"This is easier than catching flies," was George's comment, when the cheque for the furniture arrived, together with a document which pretended to be a receipt, but was unable to disguise the fact that it was also an agreement; for it contained a clause, by which George undertook to quit Windward House within three calendar months, and to accept Miss Yard as his tenant for life at a yearly rental of thirty pounds.
He looked forward to a busy day without flinching. Some forms of labour were fascinating, and quashing lawyers was one of them. George did not write to Mr. Hunter returning thanks, but walked into the market town and opened an account with the post office savings bank by paying in the comfortable cheque. Returning to Highfield, he lured Nellie into the garden, and informed her he was piling up money in a reckless fashion.
"Two hundred pounds this morning," he said. "Another two hundred next week. And so it will go on."
"Where's it all coming from?" she asked.
"Money Aunt left me. They don't know what a lot shedidleave. It's a great secret and I wouldn't tell any one but you. I'm refusing money—that gentleman who called the other day begged me to accept a thousand pounds, but I wouldn't look at it. I can retire any day now."
"From what?" she laughed.
"From business. Making money is business, and I'm making it like the Mint."
"Did you really get two hundred pounds this morning?"
"Look at this, if you can't believe me," George replied, showing her the bank book. "It's nothing—just a flea bite—what the French call a game of bagatelle. Still it would give many an honest soul a start in life."
"You had better lend the money to your cousin," suggested Nellie.
"I'd let it perish first," cried George. "Whatever made you think of such a thing?"
"Mr. Taverner wrote to Miss Sophy this morning—she shows me all her letters now—and asked her to lend him two hundred pounds, as he had suddenly discovered another mortgage he had forgotten to pay off."
"The fellow's a ruffian!" exclaimed George, not without some admiration for Percy's methods of finance, which compared favourably with his own.
"He had learnt the profession of begging, and isn't ashamed to practise it. I think he might wait until Miss Sophy is dead."
"Percy has no moral sense," said George, with the utmost severity. "He has visited here, and I have entertained him; but he has never given me anything except superciliousness, and on one occasion a cigar which was useless except as a germicide. I have never yet heard your opinion of him."
"He's a name and nothing else," she said.
"I did have an idea he wanted to be something to you."
"What rubbish! He never even looked at me properly. When he didn't gaze at my boots he stared over my head; and he spoke to me like a gramophone."
"You didn't exactly like him?" George suggested.
"I positively dislike him."
"You never looked at him softly with your nice blue eyes?"
"My eyes are not blue."
"They seem very blue sometimes, but I'm not good at colours. I am glad you don't like Percy. It has removed a great weight from my mind. I had a dreadful suspicion, Nellie, and—and I was afraid it might interfere with my sleep; but I won't say anything more about it now. Don't you think we had better meet this evening, when it is getting dusk," George rambled on heavily, "and go a little walk, and talk about plans?"
"I have no plans," said Nellie. "I shall just go on living here until Miss Yard dies, and then I shall pack up my belongings—including the round table in the parlour—and disappear from Highfield forever."
"Not you," said George. "I have a quantity of plans, Nellie; a lot for you as well as for myself."
"Tell me all about them."
"This is not the time."
"Can't you speak while we stand here in the sunshine?"
"It would be easier if we were walking about in the dark."
"That might be bad for me," she reminded him. "When a couple talk in the dark, other couples talk about them. I will listen to some of your plans—with a decided preference for those about myself. You shall tell me four," she said, tapping the first finger of her right hand. "What is plan number one?"
"About Aunt Sophy," replied George promptly:
"Unless there's a sudden change in temperature," murmured Nellie, "I am to be frozen out again."
"You come last," said tactless George.
"Just as I expected, and perhaps a little more," she answered.
"Aunt Sophy must die," said George firmly. "That sad event should happen any time now. The first plan is to get rid of her."
"Let it be done decently," she begged.
"I don't want her to die, for, of course, one is always sorry to lose old relations. Aunt Maria's death was a great shock to me," George explained. "But for Aunt Sophy it would be a happy release, especially as I cannot be master in my own house while she lives. She ought to have gone before Aunt Maria."
"I suppose she forgot."
"Do you notice any signs of breaking down?"
"In yourself?" asked Nellie gently.
"In Aunt Sophy. I—I don't much like to be made fun of, Nellie."
"I was trying to cheer you up, as this is not Miss Sophy's funeral. Don't worry about the dear lady; she is perfectly well and thoroughly happy; her health has been much better since we came to Highfield; and I shall be quite astonished if she doesn't live another twenty years. She is a great admirer of the giant tortoise—"
"He's over five hundred years old," cried George in anguish.
"That makes Miss Yard the smallest kind of infant."
"If she lives another two years, I must give her notice. I cannot have her upsetting all my plans—though I quite agree with you she is a dear old lady."
"Plan number two!" cried Nellie.
"That concerns myself," said George.
"You should have been number one," she said reproachfully.
"I had to put Aunt Sophy first, because I cannot arrange my own future while she occupies the house. I don't want to say too much about myself."
"I know," said Nellie sympathetically. "That's your way. But you should try to be a little selfish sometimes."
"You are quite right, Nellie; we must think of our own interests. I have wasted far too much time bothering about Aunt Sophy, Kezia, Bessie—"
"And me!!" cried Nellie. "Do let me come in somewhere."
"Not with them. You come in a class by yourself."
"The fourth," she murmured.
"As Aunt Sophy is so good and religious we cannot want her to live on, knowing how much happier she will be in the next world; and then I can settle down as the big man of Highfield—quite the biggest man in the place, and I hope the most respectable. Mr. and Mrs. George Drake, of Windward House, in the parish of Highfield and county of Devon, Esquire, as the lawyers say."
"How unkind! You introduce Mrs. Drake, and then ignore her. You married her at one end of your sentence and divorced her, for no fault whatever, at the other end."
"Married ladies are not credited with separate existences," explained George.
"They generally insist upon taking one."
"By lawyers, I mean. They are not distinct entities like spinsters and widows."
"I see: while I am single I have a personality, when I marry I lose it, when I am a widow I regain it. You could not have improved upon that sentence."
"Why not?" asked George.
"In its repetition of the most important letter in the alphabet. Now for plan number three."
"But I have said nothing about myself yet!" cried George.
"Don't try. You are finding it very disagreeable, I am sure; and after all I can guess. This house ought to be converted into a mansion, and you mean to do it. This village sadly needs a squire, resident magistrate, pillar of uprightness; and you fully intend to supply that want."
George nodded, and hoped she would go on talking like that, blinking after the fashion of a tomcat who has just enjoyed a bowl of cream.
"I have all sorts of plans for my future, but they are not properly arranged yet. Aunt Sophy blocks them all. I am not ambitious," George blundered on, "but I do mean to have a comfortable home, luxurious armchairs, piles of cushions, deep carpets, felt slippers, and good cigars. I don't care how simple my food is, so long as I have good tobacco, and the very finest tea obtainable. I should like to turn the parlour into a tea house, with a divan at one end where I could lie and smoke—sometimes."
