are too late," observed Oliver. "I thought we should be."
"Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Preen, in surprise, as he turned round. "Too late!
Why how can the afternoon have gone on?" he continued, his eyes falling
on the clock of the little grey church which stood beyond the triangle
of houses, the hands of which were pointing to a quarter past five.
"If you knew it was so late why did you not say so?" he asked sharply of
his son.
"I was not sure until I saw the clock; I only thought it must be late by
the time we had been at work," replied Oliver.
"I might have sent you over with that letter as you suggested, had I
known it would not go to-night. I wonder whether Dame Sym would give it
back to me."
He dived down the two steps into the shop as he spoke, Oliver following.
Dame Sym--so Duck Brook called her--stood knitting behind the little
counter, an employment she took up at spare moments.
"Mrs. Sym, I've just put some letters into the box, not perceiving that
it was past five o'clock," began Mr. Preen, civilly. "I suppose they'll
not go to-night?"
"Can't, sir," replied the humble post-mistress. "The bag's made up."
"There's one letter that will hardly bear delay. It is for Mr. Paul of
Islip. If you can return it me out of the box I will send it over by
hand at once; my son will take it."
"But it is not possible, sir. Once a letter is put into the box I dare
not give it back again," remonstrated Mrs. Sym, gazing amiably at Mr.
Preen through her spectacles, whose round glasses had a trick of
glistening when at right angles with the light.
"You might stretch a point for once, to oblige me," returned Mr. Preen,
fretfully.
"And I'm sure I'd not need to be pressed to do it, sir, if I could," she
cried in her hearty way. "But I dare not break the rules, sir; I might
lose my place. Our orders are not to open the receiving box until the
time for making-up, or give a letter back on any pretence whatever."
Mr. Preen saw that further argument would be useless. She was a kindly,
obliging old body, but upright to the last degree in all that related to
her place. Anything that she believed (right or wrong) might not be done
she stuck to.
"Obstinate as the grave," muttered he.
Dame Sym did not hear; she had turned away to serve a child who came in
for some toffee. Mr. Preen waited.
"When will the letter go?" he asked, as the child went out.
"By to-morrow's day mail, sir. It will be delivered at Islip--I think
you said Islip, Mr. Preen--about half-past four, or so, in the
afternoon."
"Is the delay of much consequence, sir?" inquired Oliver, as he and his
father turned out of the shop.
"No," said Mr. Preen. "Only I hate letters to be delayed uselessly in
the post."
* * * * *
Tea was waiting when they got in. A mutton chop was served with it for
Mr. Preen, as he had lost his dinner. Jane ran downstairs, drank a cup
of tea in haste, and ran back again. She had been busy in her bedroom
all day, smartening-up a dress. A picnic was to be held on Thursday, the
next day but one; Jane and Oliver were invited to it, and Jane wanted to
look as well as other girls.
After tea Oliver sat for ever so long at the open window, reading the
_Worcester Journal_. He then strolled out to the Inlets, sauntered
beside the brook, and presently threw himself listlessly upon one of the
benches facing it. The sun shone right upon his face there, so he tilted
his straw hat over his eyes. That did not do, and he moved to another
bench which the trees shaded. He often felt lonely and weary now; this
evening especially so; even Jane was not with him.
His thoughts turned to Emma Paul; and a glow, bright as the declining
sun rays, shot up in his heart. As long as _she_ filled it, he could not
be all gloom.
"If I had means to justify it I should speak to her," mused he--as he
had told himself forty times over, and forty more. "But when a fellow
has no fortune, and no prospect of fortune; when it may be seen by no
end of odd signs and tokens that he has not so much as a silver coin in
his pocket, how can he ask a girl the one great question of life? Old
Paul would send me to the right-about."
He leaned his head sideways for a few minutes against the trunk of a
tree, gazing at the reddening sky through the green tracery of the
waving boughs; and fell to musing again.
"If she loved me as I love her, she would be glad to wait on as things
are, hoping for better times. Lovers, who are truly attached to each
other, do wait for years and years, and are all the happier for it.
Sometimes I feel inclined to enlist in a crack regiment. The worst of
it is that a fellow rarely rises from the ranks in England to position
and honour, as he does in France; they manage things better over there.
If old Uncle Edward would only open his purse-strings and buy me a
commission, I might---- Halloa!"
A burst of girlish laughter, and a pair of girlish arms, flung round his
neck from behind, disturbed Oliver's castles-in-the-air. Jane came round
and sat down beside him. "I thought I should find you here, Oliver," she
said.
"Frock finished, Janey?"
