One doctor had promised Captain Drake eighteen more months of life; another, less generous, refused to allow him more than twelve; he presented himself with ten years, and then he did not die from natural causes. The Dismal Gibcat had his revenge at last. He murdered Captain Drake before the eyes of the village, in the full light of two oil lamps; and, instead of being hanged for it, he stepped into the dead man's place, and ruled the parish with his scowl as he had done in the good old days when a pair of old cottages had occupied the site whereon Windward House now stood; although he had the decency to attend his victim's funeral, and to declare he had always respected the Captain, who undoubtedly belonged to that class of mortals, none of whom are ever likely to be seen again.
War for a right of way led up to the murder. The Dismal Gibcat owned a field, across which people had walked since the world began, according to the testimony of the Yellow Leaf, who was the final court of appeal in all such matters. When a stone coffin was disinterred, or a few Roman coins were turned up, the Yellow Leaf was invariably summoned to decide the question of ownership. He might confess that the stone coffin had been made before his time, although he would give the name of the mason, and narrate a few anecdotes concerning the eccentric parishioner who had preferred this method of burial. While he would possess a clear recollection of the thriftless farmer who had dropped the money while ploughing through a hole in his pocket. The Yellow Leaf declared he had crossed that field thousands of times when he was a mere bud, and went on to state that, if the people allowed the Dismal Gibcat to triumph over them, they would find themselves back in the dark ages, bereft of all the privileges which Magna Charta, the post office, and Captain Drake had obtained for them.
The Dismal Gibcat began by ploughing the field and planting it with potatoes. Then he lay in wait for the first trespasser, who chanced to be the vicar on his way to baptise a sick baby. Undismayed by the importance of his capture, the Dismal Gibcat informed the vicar he was committing an unfriendly act by trespassing across his vested property.
The vicar, with some warmth, asserted there was a path. The Dismal Gibcat, with exceeding dullness, replied that a man who had received his education at a public school and an ancient university ought to be able to distinguish between tilled land and thoroughfare.
The vicar declared that, if there was at the moment no path, it could only be because the Dismal Gibcat had maliciously removed it, although he did not use the word maliciously in an offensive manner. The Dismal Gibcat replied that, as there was no path, the vicar could not walk along it; and, as he was obviously trying to make one—with a pair of boots quite suitable for the purpose—he was committing an act of trespass, and by the law of England a trespasser might be removed by force.
The vicar explained that he could not stay to argue the matter lest, while they were quarrelling, the poor little baby should become an unbaptised spirit. The Dismal Gibcat declared that his vested rights were more to him than baptised babies, and ordered the vicar to get off his potatoes by the way he had come.
Finally the vicar abandoned a portion of his Christianity and threatened to hit the Dismal Gibcat upon the head with his toy font.
Civil war having thus broken out, the entire population of military age, headed by Captain Drake and the Yellow Leaf, promenaded across the field and trampled out a new pathway. The Dismal Gibcat replied by putting up barbed wire entanglements.
Then the Captain called a meeting of the Parish Council, to be held at seven-thirty in the schoolroom; little dreaming, when he set out a few minutes after eight to take the chair, that he was about to perform his last public duty.
The Dismal Gibcat attended the meeting without any idea of doing murder: he brought no weapon except his scowl, which was possibly a birthmark, and a tongue which disagreed with everybody out of principle. He presented his case to the meeting and asked for justice. The chairman promised he should have it, and went on to inquire whether the Dismal Gibcat would give an undertaking to remove the entanglements and allow the public to make free use of the pathway.
The Dismal Gibcat replied that, by so doing, he would be committing an injustice which must fall most heavily upon all those of his dismal blood who might come after him.
"Then, sir," the chairman cried in his most tremendous voice, "the matter must pass from our hands into those of a higher tribunal. We shall appeal to the District Council, and that body will, if necessary, carry the case further, even to the Court of County Council itself."
Silence followed, during which every parishioner save one in that crowded schoolroom felt thankful Highfield had a leader capable of carrying their grievances to the foot of the Throne if necessary. About the District Council little was known, beyond the fact that it had never yet interfered in any parochial affairs; while the Dumpy Philosopher seemed to be the only person primed with information concerning the County Council.
"It make roads and builds asylums," he explained. "The gentlemen what belong to it are called Esquire; and they'm mostly in Parliament."
The Dismal Gibcat had the wickedness to declare that he defied all Councils. There never had been a right of way across his field, and there never should be. Out of simple goodness of heart he had refrained from interfering with the homeward progress of a few weary labourers, although they had not asked permission to trample down his pasture; and now he was to be rewarded for this mistaken kindness by having a strip of territory snatched from him by a person—a fat, vulgar person—one he was sorry to call an Englishman—whom they had been foolish enough to elect as their chairman—a man who had written a book about himself—a common creature who claimed to be a descendant of Sir Francis Drake—a man who styled himself Captain because he had once stolen a fishing boat—a coarse bullying brute of a gasbag.
The chairman had been struggling to find breath for some moments. At last he found it, and released such thunders as had never been heard before. Even the Dismal Gibcat quailed before the volume of that tempest, while a few nervous parishioners left the schoolroom with a dazed look upon their faces. George detached himself from the wall and implored his uncle to be calm, but his words of warning were lost in that great tumult. The shocking nature of the scene was considerably enhanced by the fact that the Dismal Gibcat, for the first time within living memory, actually tried to smile.
"A right of way has existed time out of mind across that field. Sir Francis Drake and Queen Elizabeth walked there arm in arm," the Captain shouted, magnanimously ignoring the insults, and fighting for the people to his last gasp.
"Path warn't hardly wide enough, Captain," piped the Yellow Leaf, who was for accuracy at any price.
"I tell the chairman to his face he's a liar. He has never spoken a word of truth since he came to Highfield," cried the Dismal Gibcat.
Again the Captain opened his mouth, but no sounds came. He stretched out an arm, tried to leave the chair, then gasped, fell against George, and bore him to the floor. The leader of the people, the great reformer, the defender of liberty, lay motionless beneath the map of the British Empire like Cæsar at the foot of Pompey's statue; murdered by the Dismal Gibcat's smile in the village schoolroom, upon the fifth of April, in the seventy-fourth year of his age.
At the inquest it was shown by one of the discredited doctors that his heart had really given way a long time ago, and nothing but indomitable courage had preserved him in a state of nominal existence: he sought to impress it upon the jury that the Captain, from a medical point of view, had been a dead man for the last ten years; but, as everybody knew, this statement was made by an arrangement with the coroner to prevent a verdict of wilful murder against the Gibcat.
"'Tis like this right o' way business," commented Squinting Jack. "He ploughs up the path and ses us can't walk there because there arn't no path. And doctor ses as how the Captain wur a corpse when he come to the meeting, and you can't kill a man what be dead and gone already."
The Dismal Gibcat did all that was possible to atone for his crime. He sent a wreath; he did not smile again; and in the handsomest possible manner he removed the barbed wire entanglements, and dedicated a right of way across his field to the public for ever, as a memorial to the late Captain, whose life would remain as an example to them of truth, and modesty, and childlike gentleness.
