"So 'tis you, Mr. Drake! You'm quite a stranger," exclaimed Sidney readily enough, though in George's opinion his face wore a hunted look.
"I'd like to have a few words with you," he replied.
"Right," said Sidney, looking back into the house to call, "Tell Dolly not to hurry wi' the dinner, grandfather."
"Dolly!" groaned George, somewhat enviously. He had clung to the hope that the girl's name might turn out to be Jane.
"You know, Sidney, I don't bear you any ill-feeling," he began, when they stood a few paces from the house, although his eyes were stricken with horror at discovering the young woman had been reading a book printed in French. "But there's some very loud talk up in Highfield about you and your goings on with the ladies."
"We have nought to do wi' Highfield volk, and we don't care that much vor their talk," replied Sidney, snapping his fingers.
"They are threatening to mob you," George whispered.
"Not they," laughed Sidney. "They ain't got it in 'em, and if a crowd did come down along me and grandfather would settle the lot."
"It's pretty bad to have young women here—from France too—one after the other. You can't blame the people for being a bit upset."
"If that's all you've got to say, Mr. Drake, I'll thank ye kindly, and tell ye I don't want to hear no more of it. Dolly is staying vor a week or two, and when she goes I'll get another," said the young outcast fiercely.
"I thought I'd just look in and warn you as I was passing," said George. "You know, Sidney, I don't blame you, and I think you're quite right not to give way to them. If I can help you in any way I shall be only too glad. These ignorant people don't understand men of the world like you and me."
"I reckon," said Sidney, with the deplorable grin of a completely dissipated soul.
"I mustn't keep you from your dinner, Sidney—and from the ladies. Give my best wishes to your grandfather, and my respects to Miss Dolly. I do hope she is enjoying her visit," said the double-faced George. Then he ambled off, trying to smile and frown with the same face, entirely satisfied that Sidney would never again be permitted to approach within speaking distance of Miss Blisland.
He was unable to report the result of this visit, beyond mentioning he had discovered things too terrible for words; and, although Nellie did appear for one moment inclined to listen, George could do nothing except place a hand across his eyes and declare he could not face her after the scenes of sheer depravity he had been compelled to witness at Black Anchor. Nellie was well aware George would exaggerate if he could; but this did really appear to be a case where exaggeration was impossible.
"You do get a lot of these nasty things, Mr. George," remarked Kezia, as she approached with a telegram which suggested to her nothing except murder and sudden death.
"In this case I shall attend the funeral," said George cheerfully, when he discovered the deluded Crampy would meet him at the station upon the following day.
"Who's gone now?" asked Kezia.
"Next week I am going into business," explained George with suitable emotion. "This telegram is from a friend who wants to go into partnership with me."
"I hope he ain't coming here then," said Kezia, who was beginning to resent the visits of strange gentlemen, because they walked upon her carpets and sat upon her chairs. "What be you going to sell, Mr. George?" she asked with much interest.
"China," he replied.
"I do hope and pray as how you may succeed," gasped Kezia; and off she went to inform Bessie that Mr. George was about to start a cloam shop. Bessie quite believed it, as Mr. George had always been so fond of handling cups and saucers.
Miss Yard also was fond of tea drinking, but she had no tenderness for china, and would generally release her cup in a vacuum, instead of placing it fairly upon the table; and express a vast amount of amusement at the ridiculous laws of nature when the cup exploded upon the carpet. She was particularly robust that afternoon and insisted upon pouring out tea herself. When the fragments, which filled two small baskets, had been removed, the steaming carpet mopped, and dryness restored, George seated himself beside the old lady, produced a sheet of foolscap covered with writing, and said in his most silvery voice:
"Circumstances, my dear aunt, will compel me to leave you during the course of the next few days: but I cannot go until I have the satisfaction of knowing you have made a will in our dear Nellie's favour."
"Good heavens—in my presence, too!" gasped the young lady.
"I need not remind you of the goodness, the modesty, the unselfishness of our Nellie," he continued. "She would serve you for nothing, but nevertheless it is your duty to leave her all you can."
"I can't stay and listen to this," cried the distressed beneficiary.
