THE BEGINNING OF A SHADOW
'Looking, I saw
Where sorrow, like a shadow grim, did rise
Betwixt me and the sun.'
Autumn had come, mellow and gorgeous. The trees were turning to russet
and amber and gold, and the swallows had long since flown away. The
plums hung ripe and yellow upon the kitchen garden wall, and the apples
were piled in rosy heaps in the orchard, ready for the cider-making.
The hop-gathering was over, and the hoppers--a motley crew--had returned
to the slums of Stafford and Birmingham, the men not sorry to cease hard
work, but the poor, draggled women and the little children with a
wistful good-bye to the green fields, and all, I think, with a half sigh
of regret for the Rector, who had toiled unceasingly among them during
their brief stay, hoping, if by ever so little, to raise the hopeless
lives and the sodden minds to a knowledge of higher things.
A band of gipsies was the next event. They arrived late one evening,
nobody knew from where, and encamped on a patch of ground by the
roadside, not very far from the Abbey (much too near, Father said, for
the safety of his hen-roosts), coming like a tribe of wandering
Israelites, with most of their worldly possessions on their backs. They
were real gipsies, too, not the fair-haired hybrid pretenders who go
about in neat caravans with muslin curtains to the windows, and wicker
baskets slung on the top, but a dark-eyed, Spanish-looking crew, who put
up a tent with a pole and a ragged blanket, and stewed their supper in a
black caldron hung from three sticks set in the ground.
The children came across them suddenly, just as the sun was setting, and
the picturesque scene stirred Peggy's sense of romance--perhaps also her
budding artistic taste--to the core. The whole family was gathered
together on the grass round the wood fire, the smoke of which rose up
faintly blue against the russet of the beech-woods behind--handsome,
fierce-eyed men, lying slouching idly on the ground smoking short black
pipes; slatternly women with gay handkerchiefs tied round their black
hair, bustling about with something savoury inside tin cans; ragged
brown-skinned little children, gnawing at bones with savage haste; while
a few disreputable dogs waited eagerly for the scraps that were thrown
to them from time to time. A small cart, laden with brooms and coarse
crockery, was tilted up by the hedge, while a couple of worn-out old
donkeys, with clogs tied to their legs, cropped the grass close by, with
dejection in their drooping ears.
'I'm sure they're talking Romany,' said Peggy, squeezing Bobby's arm
hard in her excitement, and drawing him behind a bush, so as to watch
the scene unobserved. 'What a queer life! Just think of getting up every
morning, and not knowing where you were going to be by night, and
sleeping under that dirty tent! I wonder what they have in that
caldron? It smells nice, at any rate, though rather too oniony.'
'Pheasants, I should think, and rabbits that they have poached,'
whispered Bobby. 'The keepers will have a lively time to-night. I wonder
where they prigged the onions.'
Low as the children had spoken, the sharp ears of the gipsies had heard
them, and a withered, witch-like old crone came hurrying up from the
group near the fire, with an eager glitter in her eye.
'Tell your fortune, my little master? Tell your fortune, my pretty young
lady? Cross the poor gipsy's hand with a silver sixpence, that the
planets may work.'
'We haven't any money,' said Peggy hurriedly, a little scared when it
came to meeting the tribe at such close quarters.
'Ah, but no doubt the little lady's father is at home at the big house
yonder, and she can get a silver piece from him, and come back to the
poor old gipsy.'
'He's gone to Warford this evening,' began innocent Bobby. 'There isn't
anybody at home at all.'
But the more wary Peggy, seeing the folly of such revelations, gave him
a nudge, and the emphatic hint: 'Shut up!'
'The pretty thing at the young lady's neck would do as well,' continued
the woman in a wheedling voice, eyeing Peggy's brooch, 'or the little
gentleman's silver chain. Oh, I won't keep them, missy; only hold them
in my hand for a minute to influence the stars! You trust the poor
gipsy, and she'll tell you what the future has in store for you.'
But Peggy and Bobby were not so simple as to be taken in by such
palpable guile, and they walked on, with the old crone following
persistently in their wake, at first clamouring for some trifle and
then hurling curses at their heads. As she passed the encampment she
said something in Romany, and one of the men sprang to his feet with a
shrill whistle. The terrified children took to their heels, and I don't
really know what might have happened, only fortunately the familiar
figure of old Barlow, the village cobbler, appeared stumping down the
road in the distance. He was not generally a very attractive person,
being snuffy in appearance and crusty in temper, but to-night no fairy
prince could have been more appreciated, and they flew to him, each
seizing one of his horny hands with an enthusiasm which much surprised
him. They were ever afterwards fully persuaded that but for his timely
arrival they would have been robbed and murdered, and their bodies
hidden away from their sorrowing relatives, like Eugene Aram's victim,
or the little princes in the Tower, and they felt quite an affection for
Barlow in consequence, so much so that Bobby determined to wear out his
boots as fast as possible, that he might put some business in the old
man's way.