Highfield ceased to progress when the Captain had departed. The historian would have found no deed to chronicle, although he could hardly have omitted the brilliant epigram, attributed to the Dumpy Philosopher, "Captain put us on the map, and now we'm blotted out." Local improvements were no longer spoken of. Mrs. Drake continued to live in Highfield, although she took no part in public affairs, and immediately removed the notice boards which she had never much approved of. George resumed his disgraceful habits of loafing in fine weather, and keeping the house clear of flies when it rained. His aunt disowned him once a week, but he bore up bravely. She threatened to turn him out of the house every month, but the courageous fellow declared he should not be ashamed to beg hospitality of the vicar who had loved and reverenced his dear uncle. George explained that he was leading a singularly industrious career, but it had always been his way to work unobtrusively: he fed the giant tortoise, controlled the monkeys, taught the parrots to open their beaks in proverbs; he attended all meetings of the Parish Council; sometimes he sneered at the Dismal Gibcat. Above all, he managed the cat breeding industry, although it was true he had at the present time no more than six cats in stock.
"That's because you have been too lazy to look after them," Mrs. Drake interrupted. "You let them out to roam all over the place; dozens have been shot or trapped; while the others have made friends with common village cats. You know how particular your uncle was about the company they kept."
"I'm expecting kittens soon, and I'll take great care of them," George promised.
"Your uncle used to make a lot out of his cats before we came here. You do nothing except ask for money to buy them food, which you don't give them. If it wasn't for Kezia the poor creatures would be starved," said Mrs. Drake.
She realised that the only way of ridding herself of George would be to regard him as a lost soul haunting Windward House, and to destroy the place utterly; as she could not afford to do that, an idea occurred of inviting an elderly maiden sister to share her home. Miss Yard replied that the plan would suit her admirably. So Mrs. Drake broke the news to Kezia, who had become a person of consequence, accustomed to a seat in the parlour; and Kezia told Bessie she was going to allow Mrs. Drake's sister to live in the house for a time; and Bessie went to her mistress and gave notice.
"You don't mean it," stammered the astonished lady. "Why, Bessie, you have been with me fifteen years."
"Kezia ses Miss Yard's coming here, so I made up my mind all to once."
"I don't know what I shall do without you, Bessie."
"You can't do without me, mum. I'm not going exactly ever to leave you. I'll just change my name, and go across the road, and drop in when I'm wanted."
"You are going to be married!" cried Mrs. Drake.
"That's right, mum. May as well do it now as wait."
"I hope you have stopped growing," said the lady absently.
"I don't seem to be making any progress now, mum. Six foot two, and Robert's five foot three, and has taken the cottage opposite. Robert Mudge, the baker's assistant, mum. He makes the doughnuts master wur so fond of vor his tea."
"I remember the doughnuts," said Mrs. Drake softly. "I used to put out two, but the dear Captain would not content himself with less than half a dozen."
"He told Bob to exhibit his doughnuts. Master said he would get a gold medal vor 'em. But he can't find out where the exhibition is."
"I hope Robert Mudge is worthy of you, Bessie."
"He ses he is, mum. He goes to chapel in the morning, and church in the evening, and he never touches a drop of anything. And he keeps bees, mum."
"It all sounds very nice. I hope you will be as happy as I have been," said Mrs. Drake.
"Thankye, mum. I wouldn't get married if it meant leaving you; but now that Miss Yard's coming here I may as well go to Robert. Just across the road, mum. If you ring a bell at the window I'll be over in no time—if I b'ain't here already, mum."
"You have always been a handy girl, Bessie. The dear Captain had a very high opinion of you, but he was so afraid you might not be able to stop growing."
"Thankye, mum. Bob ses 'tis his one ambition to get great like the Captain; not quite so big, mum, but like him in heart; at least, mum, as gude in heart. I don't know, mum, whether you would be thinking of giving me a wedding present?"
"Of course I shall give you a present, Bessie."
"Well, mum, me and Robert think, if 'tis convenient to you, furniture would be most useful to us."
"You shall have some of Captain Drake's furniture; and you shall have more when I am gone," the old lady promised.
Bessie married Robert Mudge a month later. Mrs. Drake furnished the cottage; George presented the bride with a kitten; while Miss Yard, who had not yet completed her preparations for departure, sent a postal order for five shillings, together with a Bible, a cookery book, and pair of bedsocks. Kezia gave the wedding breakfast, and Mrs. Drake paid for it. The honeymoon, which lasted from Saturday to Monday, was spent somewhere by the sea. Then Bessie settled down to her new life, which meant sleeping upon the one side of the road and taking her meals upon the other.
Miss Yard was a gentle old creature who knew nothing whatever about a world she had never really lived in. For nearly half a century she occupied a little house just outside the little town of Drivelford; during weekdays she would scratch about in a little garden, and twice each Sunday attend a little church, and about four times in the course of the year would give a little tea party to ladies much engrossed in charity. Sometimes she would go for a little walk, but the big world worried her, and she was glad to get back into her garden. It must have been rather a mazy garden, as she was continually getting lost in it; having very little memory she could not easily hit upon the right pathway to the house, and would circle round the gooseberry bushes until a servant discovered her. One awful day she lost her servant, luggage, memory, and herself at a railway junction; and was finally consigned to the station-master, who was not an intelligent individual; for, when Miss Yard assured him she was on her way to the seaside, he was quite unable to direct her. Nobody knew how that adventure ended, because Miss Yard could not remember.
She accepted her sister's invitation gladly, because a letter came frequently from the bank to inform her she had overdrawn her account. Miss Yard did not know much about wickedness, therefore when a servant told her it was time for a cheque she always smiled and signed one. She could not understand why no servant would stay with her more than a few years; but, being a kind-hearted old soul, she was delighted to know one was going to marry a gentleman, another to open a drapery, and a third to retire altogether. It was not until she engaged a rather shy little orphan, whose name of Nellie Blisland was good enough to tempt anybody, as a lady-servant-companion-housekeeper, that the bank stopped writing to her; and then Miss Yard, who comprehended a passbook with some assistance, wondered who had been leaving her money; and at last arrived at the conclusion that Nellie was a niece who was living with her and sharing expenses. But this discovery was not made until Mrs. Drake's invitation had been accepted.
Miss Yard's memory underwent all manner of shocks, when she found herself installed in the parlour of Windward House. She perceived her sister clearly enough, but where was Nellie, and what was George? She had completely forgotten Captain Drake until she turned her spectacles towards the Egyptian mummy; and then she asked questions which caused Mrs. Drake to use her smelling salts.
"This is George, our nephew. He does nothing for a living," said the widow severely.
"Our nephew," repeated Miss Yard, in her earnest fashion. "His name is Percy, and he came to see me last year, but he seems to have altered a great deal. What is it he does for a living?"
"Nothing whatever," said Mrs. Drake.
"I've got a weak back," George mumbled.