"A dream of Turkish delight!" laughed Nellie. "What is the third plan?"
"Concerning finance, and there I can't be beaten," replied George promptly.
"I thought you were rolling in money."
"It is coming in nicely now," George admitted, "but after a time the flow will cease; while I shall still be spending. The problem before me is how to invest my capital so that I shall be certain of a comfortable income. Government securities are treacherous things, and I have very little confidence in railways. The secret of wealth is to invest your cash in those things which everybody must have. Now every man must buy tobacco and drink beer; they are necessities of life. And every woman must carry an umbrella. What is a woman's principal necessity next to an umbrella?"
"No respectable girl would even think of anything except umbrellas," replied Nellie. "But most girls are not respectable, I'm afraid, and, though it is a horrible confession to make, they cannot be happy unless they are constantly supplied with chocolates."
"Is that really the truth?" asked George, with much interest.
"It is, indeed. My kind of girl must have chocolates, just as your kind of man must drink beer."
"Now that you mention it, I seem to remember there are an extraordinarily lot of sweet shops in every town."
"And I should visit them all, just as naturally as you would go into the public houses."
"That's a very valuable suggestion," said George. "I shall invest the whole of my capital in beer, tobacco, umbrellas, and chocolates. You see, Nellie, that will practically cover the prime necessities of either sex. A man goes to work with a pipe in his mouth, and he walks straight into a public-house. A woman comes out with an umbrella, and the first thing she does is to buy chocolates."
"There are sure to be exceptions," said Nellie. "A bishop, for instance, might not go to his cathedral with a pipe in his mouth, while a Cabinet Minister would probably walk straight past several public-houses."
"But they all smoke and drink at home."
"I don't fancy somehow that bishops drink beer."
"Bottled beer," said George eagerly.
"Surely some are teetotallers!"
"Then they drink cocoa, and that's chocolate melted down. On the other hand, plenty of ladies drink beer. You can see them carrying jugs—"
"Not ladies!" cried Nellie.
"Well, charwomen—they are ladies from a business point of view. I can see myself making tons of money," said George delightedly. "If only Aunt Sophy—"
"Do please let the poor old lady live on and enjoy herself. You wouldn't like to be hunted out of the world to suit anybody's plans. And now," said Nellie, "we reach the fourth subject, which I flatter myself has some connection with a certain person who is quite used to being regarded as an afterthought."
"Three persons—Kezia, Bessie, Robert. They must go, all of them."
"Really this is the last straw!" cried Nellie. "I was almost certain I should be at least honourably mentioned."
"But I am talking to you, not about you. I'm telling you my secrets—and I wouldn't do that to anyone but you. Nellie, you don't think I am playing with your affections?"
"I'll not listen any longer. I couldn't expect to come first, but I did hope to be placed last."
"If you would walk after dark—"
"I'm not a ghost; besides, I will not be ashamed to stand in the light."
"Then we might talk about something that means love," said George, who, being wound up for that sentence, was bound to finish it.
"Oh, George!" exclaimed one of the parrots.
"I wonder what it would be like," said Nellie, when she had done laughing.
"You teach those birds to say things," he muttered crossly.
"They are so intelligent. That one can say, 'Nellie's the belle of the ball.' Even that sort of compliment is better than none."
"I am thinking, Nellie, that you like chocolates. I had better get you some," George continued, believing it might be threepence well invested.
"That wouldn't be a bad idea."
"And you would take them as a compliment from me?"
"I'll take all I can get," she promised.
"You know, Nellie, I'm older than you, but I'm reliable. I'm not much good at silly talk, but I do mean what I say. I can quite understand some men would say very silly things to you, but I can't."
"People will talk rubbish when they are in love," she admitted.
"It's a very serious matter. I wouldn't joke about such a thing," said George.
"Of course, when a man tells his own particular girl she is a star, a flower, an angel, and a goddess, he is only joking; but most girls are so sweet tempered they can take a joke."
"I never made a joke," cried George.
"And I hope you will never try."
"But I'm full of affection."
"I have never seen any one quite so seriously in love as you are."
"I'm so glad you can see it. You have quite sensible eyes, Nellie, and I think you may improve a good deal as you get older. I am easy-going, and you are pleasant, so we ought to get along very well."
"You are so much in love," cried Nellie, "that you can't help saying silly things. You regard the person that you love as the most angelic creature possible; and angels are always masculine in spite of lovers' talk."
"I take people as I find them; I never look for their faults," said the virtuous George.
"Try! If you could discover a few faults in the person that you love, it might help you to stop saying, 'I am,' and to begin learning, 'Thou art,'" replied Nellie, as she ran off towards the house.
"There, George!" cried one of the parrots; while the giant tortoise thoughtfully advanced one millimetre.
"She is not nearly serious enough," said George, "and I'm afraid her words sometimes have a double meaning; but she is useful and quite ornamental. She pours out tea beautifully, and I do admire the way she puts on Aunt Sophy's slippers."
The next duty—a more simple one—was to win the sympathy of Miss Yard. Every evening, when fine enough, the lady walked once round the garden and, upon returning to the house, was packed into her chair till supper time; although she refused to remain quiescent, and would wander about the room hiding her valuables in secret corners. On this particular evening she fell asleep and, when George entered the parlour, she did not recognise him until he had introduced himself.
"I shall soon be getting quite stupid," she said. "I was just going to ask you to sit down and wait for yourself. But I'm thankful to say my memory is just as good as ever."
"Then you remember Percy?" began George, seating himself close beside her.
"Oh dear yes! I often hear from Percy. He tells me he has a fine crop of potatoes."
"Tomatoes."
"He dug up two hundred pounds' worth last week. I had a letter from him this morning telling me that."
"And you remember Mr. Hunter?" George went on.
"I've just sent him a subscription for his new church," replied Miss Yard.
"Ah, that's somebody else. I mean Mr. Hunter, your family solicitor."
"Oh, yes, I remember him quite well. He came to see me when I lived somewhere else. It must have been a long time ago, because he's been dead for years."
"He's back again at his office now, and has written to me. He tells me I am to leave you," said George solemnly.
Miss Yard gasped and looked frightened at this message from the grave. She seized George's arm and ordered him to say it all over again, more slowly.
"Mr. Hunter is afraid that, if I live here, I may rob you; so he says I must go out into the world and make my own living. That's impossible at my time of life," said George warmly.
"You wouldn't do such a thing," cried Miss Yard, almost in tears. "You are so kind to me; you find my money when the others hide it away. If I break anything you are always the first to run for the doctor—I mean when I bump my head. I shall write to Mr. Hunter and tell him his new church will never prosper if he does this sort of thing."
"It is hard to be ordered out of my own house," said George.
"Whatever can the man be thinking of! I really cannot understand a clergyman being so wicked. Perhaps I ought to write to the bishop."
"He's a lawyer, Aunt," George shouted.
