Ten o'clock next morning saw him alighting from the train at St. Neots.
A conveyance for which he had telegraphed awaited him at the station;
its driver, a young man of his own age (they had known each other from
boyhood), grinned his broadest as he ran toward Will on the platform,
and relieved him of his bag.
"Well, Sam, how goes it? Everybody flourishing?--Drive first to Mr.
Turnbull's office."
Mr. Turnbull was a grey-headed man of threescore, much troubled with
lumbago, which made him stoop as he walked. He had a visage of
extraordinary solemnity, and seemed to regard every one, no matter how
prosperous or cheerful, with anxious commiseration. At the sight of
Will, he endeavoured to smile, and his handshake, though the flabbiest
possible, was meant for a cordial response to the young man's
heartiness.
"I'm on my way to The Haws, Mr. Turnbull, and wanted to ask if you
could come up and see us this evening?"
"Oh, with pleasure," answered the lawyer, his tone that of one invited
to a funeral. "You may count on me."
"We're winding up at Sherwood's. I don't mean in bankruptcy; but that
wouldn't be far off if we kept going."
"Ah! I can well understand that," said Mr. Turnbull, with a gleam of
satisfaction. Though a thoroughly kind man, it always brightened him to
hear of misfortune, especially when he had himself foretold it; and he
had always taken the darkest view of Will's prospects in Little Ailie
Street.
"I have a project I should like to talk over with you--"
"Ah?" said the lawyer anxiously.
"As it concerns my mother and Jane--"
"Ah?" said Mr. Turnbull, with profound despondency.
"Then we shall expect you.--Will it rain, do you think?"
"I fear so. The glass is very low indeed. It wouldn't surprise me if we
had rain through the whole month of August."
"Good Heavens! I hope not," replied Will laughing.
He drove out of the town again, in a different direction, for about a
mile. On rising ground, overlooking the green valley of the Ouse, stood
a small, plain, solidly-built house, sheltered on the cold side by a
row of fine hawthorns, nearly as high as the top of its chimneys. In
front, bordered along the road by hollies as impenetrable as a stone
wall, lay a bright little flower garden. The Haws, originally built for
the bailiff of an estate, long since broken up, was nearly a century
old. Here Will's father was born, and here, after many wanderings, he
had spent the greater part of his married life.
"Sam," said Will, as they drew up at the gate, "I don't think I shall
pay for this drive. You're much richer than I am."
"Very good, sir," was the chuckling reply, for Sam knew he always had
to expect a joke of this kind from young Mr. Warburton. "As you please,
sir."
"You couldn't lend me half-a-crown, Sam?"
"I daresay I could, sir, if you really wanted it."
"Do then."
Will pocketed the half-crown, jumped off the trap, and took his bag.
"After all, Sam, perhaps I'd better pay. Your wife might grumble. Here
you are."
He handed two shillings and sixpence in small change, which Sam took
and examined with a grin of puzzlement.
"Well, what's the matter? Don't you say thank you, nowadays?"
"Yes, sir--thank you, sir--it's all right, Mr. Will."
"I should think it is indeed. Be here to-morrow morning, to catch the
6.30 up train, Sam."
As Will entered the garden, there came forward a girl of something and
twenty, rather short, square shouldered, firmly planted on her feet,
but withal brisk of movement; her face was remarkable for nothing but a
grave good-humour. She wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, and her
gardening gloves showed how she was occupied. Something of shyness
appeared in the mutual greeting of brother and sister.
"Of course, you got my letter this morning?" said Will.
"Yes."
"Mr. Turnbull is coming up to-night."
"I'm glad of that," said Jane thoughtfully, rubbing her gloves together
to shake off moist earth.
"Of course he'll prophesy disaster, and plunge you both into the depths
of discouragement. But I don't mind that. I feel so confident myself
that I want some one to speak on the other side. He'll have to make
inquiries, of course.--Where's mother?"
The question was answered by Mrs. Warburton herself, who at that moment
came forth from the house; a tall, graceful woman, prematurely
white-headed, and enfeebled by ill-health. Between her and Jane there
was little resemblance of feature; Will, on the other hand, had
inherited her oval face, arched brows and sensitive mouth. Emotion had
touched her cheek with the faintest glow, but ordinarily it was pale as
her hand. Nothing, however, of the invalid declared itself in her tone
or language; the voice, soft and musical, might have been that of a
young woman, and its vivacity was only less than that which marked the
speech of her son.
"Come and look at the orange lilies," were her first words, after the
greeting. "They've never been so fine."
"But notice Pompey first," said Jane. "He'll be offended in a minute."
A St. Bernard, who had already made such advances as his dignity
permitted, stood close by Will, with eyes fixed upon him in grave and
surprised reproach. The dog's name indicated a historical preference of
Jane in her childhood; she had always championed Pompey against Caesar,
following therein her brother's guidance.
"Hallo, old Magnus!" cried the visitor, cordially repairing his
omission. "Come along with us and see the lilies."