"He's got a weak back, Maria. He must try red flannel and peppermint plasters," said Miss Yard with barbaric simplicity.
"Stuff and nonsense! He's got the back of a whale, if he'd only use it. This is not Percy, our real nephew, who for some reason never comes near me, but my nephew by marriage. He's not your nephew really."
"I'm sorry for that. I like nephews, because they visit me sometimes. What's the name of this place, Maria?"
"Highfield, and it's eight hundred feet above the sea," said George, in a great hurry to change the subject.
"I hope it's somewhere in the south of England. The doctor told me I was not to go near Yorkshire," said Miss Yard.
"You are in Devonshire, just upon the edge of Dartmoor," George explained.
"That sounds as if it ought to suit me. I can't explain it, but I was so afraid this might be Yorkshire. Where is Nellie? I do hope she wasn't lost at that dreadful railway station."
"Nellie is upstairs," Mrs. Drake replied.
"I wish somebody would go and bring her. I don't know what she can be doing upstairs. My memory is getting so troublesome, Maria. Before Nellie came to live with me I had quite forgotten she was Percy's sister."
"But she isn't," said Mrs. Drake. "Percy's only sister died as a child."
"Did she!" exclaimed Miss Yard. "I wonder how long I shall remember that. How many children did my brother Peter have?"
"He never married," replied Mrs. Drake.
"Then Nellie must be poor dear Louisa's daughter."
"That would make her Percy's sister. Nellie is your companion. She is not even so much related to you as George."
"Now I have quite forgotten who George was," said Miss Yard.
At this moment Nellie herself appeared with a load of luxuries, such as footstool, shawl, wool slippers, and various bottles to sniff at, which she had just unpacked. Miss Yard fondled the girl's hands, and told her that somebody—she could not remember who—had bees trying to make trouble between them by spreading a malicious story about Nellie's birth and parentage; but she was too muddled to know what it meant.
Mrs. Drake had been aware that her sister's intelligence was not high, but was dismayed at discovering her mental condition was so low; and she quickly repented of the new arrangement, which could not be altered now that Miss Yard had disposed of her house and most of her belongings; bringing just sufficient furniture to equip a sitting room and bedroom, and to replace those articles which Mrs. Drake had bestowed upon Bessie.
Her sister's furniture soon became a source of anxiety to Mrs. Drake, as she did not like to have things in the house which did not belong to her, and she also foresaw difficulties should the partnership be dissolved at any time by the death of either her sister or herself. So she took a sheet of notepaper and wrote upon it, "If I depart before Sophy, all my things are to belong to her for her lifetime;" and this document she placed within a sandalwood box standing upon the chest of drawers in her bedroom.
Then she took another sheet of notepaper and commanded her sister to write upon it, "If I die before Maria, all my things are to belong to her." Miss Yard obeyed, but when this piece of paper had been stored away within the Japanese cabinet standing upon the chest of drawers in her bedroom, she took a sheet of notepaper upon her own account, and wrote, "When I am gone, all my things are to belong to Nellie;" and this was stored away in the bottom drawer of her davonport, as she had already forgotten the existence of the other hiding place.
And this was the beginning of the extraordinary will-making which was destined to stir up strife among the beneficiaries.
The following summer Percy Taverner visited his aunts. This gentleman, who was younger than George, would in due course inherit the money left by the late Mr. Yard to his sons and daughters, of whom the two ladies of Highfield were now the sole survivors. Therefore Percy had nothing to lose by being uncivil, although as a matter of fact he had only neglected Mrs. Drake because he disliked her husband. His Aunt Sophy he loved with good reason, for he made a living by mortgaging his fruit farm, and when the borrowed money was spent he had only to explain matters to Miss Yard, and she would pay off the mortgage and immediately forget all about it. Percy was not an idler like George, but he possessed little business capacity, and had selected a form of occupation about which he knew nothing whatever; and as he would be quite a rich man when his aunts departed, he did not take the trouble to learn. Nor did he care to consider such examples of longevity as the giant tortoise and the Yellow Leaf.
Miss Yard was delighted to see Percy, but greatly distressed when he declined to kiss his own sister; at least he was willing, but Nellie positively refused. The usual explanations were gone through, and the good lady tried hard to understand.
"Of course you are right not to kiss Nellie as she's your cousin. Young people who can marry must not get into the habit of kissing each other," she said.
Mrs. Drake was inclined to be chilly towards Percy, but thawed quickly when he revealed himself as an attentive and obliging young man. She was quite sorry he had to sleep across the road in Bessie's cottage because there was no spare room in Windward House; and was almost indignant when Percy declared upon the second day he could not stay until the end of the week, as he dared not neglect his tomato plants.
"Your foreman can look after them," she said. "I have not seen you for years, and after all there's nothing like one's own relations. It's a pleasure to have some one to talk to, for your poor Aunt Sophy is getting so stupid, and George is no company at all. What do you think of George?" she asked suddenly.
"Not much," replied Percy with a laugh.
"I want to speak to you about George," Mrs. Drake continued. "You're the head of my family, so I should like your advice about the good-for-nothing creature. He is getting on for forty, and has never done a day's work in his life. He sleeps here, and takes his meals, and grumbles, and begs money—and, my dear Percy, he has been seen coming out of the public house. He does nothing whatever. He won't even dig up the potatoes."
"He knows you can't leave him anything?" asked Percy.
"Of course he knows it. He will have the furniture and all the curiosities collected by the Captain; I think that's only right, and besides, I promised my husband he should have them. But the things won't be of much use if he hasn't got a home."
"He can sell them," said Percy.
"Second-hand furniture goes for next to nothing," replied Mrs. Drake.
"That depends," said Percy. Then he pointed to the mantelpiece and continued, "If I were you, Aunt, I should wrap those two Chinese vases in cotton-wool, and put them away."
"Are they really valuable? My dear husband thought they were, but I'm afraid he didn't know much about such things, and he would exaggerate sometimes. He used to say they were worth a hundred pounds apiece."
"He was under the mark," said Percy. "I'm not an expert, but I know more about Chinese vases than I do about tomatoes, as a friend of mine deals in the things, and I've picked up a lot from him. I believe those vases are worth a heap of money."
"Well, that is a surprise!" cried Mrs. Drake. "I shall take your advice and pack them away. Don't mention it to George."
"Certainly not," said Percy, somewhat indignantly.
"And now what can you suggest?" Mrs. Drake continued, waddling to the mantelpiece and flicking a disreputable blowfly from one of the vases. "I have told George plainly a hundred times he must do something for a living, but he won't take a hint. I suppose you wouldn't care to give him employment? He ought to know something about fruit, as he spends half his time leaning against an apple tree."
"He wouldn't work under me. Besides, I'm doing a losing business as it is. It's a jolly difficult problem, Aunt."
"Will you open his eyes to his folly and wickedness? If you can't make him ashamed, you may be able to frighten him. Tell him, if he works, I will help him; but, if he won't work, I'll do nothing more for him."
"All right, Aunt. I'll shift the beggar," said Percy cheerfully; and he went out to search for his victim.