"Now why didn't you tell me that before?" said Miss Yard crossly. "Of course, lawyers will do anything. The people who did my father's business were the only honest lawyers I ever came across. This house belongs to me, and you shall stay here as long as you like. If you'll find my cheque-book I will write to this man at once—I mean, if you will bring my pen, you shall have a little present, for you are always so thoughtful. I am so sorry your poor dear mother didn't leave you much."
George had not time to correct her error; besides, it was useless. He brought her writing materials after a vain search for the cheque-book, for Nellie had taken possession of that, and said, "I don't want to confuse you, Aunt, but I suppose you will be leaving Nellie something?"
"Everything I have," replied Miss Yard earnestly. "I am leaving her the house, and all the furniture, my clothes and jewels, and as much money as I can save. I could not rest if I thought dear Nellie would be left unprovided for. You will look after Nellie, won't you? I should be so pleased if you would adopt her as your daughter."
"I'm not quite old enough," George stammered.
"Nonsense, you look quite elderly," said Miss Yard encouragingly. "And Nellie is such a child."
"If I had been younger I might have thought about marrying her," said George awkwardly.
"Now that would have been a nice idea! What a pity it is you are not forty years younger."
"You are thinking of someone else," cried George despairingly.
"Oh, I'm sure you are sixty. Your mother married when I was quite a girl. I do remember that, for I got so excited at the wedding that, when the clergyman asked her if she wanted the man, I thought he was speaking to me, and I said, 'Yes, please,' and poor Louisa gave me such a look, and I went into hysterics. Girls can't go into hysterics in these days like we used to do. It's funny how well I remember all these things that happened in our young days, but then for an old woman my memory is wonderful. What were we talking about before you mentioned your mother's wedding?"
"About Mr. Hunter, the lawyer who has ordered me to leave you," replied George, deciding to say no more of his matrimonial intentions.
"I never heard of such impertinence in my life. He will be telling me next I don't own the place," cried Miss Yard, stabbing with her pen in the direction of the ink pot. "What am I to say to the wretch?"
"Remind him I am your nephew, and I have every right to enjoy your hospitality. Tell him I am indispensable to you. Then you might add something about the wickedness of depriving an orphan of his home, and conclude by mentioning that you will never consent to my leaving you."
"I'll tell him, if he persecutes you any more, I will put the matter into the hands of my own solicitor," Miss Yard declared, scribbling away briskly, for her greatest delight, next to chattering, was letter writing.
"I wouldn't do that," said George piously. "It sounds too much like a threat, and after all we must try to forgive our enemies."
"Thank you for reminding me. That's a beautiful idea of yours. I wish I was a good and clever old woman like you are."
George was stooping over her at the moment, and this compliment made him groan. "It's my poor back," he explained.
"Oh dear!" exclaimed the innocent old lady. "When you have gone to bed, I shall send Nellie to wrap you up in red flannel. We old people cannot be too careful."
Miss Yard wrote letters to all manner of persons, living, dead, and imaginary; but very few found their way to the post office. George took possession of the letter to Mr. Hunter and despatched it himself; and, knowing exactly when the answer would be received, he took the precaution of going out to meet the postman. By this time he was prepared for action, as the cheque for two hundred pounds had been cleared, and the amount was deposited safely to his account.
There were two letters, and one was addressed to himself. Miss Yard's was merely a note, acknowledging the receipt of her communication and mentioning that Mr. Taverner would shortly be writing with a view to clearing away the misunderstanding which had arisen since the death of Mrs. Drake. George opened a phial of malice and poured out its contents upon the name of Percy. Then he examined his own letter, which was bulky and of a strongly acid tendency.
Mr. Hunter was astonished and pained to think that Mr. Drake should have taken advantage of the age and infirmities of Miss Yard to such an extent as to have made her the instrument of his plans; as it was perfectly evident Mr. Drake had dictated, or at least had inspired, the letter which had been addressed to his firm by Miss Yard. Mr. Hunter earnestly desired to avoid anything of an unpleasant nature, and he hoped therefore Mr. Drake would not venture to repeat an experiment which suggested a state of ethics with which he had not previously been acquainted; and would adhere to his undertaking, given as a condition to Mr. Taverner's purchase of the furniture, namely, to leave Miss Yard in undisturbed possession of the premises bequeathed to Mr. Drake by his late aunt, and better known and described as Windward House. Mr. Hunter had also just been informed, to his soul's amusement, that Mr. Drake had not yet subscribed to this form of agreement, nor had he acknowledged the receipt of a cheque for two hundred pounds forwarded him some days previously. Mr. Hunter continued to be sorry to the end of his letter, which was a memorable piece of philosophic morality, suggesting that the lawyer's office had been quite recently taken over by some institution for reforming wicked people.
George expressed a hope that Mr. Hunter some day might be sorry for himself. He had under-rated the powers of the lawyer, who had now proved himself to possess the ordinary malevolent, orphan-baiting, legal soul. However, George had no intention of surrendering without a struggle. He took his pen and obliterated the highly offensive clause which referred to his expulsion from Windward House. He then added his signature and composed an epistle complaining bitterly of the oriental methods of oppression which were being brought to bear upon him. He mentioned that he was an invalid Englishman residing in Devonshire; and laid particular stress upon the fact he never had been an Armenian living somewhere in the Turkish Empire. He especially desired to draw Mr. Hunter's attention to the phenomenon that the present age was democratic, and British workmen—with whom he did not disdain to be associated—were becoming impatient of high-handed methods. He enclosed the receipt and regretted the delay, which had been unavoidable owing to the insertion of the clause—now deleted, as Mr. Hunter would observe—which seemed to strike far too harshly against his personal liberty. He had given this clause his serious attention for some days, but had arrived at the conclusion, regretfully, that it involved a principle he was quite unable to accept. Messrs. Hunter and Taverner, in their joint capacity as trustees of the Yard estate, had apparently conspired—he did not use the word in an objectionable sense, although in his opinion it had but one meaning—to secure his eviction from premises to which he was legally entitled. They had offered him a wholly inadequate sum of money for the furniture, and this offer he had accepted with the sole idea of rendering Miss Yard a kindness; but now, it appeared, the money had been intended as a bribe to induce him to quit his home. Was this altogether legal? Was it honest? Could it be respectable? He felt compelled to remind Mr. Hunter, again regretfully, that a bribe was something given to corrupt the conduct of poor but decent men.
Then he went to Miss Yard and told her the lawyer was still tormenting him, and he was very much afraid it might soon be necessary to go away and find some hiding place.
"Has the man written to me?" asked Miss Yard, when the whole matter had been recalled to her memory.
"Don't you remember? He said you were a silly old woman, and you had no business to interfere."
"Where is the letter? Find it for me, George, and I'll do something," she cried indignantly.
"You were so angry that you threw it on the fire. Don't worry, Aunt; I shall know how to defend myself. The man tried to bribe me to leave you, and now he's threatening to send me to prison by means of false evidence."