"Don't interfere. She has always meant to do it, but never will unless we jog her memory," George whispered.
"I'll have nothing to do with it," exclaimed Nellie; and out she went with a fine colour.
"Is this something to do with that nasty robbery they call income tax?" asked Miss Yard.
"This is your last will and testament," replied George solemnly. "I know you mean to leave everything to Nellie, but you can't do that unless you sign a will. You must die soon, you know; and, if it was to happen suddenly, Nellie would get nothing."
"I did write out a paper, but somebody has hidden it away somewhere," said the old lady.
"Pieces of paper are very little good," said George. "This is a properly drawn up will. When you have signed it I can go away quite happy, and I shall know dear Nellie will be provided for."
"Will she have the house, and the furniture, and all my money?" asked Miss Yard eagerly.
"Percy gets your money, but Nellie will have all that you may leave in the bank, any investments you may make, and the proportion of income up to the time of your death," said George learnedly.
"Must I write my name somewhere?"
"Yes, and two witnesses are required; but Nellie can't be one," said George, going to the window and gazing along the street for some honest person who could also write.
Presently the Wallower in Wealth appeared, prospecting the gutter for any signs of gold dust.
"I know he can write, for he signed a petition to uncle in favour of more frequent offertories in aid of the poor and needy," George muttered. Then he caught up the will, lest Miss Yard should scribble her name all over it during his absence, ran out into the street, and invited the scribe to step inside and witness Miss Yard's signature.
"I'll do it on one condition," said the Wallower in Wealth.
"What's that?" said George.
"You sell me the musical box. I'll give ye ten shillings vor it."
"That musical box is worth fifty pounds," said George. "But I can't sell it."
"Ain't it yours?"
"It has been out of order since my uncle died."
"You get it put right, and let me have it vor fifteen shillings, and I'll sign."
"Miss Yard wants you to witness her signature. You won't be doing anything for me."
"You'm asking me."
"Miss Yard isn't feeling very well today, and she's in a hurry to get her affairs settled."
"I b'ain't preventing her," said the Wallower in Wealth.
"She can't do it without witnesses."
"I might spare a pound vor the musical box."
"You couldn't get it repaired. That musical box is a lost art."
"If I take it wi' all its faults, and Miss Yard gives me five shillings vor my time and labour, will ye sell me the box vor one pound two and sixpence?"
"I can't stay here talking. If you won't come I must get somebody else," said George impatiently.
"Other folk would want to be paid the same as me," said the Wallower in Wealth.
"Then I shall go and ask the vicar."
This was a fatal blow, and the bargainer climbed down at once.
"I'll stand witness vor half a crown and first refusal of the musical box," he promised.
Miss Yard was unusually silent after signing her will, and paying a fee to both her witnesses. She lay back in her chair with dreamy old eyes which looked as if they were recalling many scenes. While George carried the precious document upstairs to Nellie.
"Put it away and keep it safe until she dies," he said.
"I want to say the right thing," she murmured. "You ought not to have made her sign, although she often says it is her intention to leave me something."
"You won't forget that I might have acted in a most scandalous fashion," George hinted.
"Yes, I know!" she said hurriedly. "You could have put your name in place of mine, and she would have signed just as willingly. But it's a horrible business."
"All business is horrible. That is why we hire people to do it for us. I was thinking of myself as well," said George heartily. "We are getting along very nicely, Nellie—no just cause or impediment, you know! This should mean one of those nice little sums of good money known as capital," he whispered, rubbing his hands.
"I must go to Miss Sophy," said Nellie; and she moved towards the stairs like one in trouble.
The next day George carried his vases tenderly to the station where, at the appointed time, Crampy arrived, and at once inquired:
"Has Jenkins been down?"
"He came," replied George, prepared for some such question, "but we couldn't do business."
"All cackle, I suppose? That's his way. He'll come into my place to bargain for a piece of Sèvres; swear he must have it, talk me dizzy; then say he must cross the Atlantic and think about it."
"He seemed very anxious to buy the vases, but he couldn't quite make up his mind. I didn't exactly trust the fellow," said George. Then he went on to describe the millionaire's adventures with aeroplane and motor car between London and Highfield.