George was reclining upon a seat which his uncle had dedicated to the public for ever, to commemorate the return of the Drakes to Highfield. When he saw the enemy approaching he closed his eyes; for his cunning nature suggested that Percy would respect his slumbers unless he came as a special messenger. When the footsteps ceased, and the ferrule of a stick was pressed gently against his ribs, George realised that a certain amount of trouble awaited him.
"I was sound asleep. It's a tiring day, and I've been a long walk," he explained amiably. "Sit down, old chap, and look at the view; but if you want to admire the sunset, I should advise you to go higher up."
"I don't want to admire the sunset," replied Percy. "I've been having a talk with Aunt Maria——"
"And I've been to Black Anchor," broke in George. "I don't suppose you've read my uncle's history of the parish. It's a classic, and there are nine hundred copies at home. People called Slack were living there when we came; a regular bad lot and a disgrace to the village."
"Friends of yours?" asked Percy.
"Not likely! They were no better than savages. The man hobbled off one day and has never been seen since, and the woman was sent to prison for stealing, and the children were taken into a Home. The farm has been without a tenant for the last two years, and now an old man named Brock has taken it."
"Perhaps he would give you a job," suggested Percy.
"That's a good idea. I'm sorry I forgot to ask him when I went over this afternoon," said the amiable George, perfectly well aware in which direction the wind was blowing. "Unluckily the old chap hasn't any money. He cooks the grub while his grandson drains the bogs. Everybody's talking about it; they can't get over the idea of two men running a farm without a woman. Sidney, the young chap, wants to go into the Navy, but he sacrifices his future to help his grandfather. Funny idea that! Now if my uncle had been alive he would have got young Brock on a training ship, I warrant."
"Funny idea he should want to do some good for his grandfather?"
"No; but it's queer that a chap who wants to go into the Navy should come to Black Anchor with all its associations of us Drakes," said George loftily. Then he added, "I'm rested now, so I'll take a stroll."
"Just as you like. We'll sit here and talk, or we'll stroll and talk," said the pestilential Percy.
"Go on then," said George sourly.
So Percy in his capacity of ambassador delivered the ultimatum: Aunt Maria had borne with her husband's nephew for a great number of years, postponing vigorous action out of a mistaken kindness, but she was now firmly resolved upon the act of expulsion. "It's for your sake entirely," he continued. "Naturally Aunt wants to see you settled in some business, as she knows she can't leave you anything."
"Except the furniture," remarked George indifferently.
"That's not exactly a fortune," replied Percy, wondering how much his cousin knew about Chinese vases.
"My uncle promised I should have the furniture," said the monotonous George.
"Every man should work," observed Percy virtuously.
"I could manage tomatoes," retorted George.
"I shall be a rich man when the aunts die, while you will have nothing. I don't require to build up a business. Don't you want a home of your own, wife and children, and all that sort of thing?"
"No," said George.
"What do you want then?"
"Board and lodging, and some one to look after me," replied the candid cousin.
"Aunt Maria has said her last word. She won't keep you in idleness any longer. And I'm going to stay here until you leave the place."
"They never brought me up to do anything," argued George for the defence.
"They did their best, but you wouldn't work."
"They ought to have made me. I was young then, and it was their duty to make me submit to discipline. Now I'm middle-aged."
"Thirty-eight is still young."
"With some men; not with me. My habits are formed."
"When you find something to do—"
"That's just what Aunt Maria says," George interrupted bitterly. "She never suggested anything but once, and then she said I might have gone abroad as a missionary if I hadn't been unfit for the job. It's all very well to talk about doing something in this beastly overcrowded world, but what can a middle-aged bachelor do except put his trust in Providence? My uncle was at least practical: he did suggest I should turn pilot or harbour-master, although he knew the very sight of the sea puts my liver out of order."
"You might open a shop to sell fruit and flowers; and I'll supply you."
"I don't understand buying and selling, and I can't do accounts. You would take the profit, and I should have the losses."
"You must make up your mind. Aunt is perfectly serious," declared Percy.
"I don't want to offend her, and of course I couldn't abuse her kindness," said George slowly; "but just suppose I did refuse to leave home—suppose I insisted upon staying here and leading the sort of life that suits my health—what could she do?"
"If you were rotten enough for that, I suppose she could appeal to the magistrates for an ejectment order," replied Percy hazily.
"She is much too kind for that. Besides, I am her nephew."
"Only by marriage. You are not a blood relation; you can't claim to be dependent on her."
"I was thinking what a scandal it would make in the parish. Aunt and I don't get on well together, but I'm sure she would never turn me out."
"You ought to have heard her just now. I had no idea Aunt Maria could be so determined. She will give you money—she will help you—but go you must."
"Did she say where?"
"That's for you to decide. Isn't there any sort of job that takes your fancy?"
"I like railways. I always feel at home in a big railway station," George admitted.
"Station-master,—or traffic-manager—might suit you."
"Do you know I really believe it would," said George brightly.
"Now we've found it!" exclaimed Percy. "I'm going the day after tomorrow, and you had better come with me. We will travel up to Waterloo, and you can see the directors there about getting a job as station-master. I don't know if there's a premium, but, if there is, Aunt will pay it. You might get a small suburban station to start with. We'll go on Friday—that's a bargain, George?"
"Right, old chap! It's a long time since I had a holiday," came the ominous reply.
Mrs. Drake opened her heart and purse when she discovered George was about to accept a position as station-master. Miss Yard said she was sorry to hear he was giving up tomatoes, then in the same breath implored Percy to keep away from junctions where people were lost and trains collided with distressing frequency. Kezia mended linen, packed, and uttered many a dark saying about men who left their homes on Friday in the pride of life and were not heard of again. Percy assured his aunts they might always rely upon him to settle any difficulty. While George basked in popularity, like a sleek cat upon a windowsill, and took all that he could get in the way of cash, clothing, and compliments.
"You must come here sometimes. I expect you won't be able to get away for a year or two; but when you do get leave remember this is always your home," said Mrs. Drake warmly.
"I feel sure we shall soon meet again," said George hopefully.
"A year anyhow: you cannot expect a holiday before then. I'm sure the railway will be lucky to get such a fine looking man, though it's a pity you stoop, and I wish you were not quite so stout. Perhaps the King will get out at your station some day; and you will have the honour of putting flower-pots on the platform and laying down the red carpet. You may be knighted, George, or at the very least get a medal for distinguished service."
George was not thinking about honours much; for he had glanced towards the mantelpiece and discovered that the pair of vases were missing.
"I have put them away," explained Mrs. Drake. "They are wrapped up safely in a box underneath my bed."
"I was afraid Percy might have taken them," said George cautiously.
"He did advise me to put them away, as he thought perhaps we ought to take care of them," Mrs. Drake admitted.
"I hate the chap," muttered George.
"I was afraid Aunt Sophy might break them. She is always knocking things over. She takes an ornament from the mantelpiece, and when she tries to put it back she misjudges the distance. It's the same with tables and teacups. She has broken such a lot of crockery."