Though Mr. Vaughan did not take quite such a serious view of the
episode, he thought the gipsies were certainly undesirable additions to
the countryside, and sent a hint to the local police, with the result
that, when Peggy and Bobby screwed up their courage, and dared each
other to go and have another peep at the encampment, they found the tent
struck and the wanderers flown, with nothing to mark their passing visit
but a few dirty pieces of paper and the ashes of the wood fire, though
loud complaints from neighbouring farmers as to missing ducks and geese,
and traces of snares found by the keepers in the preserves, showed that
they had not gone away empty-handed.
The gipsies were soon forgotten in the excitement of cider-making, for
the ripe piles of apples had been gathered into the big barn, and the
children liked to watch the great press as its stone roller slowly
crushed the fruit into pulp, and let the juice escape into the trough
below. It always seemed a pity, Peggy thought, to make the nice apples
into such horrid stuff as cider, and she was glad David stored so many
away in the loft for winter use, and in the meantime she and Bobby
consumed such quantities that Father declared they would both be
breaking out into leaves and blossom in the springtime.
The blackberries were ripe, too, and there were many expeditions in
search of them, mostly in their own fields, for the hedgerows abounded
in the purple fruit, and Lilian's housekeeping soul was at present bent
on jams and cordials.
One Saturday afternoon Peggy had had a long scramble through copse and
bracken, over fences and along stubble fields, and had filled her big
basket almost full, somewhat to the detriment of her costume and
fingers, and she was now working her way home along the edge of the
pasture, picking as she went. She had climbed up the bank to reach a
particularly luscious looking cluster from the long, trailing brambles
overhead, when voices below attracted her attention, and, peeping
through the hedge, she saw two horsemen riding slowly along in the
bridle-path beneath. The first was a lean, spare man, with gray
side-whiskers and a slight stoop, whose rather sporting attire accorded
ill with his sharp, keen face; while the second, the one on the better
horse, was stout and ruddy of countenance, a man who looked as though he
would be more at home in a bar-parlour than in a drawing-room, and who
held himself with a complacent air, as one who is satisfied both with
the world in general and himself in particular.
'That is the house,' said the first, reining in his horse just below
where Peggy was standing, and pointing with his riding-whip at the
Abbey. 'It's a fine old property, and has grand capabilities about it,
too.'
'H'm, it would want a good deal of repairing,' remarked the other,
tugging at his sandy moustache. 'I should pull down that tower and the
older part, and throw out a billiard-room and a conservatory. I suppose
the stables would all want rebuilding, and no doubt that wood could be
cleared, and turned into pleasure-grounds. It would cost a sight of cash
to do it all shipshape--not that that's much odds to me if a thing takes
my fancy. This grass-land would be grand for a racer or two; I've my eye
on the Melton sweepstakes yet. When did you say it falls due?'
'Next July,' returned the thin man, lowering his voice. 'Of course, they
will try every end up to meet it, but unless they can raise it
privately, which doesn't seem likely, there isn't a soul who would lend
more than two-thirds of the amount on the security, so the thing is as
good as done.'
Eavesdropping was certainly not one of Peggy's besetting sins, but she
could not help overhearing all that was said, and as the pair rode on
down the path towards the gate, she picked up her basket and walked in
the same direction on her own side of the hedge, so as to get a good
look at them if possible. At the gate they paused, for it was shut, and
he of the gray whiskers, after fumbling at the latch with his whip, was
evidently preparing with much reluctance to dismount, when, spying
Peggy, he called to her, and asked her to open it.
Peggy felt half inclined to refuse, and turn away, for she did not like
his tone, but her kindly country instinct prevailed, and she swung it
open wide. He rode through without even a 'Thank you!' but his companion
fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, and, scarcely stopping to look at her,
flung her a penny as he passed. All the proud Vaughan blood rushed into
Peggy's face. In a fury of wrath she seized the offending coin and flung
it after its donor, but, like many of our keenest shafts, it fell
harmless, for she missed her aim, and the horsemen rode on, sublimely
unconscious of the storm they had left behind them.