"I wish you would let me write to my own man, what's his name?"
"That would lead to expense, and you must not spend money on me. If I don't go away I'm afraid the man may come to Highfield with a gang of ruffians, and break into the house—and I won't have you worried."
"I'll give you some money," said the generous lady. "Where's my cheque-book? Tell Nellie to find my cheque-book."
"Thank you, Aunt. A little money will be very useful. This man is just a blackmailer, and if I hide for a few weeks he will forget all about me. Then you can write and invite me to come back," said George tenderly.
"I'll write this moment," cried Miss Yard.
"But I haven't gone yet. You are mistress here and, if you like to invite me, of course, I can come and stay as long as you care to have me."
"And if that horrid man tries to turn you out again, I shall let Percy know about it, and I shall get advice from Hunter—I wonder how I came to remember his name. Do write to Hunter and tell him all about it," Miss Yard pleaded.
"To please you, I will," George promised.
That evening he received a letter in strange handwriting, and bearing the illegible postmark which signified that it came from London. George opened it and, perceiving the signature of Mr. Crampy, expert in ancient porcelain, read the contents with interest:
"Since visiting you I have spoken with several collectors about your pair of vases, which, I have no doubt whatever, are excellent specimens dating from the Tsing dynasty, although I admit forgeries of this period are exceedingly difficult to detect. My object in writing is to warn you against being imposed upon, and to remind you of your promise to give me first refusal up to a thousand pounds, which sum I am still perfectly willing to risk.
"It is highly probable some wealthy collectors may call upon you as, when the existence of such vases as you possess becomes known, there is invariably a hue and cry after them. I enclose, on a separate sheet of paper, a list of names; these are all gentlemen whom you can trust absolutely. The two against whose names I have pencilled the letters, U.S.A. are, I know, very keen to get your vases. If you should do business with any of the gentlemen on my list I get a commission. I don't suppose you will let yourself be humbugged, but I beg you not to make any offer in writing unless you intend to stick to it, as any of these collectors would convert your scrap of writing into a stamped legal document at once, and then sue you for breach of contract if you tried to get out of it.
"So long as you refuse to part with the vases for less than a thousand, you'll be all right."
"I do hope there's nothing wrong with Mr. Percy, vor Miss Sophy ha' got a letter from him, and she's crying something shocking," remarked Kezia, as she handed George a communication informing him that, not only Mr. Hunter, but the entire firm of Martin and Cross, had been outraged by the unspeakable conduct of Mr. Drake, who had dishonoured the title of gentleman by breaking his plighted word, and had stained his own name for ever by repudiating a contract. During the whole course of his professional career Mr. Hunter was thankful to say he never before received a letter suggesting that he—a solicitor—was capable of conspiring with another to deprive a third party of his lawful inheritance. He banished the sinister reflection, and enclosed a fresh form of receipt, containing the clause which Mr. Drake unaccountably regarded as oppressive, after having expressed his entire approval of the conditions contained therein, and he pressed for its execution at once or, failing that, the immediate return of the cheque for two hundred pounds. Mr. Taverner had specifically mentioned he would not purchase the furniture unless Mr. Drake gave an undertaking in writing to withdraw from Windward House; and now that Mr. Hunter had become more intimately acquainted with Mr. Drake's character, he was bound to confess that Mr. Taverner had displayed remarkably shrewd judgment.
"I trapped him, but he doesn't know it; I have trod upon his corn, and he doesn't like it; now I'll make a fool of him completely," George muttered.
Then Miss Yard came trembling and half tumbling downstairs, supported by Nellie, and weeping bitterly in quite a joyful fashion.
"Percy has got a new tomato and he calls it Emily," she announced.
"Emmie Lee," corrected Nellie.
"You mustn't allow that to upset you," said George.
"But he's going to bring her to see me, and he wants me to write to her. Oh dear! I do pray it may be a blessing to him."
"Try not to cry any more, or you will have such a headache," said Nellie soothingly.
"I should not have thought," remarked George, "that tomatoes were worth crying about anyhow."
"All the information was there, but rather too condensed," explained Nellie. "Mr. Taverner discovered in one of his glass-houses—"
"Oh, no, Nellie, you are silly, child. It was at a garden party."
"You begin breakfast, and let me tell Mr. Drake in my own rambling fashion," said Nellie, coaxing the lady into her cushioned chair, then slipping into her own place behind the tea tray. "Mr. Taverner discovered his foreman had cultivated a particularly fine tomato plant unawares, and he made up his mind it was a new species, so he means to introduce it to the market under the name of Emmie Lee."
"He's full of dirty little tricks like that," George grumbled.
"And she's the great-grandchild of a clergyman, so there cannot be anything wrong with the family," sobbed Miss Yard.
"You must stop crying at once," said Nellie sternly.
"My dear, I will cry and be happy."
"The truth of the matter is, Percy has got a young woman?" George suggested.
"That's it," said Nellie. "And he's naming the new tomato after her."
"Because it matches her complexion, I suppose. What has he got to be married on?"
"It's not love, he says. It's money. I am so thankful."
"It is love, Miss Sophy. Love on both sides, at first sight, and all the way."
"Of course it is, my dear. Poor dear Percy! He was such a gentleman, and he did work so hard. If I could have seen him once more, just to tell him how happy I am—"
"Now you are not to say anything more until you have eaten your breakfast," Nellie ordered, as she rose to supply the old lady with a fresh handkerchief and a piece of buttered toast.
That morning George wrote a curt and final note to Mr. Hunter, announcing his intention of leaving Highfield within the next few days, and enclosing the receipt duly signed. He then approached Nellie, informed her duty was calling him elsewhere, and explained that, before his departure, a little cheque from Miss Yard would be acceptable.
"You know the rules," she said. "I have to give an account of my stewardship to the trustees."
"Yes, but Aunt Sophy owes me rent, and you mustn't allow her generous nature to be restrained if she wishes to add a few pounds by way of bonus," said George.
"There are to be no additions whatever," she said firmly. "I'll let Miss Sophy give you a quarter's rent, but no more. She can't afford it, as her bank account is low."
"Because she gives all her money to Percy. You let her do that," cried George wrathfully.
"How can I prevent it? Mr. Taverner does bleed her frightfully, but he's a trustee, and her nephew."
"So he can levy blackmail, grab all his aunt's money, ransack my home! He's above the law, while I'm crushed down by it. The kindest thing I can say about Percy is to call him a kleptomaniac, though I believe he's a pirate."
"I want you to tell me who really does own the house and furniture. And why are you going? I'm sure you wouldn't leave Highfield unless you had to. I promise not to tell anyone," said Nellie eagerly.
"Not even Sidney Brock?"
"You are not to mention his name to me. You know quite well I never see him now that he's given up the choir," said Nellie, flushing with shame, indignation, and other things.
"I should have said nothing if he hadn't written to you. I saw the postmark was Highfield—and of course I felt jealous," said George composedly.