"Uncle said I was to have the vases and everything else that belonged to him," said George firmly.
"Oh, you needn't worry," Mrs. Drake replied. "Now that you are really going to work for your living, I will let you into a little secret. When I married your uncle he insisted upon going to a lawyer and making his will leaving everything to me, although the dear fellow had nothing to leave except his odds and ends. So then of course I made a will leaving everything to him, although I thought I had nothing to leave; but the lawyer explained that any money I should have in the bank, together with the proportion of income reckoned up to the day of my death, would go to him. Then we adopted you, so I went to the lawyer again, and he put on something called a codicil, which said that, in the event of uncle dying first, everything that I left would go to you."
"Then there is no reason why I should work for my living," said George cheerfully.
"How are you going to live upon the interest of two or three hundred pounds?"
"A man of simple tastes can do with very little," declared the nephew.
Fruit grower and prospective railway magnate went off together on Friday morning, but the only despatch to reach Windward House came from Percy, who announced he had reached his mortgaged premises in perfect safety, after leaving George upon the platform of Waterloo station surrounded by officials. This might have signified anything. Mrs. Drake supposed it meant that all the great men of the railway had assembled to greet their new colleague upon his arrival. What it did mean was that Percy had freed himself of responsibility at the earliest possible moment, abandoning his cousin to a knot of porters who claimed the honour and distinction of dealing with his baggage, which probably they supposed was the property of a gentleman about to penetrate into one of the unexplored corners of the earth.
Not a postcard came from George. He disappeared completely; but Mrs. Drake was delighted to think he was attending to his new duties so strenuously as to be unable to write; while Miss Yard remembered him only once, and then remarked in a reverential whisper that she would very much like to visit his grave.
It was the fourteenth day after the flight of George into the realm of labour; and during the afternoon Mrs. Drake set out upon her weekly pilgrimage to the churchyard, accompanied by Kezia, who carried a basket of flowers, and Bessie with a watering pot. Nellie had settled Miss Yard in her easy chair with the latest report of the Society for Improving the Morals of the Andaman Islanders, and had then retired to her bedroom to do some sewing. The giant tortoise was clearing the kitchen garden of young lettuces; the monkeys were collecting entomological specimens. One of the intelligent parrots exclaimed, "Gone for a walk;" a still more intelligent bird answered, "Here we are again!" Then George passed out of the sunshine and entered the cool parlour.
"Oh dear! I'm afraid I had nearly gone to sleep," said Miss Yard, rising to receive the visitor, and wondering whoever he could be, until she remembered the churchwarden had promised to call for a subscription to the organ fund.
"Do please sit down," she continued and tried to set the example; but she missed the chair by a few inches and descended somewhat heavily upon the footstool. The visitor helped her to rise, and was much thanked. "You will stay to tea? My sister will be here presently," Miss Yard continued, while she fumbled in her reticule, and at last produced a sovereign. "You see I had it all ready for you. I remembered I had promised it," she said triumphantly.
George pocketed the coin, and thanked her heartily. He mentioned that it was very dusty walking, and he was weary, having travelled a considerable distance since the morning. Then he proposed to leave Miss Yard, who shook hands, and said how sorry her sister would be not to have seen him; and went to his bedroom, which he was considerably annoyed to find had been converted into a place for lumber.
"Maria, you have missed the vicar!" cried Miss Yard excitedly, the moment her sister returned. "I gave him a sovereign for the Andaman Islanders, and he told me what a lot of sleeping sickness there is in the village."
"What are you talking about? The vicar can't have been here, for we saw him in the churchyard, and he never mentioned any sickness in the village."
"Perhaps I was thinking of something I had just read about. One gets muddled sometimes. But the vicar—or somebody—has been, and there was nearly a dreadful accident. He caught his foot in the hearth rug, but luckily my footstool broke his fall."
At that moment footsteps descended the stairs. With a feeling that the sounds were horribly familiar, Mrs. Drake hurried into the hall, there to discover her nephew, who appeared delighted to be home again upon a thoroughly well earned holiday. "George, I have prayed that you wouldn't do this," she cried.
"It's all right, Aunt," came the cheery answer. "Though perhaps itwasrather silly of me to start work upon a Friday. The railway profession is very much overcrowded just now, and there's not a single vacancy for station-master anywhere. They have put my name on the waiting list, and as soon as there's a job going, they will write and let me know. I am quite content to wait, and I may just as well do it here as in expensive lodgings."
"How long do you expect to wait?"
"Can't tell. It may be a slow business, but it's sure. A station-master told me you may have to wait year after year, but promotion is bound to come at last—if you live long enough."
"Then you may do nothing for years."
"I'm not going to take anything; I owe it to my uncle's memory to occupy a respectable position. Still, if I can't get a terminus after a few months' waiting, I'll put up with a small junction. Rather than not work at all, I would condescend to act as a mere Inspector," said George with dignity.
"I wish the vicar would shave off his moustache," Miss Yard murmured.
Every evening at nine Mrs. Drake drank a cup of coffee. This was a custom of some historical importance, and it originated after the following manner:
Captain Drake had a great liking for a small glass of whisky and water after his evening pipe; but, during the first few weeks of married life, refrained from divulging this weakness to his wife, who could not understand why he became so restless at the same time every evening. The Captain explained that, when he had finished smoking, he suffered from an incurable longing to arise and walk about the house. Mrs. Drake advised him to take exercise by all means, and the Captain did so, wandering towards the dining room at nine o'clock, and returning about ten minutes later in a thoroughly satisfied state of mind. But one evening the lady heard him whisper to the servant, "Water, my child! Water!"—the Captain never could whisper properly—and upon another evening she distinguished the creak of a corkscrew, while every evening she was able to detect a subtle aroma which could not have been introduced as one of the ordinary results of walking about the house.
"So you are fond of whisky," she said sharply.
"Well, not exactly fond of it, my dear," stammered the Captain. "Really I don't care for whisky, but I like the feeling it gives me."
"I don't like hypocrisy, and I dislike still more the feeling it gives me. In future we will drink together. When you take your glass of whisky, I will have a cup of coffee," she replied.
After the arrival of Miss Yard at Windward House, she too was offered the cup, but declined, as she abhorred coffee.
"But it's cocoa," explained Kezia.
"Why do you call it coffee then?" asked Miss Yard, who had quite enough to perplex her poor brain without this unnecessary difficulty.
"Mrs. Drake used to have coffee once, but, as she never cared for it much, she took to cocoa. She has drunk cocoa for twenty years, but we always call it coffee."
Bessie and Robert stayed every evening to drink coffee, which was generally cocoa, but sometimes beer. One evening Nellie was so late that Kezia declared she should wait for her no longer. It was Thursday, and Nellie, who sang in the choir, had gone out to attend the weekly practice. Suddenly Robert withdrew his head from a steaming bowl and declared he heard voices in the garden. All listened, and presently Nellie's laughter passed in at the back door, which stood open as the night was warm, but Nellie did not accompany it.