'That they should dare!' said Peggy hotly to herself, flushing all over
with indignation. 'I suppose they took me for a village child. I'm
afraid I do look rather untidy with blackberrying, but all the same they
might have seen the difference. I wish I had never gone near the gate,
and let them open it for themselves. David,' she said to the old man,
who was coming across the field with a sack of potatoes, 'who are those
people riding along the pasture? I can't call them gentlemen.'
'Who be they two, Miss Peggy?' said David, laboriously putting down the
sack and shading his eyes with his hand. 'Wheer did you say they be?'
'In the pasture. Oh, look quick, or they'll be gone!' cried Peggy,
impatient at his slow ways.
'Oh, I know they! Yes, I do for sure. I see'd 'em round t'other side o'
the field five minutes agone. The thin un in front be Mester Reade, the
lawyer fra' Warford, and a tight-fisted rascal he be, too, from all they
say. It's Heaven help them as Lawyer Reade gets his teeth into! And the
big, stout man be Mester Norton, the distiller, him as has those works
t'other side o' Warford, and runs half the drink-shops in the town, to
say naught o' the country publics he owns, too. The teetotalers calls
him "Old Blazes," partly to favour his red face and partly 'at he keeps
the whisky traffic going so briskly. He's worth a power o' money, he be,
but it all comes out o' poor folks' pockets, what ought to be put to a
better use.'
So that was the father of Phyllis and Marjorie Norton, that vulgar man
with the loud voice and the coarse red face, and those pretty frocks and
handsome carriages were all paid for out of the ruin of poor people's
homes; for the lower parts of Warford had a bad character, and the
clergy waged ceaseless war against the terrible curse of drink.
'What are they doing in our fields?' inquired Peggy, suddenly recalling
the conversation she had inadvertently overheard, the remembrance of
which had been lost in the heat of her wrath.
'Why, there be a right-o'-way across the pasture, and through the
hazel-wood, though it's not a many as ever uses it. Wheer they could be
a'-goin' to passes me, for it don't lead to nowheer, except on to the
high-road agin, and it's not in sense that they should ride out o' their
way, just to come round by the Abbey.'
Peggy thought privately that must have been exactly their reason, but
she said nothing to David on the subject, reserving further inquiries
for Lilian, to whom she ran home to give a full description of her
encounter.
'Whatever could he mean, Lilian? He talked almost as if the Abbey were
his, and said he should pull down the tower, and do ever so many other
things. Do you think he can be mad?'
To her surprise, Lilian took the matter only too seriously.
'Oh, Peggy dear!' she said, putting down the pile of stockings she was
darning, 'I don't know whether I ought to tell you or not, but you seem
so much older now than you used, and I think I can trust you not to talk
about it to anybody. Poor Father is most dreadfully worried just at
present, for, you see, this Mr. Norton has a mortgage on the estate.'
'What's that?' inquired Peggy.
'I'm afraid I can't explain business things very clearly, but a lot of
money was lent on the understanding that if it was not paid back, the
Abbey should go instead of it.'
'Did Father have the money?'
'Oh no. I believe our great-grandfather had some, and then grandfather
and Uncle Charlie, who died, had the rest. It has been going on for
years and years, and Father has kept trying to pay it off, but he never
could manage it. Of course, it was not Mr. Norton who lent it at first,
but through this Mr. Reade, the lawyer, he has what is called "bought up
the mortgages," and now he claims all the money back, and I'm afraid,
from what you heard to-day, he will take the Abbey if he does not get
it.'
Peggy was aghast. That it was possible for the Vaughans and the Abbey to
be ever dissevered had never before entered into her calculations, and
the prospect was so terrible that she thrust it from her with scorn.
'It can't be!' she cried. 'They couldn't turn us out of the Abbey, when
we've always lived here! Father will get the money somehow! Perhaps Mr.
Neville or the Rector would lend it to him.'
Lilian shook her head sadly.
'They haven't got it to lend; they are neither of them really well off,
you know, and it is such a large sum. But I keep hoping all the time
that we may find some way out of the trouble. I don't know whether to
tell Father or not what you heard to-day. I'm afraid it will only worry
him.'
'I think perhaps he ought to know,' said Peggy briefly, as she turned
and went out to hide a suspicious choking sensation in her throat. Then,
going into the ruins, she climbed up on to the old wall, from which the
best view of the house and its surroundings could be obtained, and gazed
with new eyes at the panorama of her home; and as her glance travelled
slowly from orchard to stackyard, from meadow to garden, back to the
ivy-clad tower and the red gabled roof, 'I think,' she said slowly,
'that if we had to leave the Abbey, it would break my heart!'