It was only when all the sights of the little garden had been visited,
Mrs. Warburton forgetting her weakness as she drew Will hither and
thither, that the business for which they had met came under
discussion. Discussion, indeed, it could hardly be called, for the
mother and sister were quite content to listen whilst Will talked, and
accept his view of things. Small as their income was, they never
thought of themselves as poor; with one maid-servant and the occasional
help of a gardener, they had all the comfort they wished for, and were
able to bestow of their superfluity in vegetables and flowers upon less
fortunate acquaintances. Until a year or two ago, Mrs. Warburton had
led a life of ceaseless activity, indoors and out; such was the habit
of her daughter, who enjoyed vigorous health, and cared little for
sedentary pursuits and amusements. Their property, land and cottages
hard by, had of late given them a good deal of trouble, and the
proposal to sell had more than once been considered, but Mr. Turnbull,
most cautious of counsellors, urged delay. Now, at length, the
hoped-for opportunity of a good investment seemed to have presented
itself; Will's sanguine report of what he had learnt from Sherwood was
gladly accepted.
"It'll be a good thing for you as well," said Jane. "Yes, it comes just
in time. Sherwood knew what he was doing; now and then I've thought he
was risking too much, but he's a clear-headed fellow. The way he has
kept things going so long in Ailie Street is really remarkable."
"I daresay you had your share in that, Will," said Mrs. Warburton.
"A very small one; my work has never been more than routine. I don't
pretend to be a man of business. If it had depended upon me, the
concern would have fallen to pieces years ago, like so many others.
House after house has gone down; our turn must have come very soon. As
it is, we shall clear out with credit, and start afresh gloriously. By
the bye, don't get any but Applegarth's jams in future."
"That depends," said Jane laughing, "if we like them."
In their simple and wholesome way of living, the Warburtons of course
dined at midday, and Will, who rarely ate without appetite, surpassed
himself as trencherman; nowhere had food such a savour for him as under
this roof. The homemade bread and home-grown vegetables he was never
tired of praising; such fragrant and toothsome loaves, he loudly
protested, were to be eaten nowhere else in England. He began to talk
of his holiday abroad, when all at once his countenance fell, his lips
closed; in the pleasure of being "at home," he had forgotten all about
Norbert Franks, and very unwelcome were the thoughts which attached
themselves to this recollection of his days at Trient.
"What's the matter?" asked Jane, noticing his change of look.
"Oh, nothing--a stupid affair. I wrote to you about the Pomfrets and
their niece. I'm afraid that girl is an idiot. She used the opportunity
of her absence, I find, to break with Franks. No excuse whatever;
simply sent him about his business."
"Oh!" exclaimed both the ladies, who had been interested in the
artist's love story, as narrated to them, rather badly, by Will on
former occasions.
"Of course, I don't know much about it. But it looks bad. Perhaps it's
the best thing that could have happened to Franks, for it may mean that
he hasn't made money fast enough to please her."
"But you gave us quite another idea of Miss Elvan," said his mother.
"Yes, I daresay I did. Who knows? I don't pretend to understand such
things."
A little before sunset came Mr. Turnbull, who took supper at The Haws,
and was fetched away by his coachman at ten o'clock. With this old
friend, who in Will's eyes looked no older now than when he first knew
him in early childhood, they talked freely of the Applegarth business,
and Mr. Turnbull promised to make inquiries at once. Of course, he took
a despondent view of jam. Jam, he inclined to think, was being
overdone; after all, the country could consume only a certain quantity
of even the most wholesome preserves, and a glut of jam already
threatened the market. Applegarth? By the bye, did he not remember
proceedings in bankruptcy connected with that unusual name? He must
look into the matter. And, talking about bankruptcy--oh! how bad his
lumbago was to-night!--poor Thomas Hart, of Three Ash Farm, was going
to be sold up. Dear, dear! On every side, look where one would, nothing
but decline and calamity. What was England coming to? Day by day he had
expected to see the failure of Sherwood Brothers; how had they escaped
the common doom of sugar refiners? Free trade, free trade; all very
fine in theory, but look at its results on corn and sugar. For his own
part he favoured a policy of moderate protection.
All this was not more than Will had foreseen. It would be annoying if
Mr. Turnbull ultimately took an adverse view of his proposal; in that
case, though his mother was quite free to manage her property as she
chose, Will felt that he should not venture to urge his scheme against
the lawyer's advice, and money must be sought elsewhere. A few days
would decide the matter. As he went upstairs to bed, he dismissed
worries from his mind.
The old quiet, the old comfort of home. Not a sound but that of
pattering rain in the still night. As always, the room smelt of
lavender, blended with that indescribable fragrance which comes of
extreme cleanliness in an old country house. But for changed wall paper
and carpet, everything was as Will remembered it ever since he could
remember anything at all; the same simple furniture, the same white
curtains, the same pictures, the same little hanging shelf, with books
given to him in childhood. He thought of the elder brother who had died
at school, and lay in the little churchyard far away. His only dark
memory, that of the poor boy's death after a very short illness, before
that other blow which made him fatherless.