Robert made a signal to the others, and they tiptoed out like so many conspirators, to discover the young lady enjoying a confidential conversation with somebody else who sang in the choir, and whose voice had been described by the schoolmaster-organist as a promising baritone. It looked as if it was promising then.
A few minutes later Kezia and Bessie appeared in the parlour, and asked Mrs. Drake if she had any objection to Sidney Brock drinking a cup of coffee.
"Who is Sidney Brock?" demanded Mrs. Drake, like a learned judge of the King's Bench.
"He'm the grandson of Eli Brock, and he sings in the choir."
Mrs. Drake expressed her approval, but required to know more about the family before she could issue a permit to Sidney entitling him to drink coffee.
"They'm the new folk to Black Anchor," explained Bessie. "Mr. Brock used to keep a post office, they ses, but it failed, and now he'm farming wi' Sidney, and they ha' got no woman, and they took Black Anchor because 'twas to be had vor nothing nearly, and 'tis wonderful, Robert ses, what a lot they ha' done already."
"The post office failed!" exclaimed Miss Yard, who had been listening intently with a hand behind her ear. "What a pity! Now I shan't be able to write any more letters."
"Mr. Brock's post office, miss," cried Bessie. "It was a shop as well, but it didn't pay."
"How much does he want?" asked Miss Yard, searching for her reticule.
"Nothing, miss."
"What's he come for then? I hope he hasn't brought a telegram."
"He's one of the choirmen, Sophy," exclaimed Mrs. Drake, adding, "But I don't know why he should come here."
"He's just brought your Nellie home," said Kezia.
"Oh, I am so thankful!" cried Miss Yard. "I knew Nellie would be lost, going out these dreadful dark nights."
"She only went to choir practice, miss. Sidney is her young man now, and they'll make the best looking couple in Highfield," said Bessie.
"How silly of you to tell her that!" said Mrs. Drake crossly.
Miss Yard said nothing for a few moments. She stared at the mummy, then at the grandfather clock, which was no longer in working order; and presently her poor old face began to twitch and tears rolled down her cheeks. She tried to rise, but Kezia restrained her with kindly hands, saying, "Don't worry, miss. Sidney is a very nice young man, and I'm sure Nellie couldn't do much better."
"She never told me," sobbed Miss Yard.
"Perhaps she did, but you know you don't remember anything," said Mrs. Drake soothingly.
"My memory is as good as yours. I can remember you eating a lot of chocolate on your fifth birthday, and being suddenly sick in the fender. Nellie has run away and got married—and I never gave her a wedding present—and I can't get on without her. You know, Maria, I never did like that fat woman at the post office."
"What has she got to do with Nellie?"
"You told me Nellie had to marry the man because the post office failed—and that woman opens my letters and reads them."
"Call Nellie and tell her to put Miss Sophy to bed," ordered Mrs. Drake.
"The young man's waiting outside," Kezia reminded her.
"Ask him in, and give him a cup of coffee. And, when she has gone to bed, tell him to come in here. I want to see what he is like. Get Nellie, quick!" cried the lady; for Miss Yard had got away from her chair and was knocking things over.
Nellie appeared in full flower, to scold her mistress for not remaining dormant until her usual bedtime; but on this occasion Miss Yard rebelled against discipline.
"You have deceived me," she said bitterly. "You have been a little viper. Everybody in this house deceives me, and keeps things from me, except George. He is the only gentleman here. He's the only one who knows how to behave properly. When I hit my head upon the door, he was sorry for me; but you laughed, and my sister laughed, and everybody's laughing now except George. He knows how hard it is to walk out of a room without hurting yourself."
"It's so easy to laugh somehow," said Nellie.
"Why did you marry the postman without telling me?"
"I have not married the postman, and I'm not thinking of getting married; and what's more I won't marry while I have you to look after," Nellie promised.
"But you went out and got lost, and some man found you, and they all say you married him."
"There wasn't time," said Nellie. "Now come away to bed, and we'll talk about it in the morning."
"I hope we shall be able to forget all the malice and wickedness. Maria, do let us try to begin all over again," said Miss Yard earnestly. "This evil speaking and slandering is so dreadful. You tried to take away poor Nellie's character; you heard Kezia say she was a regular bad girl; and that horrid Bessie, who willnotstop growing, said it was because the woman at the post office couldn't sell her stamps, and then the postman tempted her to run off with him."
"But he didn't succeed," said the laughing girl, as she conveyed Miss Yard towards the stairs.
As they disappeared George entered the house, and observed to his aunt that the night was warm. Mrs. Drake felt cold towards her nephew, whose letter of appointment had not yet arrived, but she thawed sufficiently to inquire whether he knew anything about the Brocks. George became suspicious, and answered guardedly:
"The old man is a marvel. He cooks the food and keeps the house tidy, and puts in a good day's work as well upon the worst farm in the parish. But the people don't like him much."
"Why not?" demanded Mrs. Drake.
"They think it's queer a man should do a woman's work; and some of them say it's not quite decent."
His voice died away into a gasp of amazement, for that moment Kezia announced Sidney, and that young fellow appeared upon the carpet. George had been about to give him a remarkably good character, but was now disposed to reconsider his decision; especially when Mrs. Drake, after a few preliminary remarks, introduced the name of Nellie. George immediately withdrew to a back window and began to search for flies.
"She is a very good girl, and my sister is wonderfully attached to her," Mrs. Drake resumed.
"Same here," said Sidney promptly.
"I don't know whether you are engaged to her," said Mrs. Drake.
"Well, we don't exactly get engaged. We just walk together until we can get married, and then we do it," exclaimed Sidney.
"I hope you won't ask her to marry you while my sister is alive."
"Nellie wouldn't leave Miss Yard, and 'twould be no gude my asking her."
"Do you think the farm will pay?" was Mrs. Drake's next question.
"We'll get a living out of it, sure enough," replied Sidney cheerfully. "The last folk left it in a pretty bad state—they let the bog get into the best field, and the whole place is vull of verm—but there's plenty of gude soil. 'Twill take a year to get straight, and after that we shall go ahead. Grandfather's past seventy, but he's vor ten hours a day yet."
"An example for some men," commented the lady, with a shrug of her shoulders towards the fly killer. "The finest man in the world—that's grandfather. There ain't hardly a job he can't do, whether 'tis man's work or woman's work."
"How old are you?"
"Past nineteen."
"Would you marry a girl older than yourself?"
"If her name wur Nellie Blisland, I would."
"I hope you will get on," said Mrs. Drake in her kindliest fashion. "You may come in any evening for a cup of coffee with the others, and tell your grandfather to stay to supper with you on Sundays after church."
"Thankye kindly," said Sidney.
"That's what I call a man, though he is only nineteen," observed Mrs. Drake, when she and her nephew were alone again.
"Oh yes, he's a nice boy, a clever boy. A bit mealy-mouthed, and all that sort of thing," said George indifferently.
"Do you know anything against him?"
"I can see what's going on. The old man is one of the best, but Sidney isn't quite straight. This singing in the choir, you know, is just a blind. Nellie's not the only girl."