"Yes, he did write, and asked me to meet him again. Just a selfish letter," snapped Nellie. "I'm not going to answer it. Now I've told you my secrets, and I expect to hear yours."
"I never did like the idea of keeping anything from you," said George doubtfully.
"Especially as Mr. Hunter would tell me everything, if I liked to write and inform him I cannot undertake my new duties until I have the whole position explained to me."
"If you tell Kezia and Bessie there will be a fearful rumpus."
"I won't say a word to either. I don't care much about them, now I see how grasping they are, though it's only natural I suppose. Mrs. Drake treated them more like relations than servants, and they are quite sure she meant them to own everything."
"They know my aunt left a will," said George.
"She left about a hundred," laughed Nellie. "Kezia has fifty, Bessie has forty, Miss Sophy has two, and I have one."
"But the will in my favour is the only legal one; and it's the only one the trustees know about."
"Some of the papers were signed and dated, though none were witnessed. Anyhow, they are all later than your will," said Nellie.
George thought he could see what she was driving at. Miss Yard would leave the entire property to Nellie if she could; and his aunt had certainly left a scrap of paper expressing a wish that her sister should own the house. No doubt Nellie has this document hidden away safely. It did not matter much, and yet George felt uncomfortable at the idea of his wife owning the property.
"I'll tell you the truth," he said boldly. "My aunt lost her affection for me rather during the last years of her life, as she thought I didn't put my whole heart into my work, and perhaps she didn't want me to own the property. Still, she never destroyed the will, and that leaves the house to me."
"But who owns the furniture?"
"Last week it was mine. Now it belongs to Aunt Sophy."
"You never gave it her!"
"She has bought it. I offered it to her through Hunter, and he advised Percy to buy it with her money."
"That means the furniture belongs to Mr. Taverner."
"Aunt Sophy paid every penny of the purchase money, therefore it belongs to her. I have you as a witness to prove it."
"She advanced the money to Mr. Taverner. She didn't even know what he wanted it for," cried Nellie.
"It will come out at her death, when Percy claims the furniture. We must keep the cheque, produce it to Percy, and demand an explanation. If he refuses to withdraw his claim, we will threaten to expose his knavish tricks before his high-minded Emmie, the whole of her virtuous family, and the immaculate firm of Cross and Martin."
"We!" laughed Nellie. "Do you suppose I will be the accomplice of your villainy?"
"This afternoon," said George, "I am going into town, and there I shall buy a sixpenny printed form of Will. I shall then insert what is necessary, words to the effect that all the furniture, with everything that Aunt Sophy dies possessed of, are to come to you. I have kept a copy of aunt's will, which was properly drawn up by a lawyer, so I shall know how to do it. Then you must ask Aunt Sophy to sign it. Kezia and Bessie ought to be the witnesses. It would serve them right," said George, chuckling vastly.
"I'll have nothing to do with it," cried Nellie.
"Then I must work alone as usual. I'm not going to let you be defrauded. The only way to get justice is to help yourself," declared George. "There's Hunter now! He would give twopence with one hand and steal your last sovereign with the other. And, if you caught the rascal, he would swear you had dropped the sovereign in his pocket. And he wouldn't rest until he had got back the twopence. Hunter stands for justice; he deals in it like Percy, who puts his sound tomatoes on top of the basket to hide the rotten ones underneath."
"I'm afraid you don't love Mr. Hunter," laughed Nellie. "Is it because he has ordered you to clear out?"
"He and Percy between them hatched the dirty plot. They know I want money—"
"A few days ago you were refusing it."
"Ah, but that was tact. The pair of rascals offered to buy the furniture, if I would promise to leave my own home. That was bribery and corruption. They want to get rid of me; they would like me to starve in a ditch, and they would prefer the ditch to have water in it. Hunter's not quite so bad as Percy, I think. Hunter has to be a scoundrel, or he couldn't make a living. But Percy is just a homicidal maniac."
"They are afraid you might try to influence Miss Sophy," suggested Nellie, when she had done laughing.
"It's Percy's doing entirely. He's a common malefactor himself, so he thinks I must be the same. He's not going to have any one else milking his golden goose. Besides, he knows how fond I am of Aunt Sophy, and what great care I take of her. I have saved her from serious injury many a time, and that doesn't suit Percy at all. He wants the dear old lady to fall about, and hurt herself, and die of shock, so that he can get her money, which I hope will be a curse to him."
"I understand the position," said Nellie. "You really are going?" she added.
"I must go," replied George gloomily. "It is hard on both of us, but you must try to be brave, for we shall soon meet again. Aunt Sophy won't live long when she hasn't me to look after her."
"Thank you for another compliment," cried Nellie.
"You deserve them all," said George, with more tenderness than usual.
He set off presently, carrying the precious vases wrapped up like twin-babies and, arriving at the market-town, he entered the shop of the principal ironmonger, who dealt also in all kinds of earthenware goods, and had the notice, "Art pottery a Specialty," posted in one of his windows. The proprietor advanced to meet him, and was highly flattered when George remarked he had come to obtain the impartial opinion of a specialist regarding the value of some Chinese vases.
"If I can't give it ye, sir, I don't know who can. I ha' handled cloam all my life, as my father did avore me, and I'll quote ye a fair market price vor anything you like to show me. They are amazing ugly things, sure enough, wi' they old snakes all twisted round 'em," said the honest tradesman when George had undressed his babies.
"They're beautifully glazed," said the owner proudly.
"Yes, they'm nice and shiny. 'Tis done by baking 'em. Now you want me to tell you how much they'm worth?"
"Suppose I asked you to buy them, how much would you offer?"
"I might give ye eighteen pence vor the pair, though I should fancy I wur doing ye a favour. Some folks like these ugly things—I sell a lot o' they china cats wi' the eyes starting out o' their heads—but I would be satisfied if I got a shilling each vor these old vases."
"A gentleman told me the other day they were worth a lot of money—hundreds of pounds in fact," said the astounded George.
"I believe ye, sir. Plenty o' gentlemen, when they see a bit o' cloam that ain't quite the same as ordinary cloam, will tell ye it's worth money. Cloam is wonderful cheap just now, sir. I can show ye some amazing bargains in vases at half a crown the pair, and far better value than these old china things."
"But the gentleman, who told me they were valuable, came from London," George protested.
"Well, sir," replied the little provincial, smiling broadly, "ain't that just where all the vules do come from?"
There was another china shop in the town, so George tried his fortune there. This shop was kept by a fat lady, who turned sour when George informed her he had not come to purchase anything; and passed into indignation when he had unveiled the vases.
"Take 'em away, sir," she said sternly. "I wouldn't show such vulgar stuff in my window if you paid me for it. My establishment is noted for chaste designs—flowers, and birds, and butterflies—little lambs, and shepherdesses—and I deal wi' gentlefolk."
"A thing can be ugly, and yet priceless," said George.