The earlier retrospect was one of happiness unbroken; for all childish
sorrows lost themselves in the very present sense of peace and love
enveloping those far-away years. His parents' life, as he saw it then,
as in reflection he saw it now, remained an ideal; he did not care to
hope for himself, or to imagine, any other form of domestic
contentment. As a child, he would have held nothing less conceivable
than a moment's discord between father and mother, and manhood's
meditation did but confirm him in the same view.
The mutual loyalty of kindred hearts and minds--that was the best life
had to give. And Will's thoughts turned once more to Norbert Franks;
he, poor fellow, doubtless now raging against the faithlessness which
had blackened all his sky. In this moment of softened feeling, of lucid
calm, Warburton saw Rosamund's behaviour in a new light. Perhaps she
was not blameworthy at all, but rather deserving of all praise; for, if
she had come to know, beyond doubt, that she did not love Norbert
Franks as she had thought, then to break the engagement was her simple
duty, and the courage with which she had taken this step must be set to
her credit. Naturally, it would be some time before Franks himself took
that view. A third person, whose vanity was not concerned, might
moralise thus--
Will checked himself on an unpleasant thought. Was _his_ vanity, in
truth, unconcerned in this story? Why, then, had he been conscious of a
sub-emotion, quite unavowable, which contradicted his indignant
sympathy during that talk last night in the street? If the lover's
jealousy were as ridiculous as he pretended, why did he feel what now
he could confess to himself was an unworthy titillation, when Franks
seemed to accuse him of some part in the girl's disloyalty? Vanity,
that, sure enough; vanity of a very weak and futile kind. He would
stamp the last traces of it out of his being. Happily it was but
vanity, and no deeper feeling. Of this he was assured by the reposeful
sigh with which he turned his head upon the pillow, drowsing to
oblivion.
One unbroken sleep brought him to sunrise; a golden glimmer upon the
blind in his return to consciousness told him that the rain was over,
and tempted him to look forth. What he saw was decisive; with such a
sky as that gleaming over the summer world, who could lie in bed? Will
always dressed as if in a fury; seconds sufficed him for details of the
toilet, which, had he spent minutes over them, would have fretted his
nerves intolerably. His bath was one wild welter--not even the ceiling
being safe from splashes; he clad himself in a brief series of plunges;
his shaving might have earned the applause of an assembly gathered to
behold feats of swift dexterity. Quietly he descended the stairs, and
found the house-door already open; this might only mean that the
servant was already up, but he suspected that the early riser was Jane.
So it proved; he walked toward the kitchen garden, and there stood his
sister, the sun making her face rosy.
"Come and help to pick scarlet runners," was her greeting, as he
approached. "Aren't they magnificent?"
Her eyes sparkled with pleasure as she pointed to the heavy clusters of
dark-green pods, hanging amid leaves and scarlet bloom.
"Splendid crop!" exclaimed Will, with answering enthusiasm.
"Doesn't the scent do one good?" went on his sister. "When I come into
the garden on a morning like this, I have a feeling--oh, I can't
describe it to you--perhaps you wouldn't understand--"
"I know," said Will, nodding.
"It's as if nature were calling out to me, like a friend, to come and
admire and enjoy what she has done. I feel grateful for the things that
earth offers me."
Not often did Jane speak like this; as a rule she was anything but
effusive or poetical. But a peculiar animation shone in her looks this
morning, and sounded in her voice. Very soon the reason was manifest;
she began to speak of the Applegarth business, and declared her great
satisfaction with it.
"There'll be an end of mother's worry," she said, "and I can't tell you
how glad I shall be. It seems to me that women oughtn't to have to
think about money, and mother hates the name of it; she always has
done. Oh, what a blessing when it's all off our hands! We shouldn't
care, even if the new arrangement brought us less."
"And it is certain to bring you more," remarked Will, "perhaps
considerably more."
"Well, I shan't object to that; there are lots of uses for money; but
it doesn't matter."
Jane's sincerity was evident. She dismissed the matter, and her basket
being full of beans, seized a fork to dig potatoes.
"Here, let me do that," cried Will, interposing.
"You? Well then, as a very great favour."
"Of course I mean that. It's grand to turn up potatoes. What sort are
these?"
"Pink-eyed flukes," replied Jane, watching him with keen interest. "We
haven't touched them yet."
"Mealy, eh?"
"Balls of flour!"
Their voices joined in a cry of exultation, as the fork threw out even
a finer root than they had expected. When enough had been dug, they
strolled about, looking at other vegetables. Jane pointed to some Savoy
seedlings, which she was going to plant out to-day. Then there sounded
a joyous bark, and Pompey came bounding toward them.
"That means the milk-boy is here," said Jane. "Pompey always goes to
meet him in the morning. Come and drink a glass--warm."