"Do you mean to say the boy is a humbug—like you are?"
"Find out for yourself," replied George fiercely, and stalked out of the room.
Local rumour was brought to Windward House every day by Robert, but Mrs. Drake had no direct communication with him. She inquired of Kezia concerning Sidney's character, and Kezia appealed to Bessie, who knew quite as much as her husband, although she could not speak with his authority. Robert declared he liked Sidney, and had never seen him with more than one young woman at a time; but he admitted some rather unkind things were being said against the two occupants of the lonely farm, especially by the women, who were of opinion that old Brock had disposed of his former relations by means of those illegal methods which made the ordinary Sunday newspaper such interesting and instructive reading. At all events, a man who was independent of female labour could not expect to be regarded as a Christian, even though he did attend church and had grown a patriarchal beard. The Brocks, in short, were not like other men; they were therefore mysteries; and anything of a mysterious nature was bound to be intimately connected with secret crime.
These things Robert admitted, quite forgetting—if the fact had ever dawned upon him—that it was the custom in Highfield, as in other places about the Forest of Dartmoor, for the parishioners to revile each other amongst themselves, and to defend one another against all outsiders. In the bad old days a certain vicar of Highfield had been a notorious drunkard, and was so hated by his people that he could hardly appear in the street without being insulted; but when the authorities sought to procure evidence against him, all were for their vicar, and the very men who had carried him home drunk the previous night swore they had never known him the worse for liquor. Mrs. Drake did not know of this peculiarity, and was therefore forced to the conclusion that Mr. Brock had a past, which was not wonderful considering his age; and that, if Nellie married Sidney and went to live at Black Anchor, it was quite possible she would not have a future. So she instructed Kezia not to encourage the young man, and advised Nellie to fall out of love as tactfully as possible.
In the meantime, George appeared to be passing through the throes of reformation. Although actually the same unprofitable person, he succeeded, by a skilful change of methods, in making his aunt believe industry was now the one and the only thing he lived for. He displayed a passion for railways; talked of little but express trains and timetables; constructed a model of a railway station out of a few packing cases; and drew caricatures of locomotives. He fumed every morning because the long expected letter from headquarters still failed to arrive. Mrs. Drake, who was easily deceived, quite supposed George had turned over a new leaf; and he had done so, but without changing his book. He had not the slightest intention of quitting Windward House, but he could see no prospect of carrying out his programme by persevering in the old methods. He continued to idle away his time; but he did so in a different fashion.
His next step was to develop the programme, and to indulge a few of the leading items to the other person whose name was writ large upon it. This was no easy matter, since opportunity, resolution, and guileless speech would have to be obtained simultaneously. George's eloquence was of the meanest description; he was master of no honeyed phrase, while his method of expressing affection for another consisted in advertising the virtues of himself.
One afternoon he was lying beneath a favourite apple tree, when a fine specimen of the fruit fell upon his chest. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked round. Then he ate the apple and listened. The silence was profound; he seemed to be indolent monarch of a lazy world. George remembered that, shortly before sleep had gently touched his eyelids, Mrs. Drake and Kezia had passed out of the garden. Miss Yard would be contentedly muddling through the maze of some missionary magazine. While the only other person in the house might be sitting beside a window at the back.
George comprehended that the falling apple had been a call to seize the opportunity; resolution he seemed to have acquired by devouring it; eloquence alone was wanting. But big words, he knew, could never fail brave people.
Fortune was smiling in the kindest way from the little upstairs window, where Nellie's head was bobbing over a sewing-machine, which she fed with yards of summer-cloud material. George went on steadily reforming and strenuously gazing; but Nellie did not condescend to throw a glance in his direction.
"There's a nice view from your window," he said at last; an unfortunate beginning, as the girl could see little except himself.
"Lovely," she said, without looking around.
"Are you sewing?" George inquired gently.
"Learning the typewriter," she replied.
George wanted to go into the house and procure a glass of cider, but dared not lose the opportunity.
"Nellie," he said, making as many syllables possible of her name, "do you mind me talking to you a little about yourself?"
"I can't prevent it unless I shut the window, and don't want to do that," she said.
"I wanted to say that—to remind you that my aunt is not going to live for ever," George continued.
"That's not talking about me."
"Ah, but I'm coming to you presently."
"You can stay where you are," she said coldly.
"Miss Yard won't live for ever either," said George, more confidently. "She can't leave you anything, because all her money goes to my beastly cousin Percy. I know she is always promising to leave you money, but she can't do it."
"I am to have her furniture anyhow," said Nellie, removing her hands from the machine, and turning at last towards the window.
"Oh no! I get that. Aunt Sophy's furniture is to go with the rest."
"Is that really true?" asked Nellie, who had good reason to be suspicious of Miss Yard's promises.
"Yes, it all comes to me," said George eagerly. "I shall have the furniture, and the house, and the cash my aunt leaves. The two Chinese vases aunt keeps underneath her bed are worth a thousand pounds; that's a great secret, and I wouldn't tell any one but you. The other things will fetch five hundred pounds. Then I shall have the money that aunt leaves—perhaps another five hundred. Then the property will bring another thousand. So you see, when the old ladies die, I shall have pots of money."
"It will mean more to be you then than it does now," said Nellie darkly.
"Yes, I shall be quite rich. You see, there's no reason why I should work, as aunt is well past seventy."
"But I thought you were going to do something great and wonderful on the railway?"
"That was an idea, but I can't afford to leave the place; that's another secret, Nellie, and I wouldn't tell any one but you. I am so afraid aunt may give away the vases. She's getting a bit queer in her memory too, and she's always giving away things. When I went to see about a job on the railway she sent a lot of my things to a rummage sale. She has given Kezia the bed she sleeps on, and a lot more things; but they all belong to me, and I shall claim them when she dies."
"She has promised me the round table in the parlour," said Nellie.
"Of course I don't mind what she gives you," said George awkwardly.
"Many thanks. Now I must go and put on the kettle for tea. You have told me such a lot about myself."
"Yes, and I've got still more to say. I shall have quite three thousand pounds—and my tastes are very simple. I don't expect much, and I don't ask for much. It's my own belief that I can put up with almost anybody."
"Now I'm in for it!" Nellie murmured, with a scorching glance at the somewhat dejected figure in the garden.
"I have always flattered myself," George rambled on, with the feeling that eloquence had come to him at last, "I can get along anyhow with anyone."
"You mustn't be too complimentary. Flattery alone is not worth much, you know," she said carelessly.
"I mean all that I say, and—and I'm not so idle as they make out, but what's the good of breaking your back when you are coming into thousands? It's only taking a job from some other fellow. I can draw quite well, and paint, and prune roses, and I shall have all my uncle's famous furniture, and the house, and the money—"
"Oh, for goodness' sake, don't keep on talking about me," cried Nellie.
"If you won't let me say anything more, I'll write it all down," said George delightedly. "I have tried, but it's so hard to find a word to rhyme with Nellie, while Nell is just as bad. Now if your name had been Mary, there's dairy, and fairy, and hairy—"
"And wary," laughed the girl, as she ran away from the window.