"It's not the ugliness so much as the obscenity," replied the stout lady, who was herself no gracious object. "They were made, I fancy, by poor benighted heathens; though why people ship such stuff into England, when they can buy cheap and beautiful Christian home-made vases from such establishments as mine, I can't tell ye," she declared, handling one of the treasures so recklessly that George darted forward in great terror.
"Oh, you needn't be alarmed," she went on. "If I did break it, I'd give ye another pair, and something to be proud of. I should smash these nasty old things into crocks and put 'em in my flower-pots."
George returned to Highfield, wondering greatly. He knew nothing whatever concerning china, and apparently the local experts were no better informed than himself. Crampy, on the other hand, had valued the vases at a thousand pounds, although he admitted the possibility of their being forgeries; he was, however, prepared to pay the money and take the risk. Before reaching home George had fully decided to secure the thousand pounds before he commenced his pilgrimage.
He was absent from the village about three hours, and during that short period all manner of things had happened. The Yellow Leaf had often noted with regret that a strong leading incident rarely occurred in Highfield; but, when one did take place, it was almost sure to be accompanied by another, to the great confusion of the inhabitants who were compelled to discuss two incidents at the same time.
The first, and by far the most startling, incident took place quite early in the afternoon. Nellie had gone into Miss Yard's bedroom to look up some mending, and presently seated herself beside the window which overlooked the village street. That letter from Sidney worried her, but the knowledge of his loose principles troubled her far more. She remembered the words of his defence, indeed there was nothing much about him she had forgotten, as her memory was much better than Miss Yard's; and still she could not decide whether to answer the letter or to ignore it; whether to meet him once more or to let him go; whether to go on thinking of him—but that she had to do; or to hate him—though she couldn't.
"It's a dreary outlook," she murmured. "Little work and no love makes me a dull maid. I'm alone in the world, and somebody loves me, but he's a bad somebody. And another somebody is willing to marry me, but he's a silly old somebody. And I want the bad somebody."
"Hook it!" shrieked a parrot from the garden, addressing a bumblebee which was threatening to enter its cage.
"Polly gives me advice," she murmured. "Hook it! Hook George, and pour out rivers of tea, and put on his slippers in respectable humility. No, thankye, Poll! I won't hook it. I'll fish for something better, else, when Miss Sophy dies, I must find another job, and go on jobbing it," she whispered, looking into the glass, "until I don't look anything like so saucy as I'm doing now."
"Nellie, where be to?" called the equally saucy parrot.
"Here she be!" answered the girl from the window. "Her's going to write to the bad somebody, and her's going to meet him, and her's going to be a soft dafty little vule and believe his nonsense."
While she spoke a rumbling of wheels heralded the approach of the incident, which had already occurred with disastrous results along the more important reaches of the street. Nellie remained at the open window out of curiosity until the incident, which was of no importance to her at the moment, became revealed in the form of a young and pretty girl, gazing about in a highly interested fashion as she swept past in an open wagonette; a beautifully dressed young lady, certainly no more than eighteen, who looked quite capable of travelling round the world without an escort.
"Whoever can she be?" Nellie murmured, as she went towards her own room, to get that letter written before she changed her mind again.
She could hear voices buzzing in the kitchen, where Kezia and Bessie were discussing the incident; presently she opened the door and listened, for the air was thrilling with unpleasant sounds of proper nouns and most improper adjectives; finally she went downstairs and presented herself at the kitchen door.
"Oh, Miss Nellie!" cried Kezia. "Did you see the person driving past?"
"I did see her," replied Nellie. "Who is she?"
"Ah, that's what every one's asking. I shouldn't like to say who she be. See how bold she stared as she drove along!" said Bessie.
"She warn't so bold looking as that other one," remarked Kezia.
"She wur just a bit o' painted brass," said Bessie. "This gal's terrible young. Oh, ain't it awful to see 'em all so wicked! Folks are saying they won't ha' much more of it."
"Where was she going?" asked Nellie impatiently.
"To Black Anchor Farm. Where else would she be going? The driver stopped by the green and asked the way to Black Anchor."
"'Tis three o'clock. She can't get away tonight," Kezia whispered.
"She brought a bag—she's going to stay a long while," muttered Bessie, covering her face for shame.
"Policeman ought to get hold of her and lock her up," cried Kezia wrathfully.
"Ah, that he ought," agreed Bessie. "If me and Robert wur to have a few words, he'd be round quick enough and tell us to keep our mouths shut. Pity I b'ain't an actress! I could do what I liked then. The folks won't stand much more of it. I wish Captain Drake wur back again; he'd have they Brocks out of the country in no time."
Nellie crept back to her room and destroyed the unfinished letter. Then she drew down the blind.
The second incident commenced about an hour later, when another conveyance reached Highfield and proceeded at once to Windward House. A gentleman stepped out and inquired for Mr. Drake. Having learnt from Kezia that George was absent, but expected home at any time, the gentleman said he would take a stroll round the village and await his coming.
This incident would have passed almost unnoticed, so far as the general public were concerned, had the stranger been of the usual speechless type of tourist, content to stare deferentially at the local antiquities and to wander aimlessly round the churchyard. But he was not, as he himself admitted, within measurable distance of an ordinary man; for he joined a group of villagers, who were discussing the latest tragedy in whispers, and insisted upon introducing himself and asking questions about themselves.
In the first place he came from America, and he lost no time in informing his listeners that an American gentleman was the only perfect specimen of humanity to be found upon the face of the globe. In the second place he was a millionaire, and had no bashfulness about advertising the fact. Finally, he enjoyed use of the name Josiah P. Jenkins, and his business premises, or at least some of them, were situated in Philadelphia, which, he explained, was the city of brotherly love, where Irish toasted English, whites embraced negroes, Jews dined with Christians, and sharp practice was unknown.
By this time the poor little actress, driving in solitary state towards Black Anchor, was almost forgotten. Actresses had occurred before, unhappily, but this was the first occasion during the entire history of the universe upon which a millionaire had walked and talked in Highfield. Mr. Jenkins was bestowing a new tradition upon the village; he was quite the equal of Queen Elizabeth, who had slept, and very much superior to King Charles, who had hidden, somewhere in the neighbourhood. Here was an individual who reckoned the weekly wage, not by a few shillings, according to local custom, but by innumerable dollars every moment. The people gazed upon him with reverence, while children approached to touch him, and discover what metal he was made of, while some of the more intelligent made remarks concerning copper which the great man did not seem to understand. The Yellow Leaf admitted afterwards he was thankful he had lived to see it, although he would have respected millionaires far more had he never set eyes upon the corporeal presence of Mr. Jenkins. It was wonderful, he added, how quickly these Americans acquired a superficial knowledge of the English language.
"What might be your occupation, sir?" asked the Dumpy Philosopher.
"Railways, my friend, with patent medicines as a side-line," replied Mr. Jenkins.
"I hope you ain't come here to build none, nor make none," said the Yellow Leaf.
"I have come here in my private capacity as art lover, collector, connoisseur. I am awaiting the arrival of one of your leading citizens, Mr. Drake of Windward House."