"Finished! why no," she exclaimed. "It will hardly be finished by this
time to-morrow."
"Why, how idle you must have been!"
"Idle? You don't understand things, or the time it takes to make an old
frock into a new one. A dressmaker might have done it in a day, but I'm
not a dressmaker, you know, Oliver."
"Is it a silk gown?"
"It is a mousseline-de-laine, if you chance to be acquainted with that
material," answered Janey. "It was very pretty when it was new: pale
pink and lilac blossoms upon a cream ground. But it has been washed,
and that has made it shrink, and it has to be let out everywhere and
lengthened, and the faded silk trimming has to be turned, and--oh, ever
so much work. And now, I daresay you are as wise as you were before,
Oliver."
"I've heard of washed-out dresses," remarked Oliver. "They look like
rags, don't they?"
"Some may. Mine won't. It has washed like a pocket-handkerchief, and it
looks as good as new."
"Wish my coats would wash," said Oliver. "They are getting shabby, and I
want some new ones."
Not having any consolation to administer in regard to the coats, Jane
did not take up the subject. "What have you been doing all day, Oliver?"
she asked.
"Airing my patience in that blessed Buttery," replied he. "Never stirred
out of it at all, except for dinner."
"I thought you wanted to get over to Islip this afternoon."
"I might want to get over to the North Pole, and be none the nearer to
it. MacEveril was bound for some place a mile or two across fields this
afternoon, on business for the office, and I promised to go over to
walk with him. Promises, though, are like pie-crust, Janey: made to be
broken."
Jane nodded assent. "And a promise which you are obliged to break is
sure to be one you particularly want to keep. I wish I had a pair of new
gloves, Oliver. Pale grey."
"I wish I had half-a-dozen new pairs, for the matter of that. Just look
at those little minnows, leaping in the water. How pretty they are!"
He went to the edge of the brook and stood looking down at the small
fry. Jane followed. Then they walked about in the Inlets, then sat down
again and watched the sunset; and so the evening wore away until they
went home.
Jane was shut up again the following day, busy with her dress; Oliver,
as usual, was in the Buttery with his father. At twelve o'clock Mr.
Preen prepared to go out to keep an appointment at Evesham, leaving
Oliver a lot of work to do, very much to his aggravation.
"It's a shame. It will take me all the afternoon to get through it," ran
his thoughts--and he would have liked to say so aloud.
"You don't look pleased, young man," remarked his father. "Recollect you
will be off duty to-morrow."
Oliver's countenance cleared; his disposition was a pleasant one, never
retaining anger long, and he set to his task with a good will. The
morrow being the day of the picnic, he would have whole holiday.
At five o'clock the young servant carried the tea-tray into the parlour.
Presently Mrs. Preen came in, made the tea, and sat down to wait for her
son and daughter. Tired and hot, she was glad of the rest.
Jane ran downstairs, all happiness. "Mamma, it is finished," she cried;
"quite finished. It looks so well."
"It had need look well," fretfully retorted Mrs. Preen, who had been
unable to get at Jane for any useful purpose these two days, and
resented it accordingly.
"When all trades fail I can turn dressmaker," said the girl, gaily.
"Where's Oliver?"
"In the Buttery, I expect; he said he had a great deal to do there this
afternoon, and I have not seen him about," replied Mrs. Preen, as she
poured out the tea. "Not that I should have been likely to see him--shut
into that hot kitchen with the ironing."
Jane knew this was a shaft meant for herself. At ordinary times she did
her share of the ironing. "I will tell Oliver that tea is ready, mamma,"
she said, rising to go to the other room. "Why, there he is, sitting in
the shade under the walnut tree," she exclaimed, happening to look from
the window.
"Sitting out in the cool," remarked Mrs. Preen. "I don't blame him,
poring all day long over those accounts and things. Call him in, Jane."
"Coming," said Oliver, in response to Jane's call from the open window.
He crossed the grass slowly, fanning himself with his straw hat. His
fair face--an unusual thing with him--was scarlet.
"You look red-hot, Oliver," laughed his sister.
"If it is as hot to-morrow as it is to-day we shall get a baking,"
returned Oliver.
"In this intense weather nothing makes one feel the heat like work, and
I suppose you've been hard at it this afternoon," said his mother in a
tone of compassion, for she disliked work naturally very much herself.
"Of course; I had to be," answered Oliver.
He and Jane sat together under the shade of the walnut tree after tea.
When it grew a little cooler they went to the Inlets, that favourite
resort of theirs; a spot destined to bear a strange significance for one
of them in the days to come; a haunting remembrance.