Squinting Jack declared there were some things better than a murder. He referred to the mystery which surrounded the unnatural tenants of Black Anchor Farm. They had received a visitor, who was neither honest gentleman, nor respectable lady; but a woman with bold red cheeks. She had driven through Highfield, staring at the inhabitants and smiling at their dwelling places; her driver had inquired of the first gentleman in the place—George being set up above the vicar because he did no work—which of the lanes ahead would be most likely to lead towards Black Anchor; and a few days later this same red-cheeked lady had been driven back through the village, staring and smiling as before. Her clothes where the saddest part about her; for she was dressed in the height of fashion.
So far the Dismal Gibcat had defended the Brocks because every other person was against them; he admired their poverty and loved their humility; he prophesied kindly concerning their future, and sent them superfluous vegetables. The three stages of manhood were at last represented in Highfield parish by righteous men: old Brock, young Sidney, and his middle-aged self. But the vision and visit of the painted lady caused two vacancies. The Dismal Gibcat drew the line at well dressed women.
The Yellow Leaf was consulted because of his knowledge of the world's history, and he gave it as his opinion that the atmosphere of Highfield had been deprived by the nameless visitor of a considerable amount of moral oxygen: in the first place she belonged to a higher class than the Brocks; in the second place she came upon a secret mission, and in the third place she entered a house which it was notorious contained no other woman. She could not be a relation; while, if she had come as a friend, all he could say was heaven preserve Highfield from such friendships.
"Some poor folk do have rich relations, though mine ain't come along yet," said Squinting Jack.
"What would you be saying about me, if I wur to receive a visit from a young lady wi' red-hot painted cheeks?" inquired the Yellow Leaf.
"I should say you wur lucky," replied Squinting Jack.
"Her cheeks wur warmish, I allow; but I wouldn't exactly call 'em painted," observed the Dumpy Philosopher.
"You'm mixing it up wi' doorpost paint. Ask your missus if her cheeks warn't plastered wi' cosmetics," said the Yellow Leaf crossly.
"I'd rather not," retorted the Dumpy Philosopher.
"There be two ways of looking at pretty nigh everything, a gude way and a bad way," urged the Gentle Shepherd. "There be ladies who take a kindly interest in young men, and try to help 'em along a bit. Us knows the Brocks ain't got much money, vor they ha' took the poorest farm in the whole parish. Maybe this lady is helping young Sidney a bit, and her come along to see how he wur doing."
The others listened doubtfully, then turned to hear the oracle's opinion.
"I ha' heard tell o' such ladies, but I ain't seen one of 'em; and I wants to see a thing avore I believes—ay, I wants to see it two or dree times," said the Yellow Leaf. Then he asked, "How old do you say her wur?"
The Dumpy Philosopher fancied the region of twenty; the Gentle Shepherd thought the neighbourhood of forty; while Squinting Jack suggested second childhood.
"You can tell an old lady when you sees one," replied the Yellow Leaf, "and you can tell a young maid when you sees one; but when you can't tell whether a woman be old or young, then you'm looking at something what ain't respectable. 'Tis old folk what be charitable, and she warn't old; and when young ladies be charitable to young men, their charity ain't far away from home, I reckon. They Brocks ha' no woman to mind vor 'em; 'tis because they don't dare to; 'tis because this lady wouldn't like it, and they can't tell when she may be coming. She'm a jealous lady vor certain, and she won't have no woman to Black Anchor 'cept it be herself. And she couldn't come to the farm if they had another woman, vor her wouldn't have the face to do it."
This was one of the longest, and quite the wisest, of all the opinions stated by the Yellow Leaf. Although it could hardly add to his reputation, it destroyed entirely the credit of the Brocks.
"The old man don't hardly ever come into the village, 'cept it be to church, and he don't pass the time o' day to no one," said the Dumpy Philosopher.
"Now I come to think of it, young Sidney has a funny, uneducated sort o' way of answering," added Squinting Jack.
"They'm mysteries," concluded the Yellow Leaf, "and I hopes to live to see 'em all exposed to the vull light o' day."
Robert passed this scandal to Bessie, and she hurried it across to Kezia, who carried it while still fresh into the parlour, and presented it to both the ladies. Miss Yard expressed no interest, but Mrs. Drake was painfully distressed. She was ageing rapidly, and beginning to lose her memory too; she had forgotten what a very favourable impression the boy had made upon her.
"Are you quite sure she did go to Black Anchor?" Mrs. Drake inquired.
"Yes, Aunt," said George, who was busy designing locomotives. "She asked me the way—at least the driver did. They were both strangers to me."
"Quite a young gal, warn't she, Mr. George?" appealed Kezia.
"Not more than eighteen, I should think. But she wore a wedding ring; I saw it distinctly."
"Yes, mum; I saw her drive past, so bold and staring. They say she's an actress, mum."
"How awful! I suppose she's his wife."
"Well, mum, us all hopes she is."
"The wretched young man! How can he be so wicked!"
"Is anybody wicked?" asked Miss Yard vacantly.
"Never mind, Sophy. It's nobody you care about. Has she been told? You know who I mean."
"Oh no, mum. We wouldn't like to say anything much to her. But of course she mustn't go out with him any more."
"Of course not," said George vigorously.
"I suppose I must break it to her," said Mrs. Drake. "And he sings in the choir too—miserable wretch!"
"I warned you, Aunt," said George.
"He must never come into the house again. Ask Robert to tell him."
"Oh no, mum! We couldn't drink coffee with him now. He seemed such a nice young man too. Robert thought him almost like a gentleman."
"It's often these nice young men who turn out the greatest humbugs," said Mrs. Drake severely.
"What is she saying? I do hope there are no such things in the house," Miss Yard cried anxiously.
Nellie was thoroughly well told. Kezia, Bessie, and Robert were alike eager to play the part of candid friend because they liked her so much; indeed, they somewhat overwhelmed her with candid affection. According to Bessie, the mysterious lady had been overheard imploring Sidney to return with her; while Robert declared the young man had confessed the whole truth. Kezia could invent nothing, so contented herself with moaning over life's tragedies like the chorus of a Greek play. Nellie, being a wise maid, argued with nobody, and smiled at everyone; but her eyes made people sorry for her; and because of their sympathy they brought yet other charges against Sidney.
Nellie waited for choir practice, when she hoped to hear a healthier story. She expressed no gratitude when the heroic George offered to accompany her to church, lest the dragon Sidney should abduct her forcibly and add her to his collection in the cupboard at home. He explained these references according to the best of his historical information, quoting the story of Bluebeard at some length. He was still talking when Nellie escaped from the house, and went to church by herself.
During practice the other members of the choir shrank from Sidney, as if afraid he should make some evil communication; and they practised the hymns, which were of a penitential nature, at him. It was never the custom in Highfield to allow even one sinner to go unpunished.
"At last!" exclaimed Nellie, when they were out of the church and alone together in Dartmoor wind and darkness. "Of course you know what I am going to say?" she added.