"And here he be, bringing home the washing," cried Squinting Jack, as George at the moment appeared upon the road with a fantastic white bundle beneath each arm.
"Don't you believe his tale," whispered the Dumpy Philosopher to his friends, as the American started forward to meet George. "He'm going to make that railway across Dartmoor what'll ruin the whole lot of us—and Mr. Drake ha' been and brought 'en here."
It was the most awkwardly thrilling moment of George's life, when he found himself confronted by the millionaire before the eyes of the Elder Inhabitants. Because of the couple of ridiculous bundles he could not grasp the hand of Mr. Jenkins; he dared not explain he was carrying the porcelain about with him; so he muttered something about grand weather and unexpected pleasure, then raced homewards with the American ambling at his side.
"Crampy flung me a line telling me about your masterpieces. I beat the sun this morning in an aeroplane invented by a friend; came to turf on Salisbury plain; friend and driver broke rudder and ankle; caught a horse, rode him barebacked to the nearest garage; bought a car, drove it fifty miles; car broke down, sold it second-hand, hired a train, drove here from the station—all so to speak. If I'm not first, I guess I'm a derned good second."
"You needn't have hurried quite so much," gasped George, wishing he could exaggerate like that.
"I guess, sir, when it comes to business, a man has got to put in his best licks, or some other fellow will pull his foot ahead and spudgel up the goods. Cramp has unloosed his jaw-tackle to the crowd. I'm not particular scared of the Britishers, who look before they leap, and think before they look, and make their wills before they think; but there's quite a few Americans in your London, England, nosing around for something specially ancient to take home. There's Wenceslas Q. Alloway of Milwaukee. Lager-beer he is, or was, for now he's mostly grape juice for conscience' sake; with an elegant white beard and the innocent ways of an archangel—he's got this collecting craze so bad he'd mortgage his immortality, or a thousand years of it, for a bit of old china, though he'd try to stick in a clause to best the devil, for he's a pretty derned orthodox First Baptist on a Sunday. I'm a Second Adventist, and my crowd has just built a church in Philadelphia which for size and shape makes your Westminster Abbey look a bit retrospective."
"Come inside," said George faintly. "I'm afraid I can't offer you much hospitality, as I'm only staying here with my aunt who is not able to receive visitors."
"Don't mention hospitality, sir. Just give me a sight of your vases, and if they're genuine, you'll be giving me a gorge. Wonderful pretty place. I'd like to ship the whole of this township across to America, put up a barbwire fence around, and charge a dollar for admission. Beautiful place to be buried in! Might I inquire if you are carrying anything specially out of date?"
"I've been shopping," replied George.
"Mr. Drake!" called the voice of the postmistress. "A telegram vor ye, sir."
George tore open the envelope and read, "Just heard from Crampy. Fifteen hundred if O.K. Alloway."
"Knew he'd switch on to the main track up to time, but he can't begin to best me. Guess he's exceeding your speed limit right now, and about midnight his automobile will be killing ducks in this neighbourhood," said Jenkins complacently.
"I suppose you know something about china?" George suggested, as he ushered the visitor into the dining room.
"My knowledge of porcelain extends from my head to my finger ends. When you show me Chinese vases I'm at home, sir, I'm surrounded with familiar objects, I'm behind the scenes. Crampy knows something, but I can run a saw upon him. When his wells dry up, that's the time, sir, mine begin to flow," said Jenkins, ostentatiously producing a long cheque-book and slapping it upon the table.
"If you will excuse me a moment, I'll go for the vases," said George.
He carried the bundles up to his room, and consulted the list which Crampy had sent him. Having satisfied himself that the names of Jenkins and Alloway appeared upon it, he went downstairs with the undraped vases, thankful his visitor had called at the time of day when Miss Yard and Nellie were shut up together, and Kezia was occupied in the kitchen.
The millionaire stood in the attitude of a clergyman about to receive a child for baptism; and, when George extended one of the vases, he accepted it reverently, then walked to the window, examined it, tapped and stroked it, hugged and adored it, and very nearly kissed it, before turning to exclaim, "These are the goods, Mr. Drake!"
"Yes, they are very fine specimens," replied George casually.
"I don't say they are unique at present, though that's what they will be when I get 'em across to Philadelphia. I guess there's been an empty mantelpiece in the Emperor of China's palace for quite a few years."
George explained the vases had been discovered by his uncle during one of the anti-foreign riots in China many years ago.
"Your uncle was a great lad, sir. He saw his chance to loot the pieces, so he repelled boarders and took 'em. I should call your uncle a public benefactor. He removed these vases from the custody of the uncivilised Chinee, and conferred them upon the cultured world of art. When the potter turned them on his wheel," continued Jenkins, beginning to rhapsodise, "he little thought they were destined, by a far-seeing Providence, to find a home in the United States, the illustrious city of Philadelphia, the unassuming if somewhat palatial mansion—"
"The postmistress again!" exclaimed George, hurrying to the front door.
"I hadn't hardly got back home, sir, when there come another. I do hope, sir, it ain't bad news again," said the good woman, as she handed over a second telegram.
"It's of no consequence," said George.
"I'm very glad it ain't no worse, sir. I hope, sir, you'm going on well," said Mrs. Cann, trusting that an interpretation of these telegrams might be vouchsafed to her.
George cautiously replied that his lumbago was improving daily; then he returned to the dining room and said, "Here's a telegram from an American named Anderson. He asks me not to deal with any one until he calls, and he offers seventeen hundred."
"I don't know the fellow," said Jenkins suspiciously. "I would advise you to have nothing to do with him. He may be a crook, a man of straw."
"He's all right," said George. "Crampy sent me a list of collectors I could trust, and his name is on it. I suppose Crampy himself is safe, as a firm of lawyers, who are supposed to be respectable, sent him down here."
"Crampy is as genuine as the rising sun. He's valuer to your Court of Probate, he's got a fixed place of business, his name's in the Directory. He's just got to tote fair, but he won't get rich till he grows more brain. I've known Crampy to pay down big money for a fake."
"He made me an offer for these vases," said George.
"I'll double it," cried the millionaire, nestling down to his cheque-book.
"He offered me a thousand pounds."
"Then I'll give you two thousand."
"I might get even more at a sale," George muttered greedily.
"I guess you don't know a great lot about sales," said Jenkins pityingly. "If you put these vases up to auction, collectors and dealers would get together and fix the price beforehand. I'm playing my lone hand in this game, for I'm dead set on getting the ornaments, and I don't mind paying a fancy price for 'em. Crampy won't go beyond a thousand, and even Alloway reckons he's sure of them for fifteen hundred. The other chap offers seventeen hundred it's true, but I have my doubts about him. I didn't mean to bid two thousand, but I've promised to double Crampy's offer, and I'm a man of my word or I'm nothing. Now, sir—you to play!"
"I'll take it," said George.
"Easy way of making money, ain't it?" said the American jauntily. "If you wouldn't mind wrapping some cotton-wool and paper round the things, I'll take 'em right along with me."
"Are you going to offer me a cheque?" George stammered.
"I was going to, but as you don't know a great lot about me, and perhaps you don't feel like relying on Crampy's introduction, and as I must take the pieces right away with me, I'll just hand over the stuff in notes upon your Bank of England which, so far as I know, hasn't put its shutters up," said the millionaire, producing a mighty pocketbook. "Here you are, sir—four five-hundreds, and may they breed you a bonanza. Kindly hand me a form of receipt; and if at any time within the next forty-eight hours the vases should be discovered forgeries, I am at liberty to return them, while you will hand back the money. At the expiration of the forty-eight hours the deal is closed absolutely and, if the things are fakes, I come out spindigo. Don't be ashamed of your suspicions, and don't consider my feelings. Hold up the notes to the light and take a look at the watermark."
"That's just what I was doing," said George feebly.
A few minutes later the millionaire departed, George walking with him to the inn where his conveyance waited. Here also wise men were discussing the state of decadence towards which the parish was being hurried by moral failures like the Brocks and such a despicable plotter as the formerly respected Mr. Drake, who was undoubtedly scheming to construct that Dartmoor railway by means of American dollars. Mr. Jenkins was seen to drive away by the Gentle Shepherd, who reported the gratifying intelligence to headquarters, and a hearty sigh of relief went up while a quantity of inferior beer went down. Yet nobody sighed so deeply or so joyously as George as he hurried home a man of means at last.
Rapture lost half its charm because there was nobody with whom it could be shared; for Nellie, he found, had retired with a headache, while Bessie, upon sentry duty near the bedroom door, repelled the advance of Miss Yard who was in tears because they would not let her in to see the poor girl's body.
"I knew she would go like that. I told her she had a heart, because she was such a good girl, and they always go suddenly. I do hope you won't be the next, George. Of course you know poor Percy is gone," she wailed.
"You were very good in your young days," said George gallantly, "but you are still alive. There's nothing much the matter with Percy, except that he's going to get married."
"Take that woman away," snapped Miss Yard, "and make her stop growing. She gets worse every day."
"I finished long ago, thankye, miss," said Bessie.
"What a wicked story! She's done a lot since yesterday," complained Miss Yard. "Do let me have one peep at my dear little Nellie before they take her away."
The young lady herself cried out and hoped they would all be taken away. Peace was restored, after Miss Yard had tumbled down happily, convinced that the age of miracles was not past.
George woke the next morning with a sense of prosperity which required a safety valve when the inevitable letter from Mr. Hunter, who had now shrunk icily into a solitary initial beneath the signature Cross and Martin, announced, "the probate of your late aunt's will has been granted, and you are now at liberty to draw cheques against the balance of two hundred pounds lying in the bank."
George felt sufficiently healthy to dig potatoes, make love, or perform any other menial act. He ate a huge breakfast, then climbed into an apple tree and whistled for half an hour: Miss Yard, sitting at the window, declared she had never heard the blackbirds sing so beautifully. While thus relieving his high spirits a light carriage could be heard approaching; its wheels rattled down the hill; the driver shouted to the horse; and the conveyance drew up beside the garden gate.
"Here's another millionaire!" George chuckled, as he dropped from the branches. But there was nobody except the driver, whom George recognised as belonging to the principal hotel of the neighbouring town.
"I was to give you this letter, sir, and to bring you this box, and to wait for an answer," said the man.
"Did a gentleman called Jenkins send you?" George faltered, receiving the box with the dignity of an author taking back his rejected masterpiece.
"That's right, sir. I was to get back as quick as I can, for the gentleman wants to catch a train. Here's the letter, sir; and I was to be sure and take back an answer."
George hurried indoors, his knees wobbling; tore open the envelope and read:
"It's worse than a falling birth rate, but the vases are fakes. I have examined them carefully with strong glasses and discovered marks which show beyond a doubt they are not more than a hundred years old. These pieces would deceive any amateur and quite a few experts: they fairly hocussed me till I turned on the glasses. This will make your soul sick, I guess, but you've still got Crampy. I won't say anything to queer your business; but take my advice and don't hawk the things about, or some other fellow may get notions. Your best chance is Crampy, right now, while he's innocent. The longer you keep the vases the more they'll smell. Kindly return shinplasters by bearer, and pile up my sympathy to your credit."
George sprang to the box and wrenched off its lid; but a glance dispelled his suspicions. The vases had not been exchanged for local beauties; they had been returned undamaged but condemned. Crampy was honest, and Jenkins was genuine; and he himself had lost a fortune.
"I don't want to gammon a decent fellow like Crampy, but I can't afford to lose a thousand pounds," George muttered, after the driver had departed with the banknotes. "I'll walk over to Brimmleton and send him a telegram. If it goes from here Mrs. Cann will talk all over the village. And on the way back I'll look in at Black Anchor, and try to find out what young Sidney is up to."
Before starting he told Nellie of his intentions, which were still honourable; but the young lady was indifferent to the point of malice.
"They are nothing to me, and the sooner they clear out of the place the better," she said firmly.
"I'm going to give the lad a little friendly advice. The people are complaining that he's making Highfield more like London every day; and naturally they are getting angry about it," said George.
"Oh, don't talk to me about it," cried Nellie.
"Shall I talk to you when I come back?"
"That will depend upon what you have to say."
"It can't possibly be good news," said George cheerfully. "I knew Sidney was a bad egg the first time I saw him. He never took his eyes off my boots, and that's a sure sign of a nasty character."
So George walked to Brimmleton, where he was a foreigner, and despatched the telegram to Crampy, accepting his offer for the vases and pressing for a reply immediately, as he was very much afraid Jenkins might leak a little upon his return to London. Then he turned aside to the lonely farm, where half-savage children no longer rolled in the mud, noting with approval the effect of hard labour in the shape of reclaimed land and well drained fields. The Brocks, if vicious, were at least not idle; and George was always well pleased at discovering signs of human industry which convinced him that the race was by no means decadent.
Nearing the house he walked warily; and here a shocking spectacle was presented. He saw a young girl—the same infamous young person—most daintily attired, seated upon a boulder near the door, wearing over her pretty frock a deplorable type of beribboned and belaced apron, perusing a volume with a lurid binding which assuredly was teaching her terrible things. And he saw the old man—the grandfather—approach with a mattock on his shoulder; and he pulled her hair; while she shouted at him—some nameless jest, doubtless, but happily George could not hear the words.
Presently Sidney appeared—for it was nearly dinner time—and the worst happened. The abandoned young creature jumped up and ran towards him, with an expression, described mentally by George as one of ready-made affection, upon her pretty face; and, as they walked into the house, the wicked young man passed his arm around the waist of the shameless damsel.
The watcher groaned in spirit, although he could not altogether escape from the idea that the ungodly were not necessarily to be pitied in this world. Then he walked to the house and knocked at the door. The scuffling sound of young women in flight caused him to shake his head again.