"That was just his ornamental way of telling you he's a hustler. He travelled by railway, and third class all the way. Jenkins is an awful liar; but he's honest. I want to catch the up train, due in about twenty minutes, so we had better get to business. If you are ready to hand over the pieces, I am prepared to give you my cheque for a thousand marked accepted by the bank."
"Jenkins said they were really worth more than that."
"Though he wouldn't give it," laughed Crampy. "I'll just take another look at 'em to make sure."
"It doesn't matter," George protested.
However, Crampy insisted in a courteous fashion: so they walked to the far end of the platform, where George unpacked one of the vases, and the dealer, having put on his glasses, examined it shrewdly until the owner began to suffer from the silence.
"Do you know, Mr. Drake, I'm not sure—upon my soul I can't say for certain whether the things are genuine or not."
"Don't tell me they are forgeries," said George weakly.
"They are marvellously well done. Still, I've got a horrible idea in my head there is something wrong with them."
"Jenkins told you?" cried George involuntarily.
"So he said they were fakes!"
"He didn't go as far as that, but he thought there might be some doubt about them," George admitted.
"It looks bad—Jenkins is an uncommon smart amateur. Still, Mr. Drake, I'm a man of my word, and I'm going to make you an extremely liberal offer. I'll buy the vases for the price agreed upon. If they should turn out to be genuine, I can make a fair profit. If they must be condemned as forgeries, I may discover somebody with plenty of money but not enough brains to put unpleasant questions. Or, if you prefer it, I will sell the vases for you on commission. But, in that case, you stand to lose. It's a gamble so far as I'm concerned."
"That's a luxury I can't afford," George muttered.
"Exactly! Here's my cheque! I'm not a philanthropist; I'm willing to do any man a good turn, but I'm far more anxious to do a bit of good for myself. I may lose, but it's just as likely I shall clear a profit. These vases can be passed off, though you couldn't do it—but, mind you, I don't say even now they are not genuine."
With a vast sense of relief George accepted the cheque, and gave up possession of the Chinese vases.
"Have you any idea what we are doing here?" Miss Yard inquired one morning, while Nellie was assisting her to dress.
"We came to live with your sister," replied the girl.
"I suppose there's some truth in that. But what's the good of staying now Maria has gone to the seaside? I want to go home, and see my friends again," declared Miss Yard, declining the next garment until she should receive a satisfactory answer.
"This is your home," said Nellie.
"Then why don't we have tea parties, and why don't we meet every week to knit chest protectors for the people who eat one another?"
"Because we no longer live in a town full of old ladies with nothing to do."
"There was an old clergyman who used to make me shiver with his dreadful stories," added Miss Yard eagerly.
"Not exactly. While the rest of you knitted, one of the ladies used to read aloud from a book, written by a missionary who had spent thirty years upon an island in the Pacific; and he did mention that, when he first went there, the people were not vegetarians."
"And we sent him a lot of mufflers and mittens," cried Miss Yard.
"Yes, and he wrote back to say wool was much too warm for people who wore nothing at all."
"That's what made me shiver," said Miss Yard triumphantly. "It wasn't so much what they ate, as their walking about without clothes. They used to go to church with nothing on. It must have been dreadful for the poor clergyman. No wonder his health broke down. We must go back," said Miss Yard decidedly. "I can't think what made me so silly as to come here. Do you remember the lady who lived in a dandelion?"
"Now you really have puzzled me," laughed Nellie.
"A little yellow dandelion on a hill. There were no stairs to go up, but I didn't like it much in summer."
"I've got it! You mean the bungalow that belonged to Miss Winter. You didn't like her."
"She used to kiss the clergy," said Miss Yard sadly.
"My dear Miss Sophy you must not libel people. She told you once the only men she ever had kissed were clergymen; one was her father, and the other her uncle. What makes you remember all this?"
"Percy has written to me, and says he's going to be a missionary."
"Let me see the letter."
"It's on my table. I'm sure Percy will make a good missionary, for when he wants money, he's not ashamed to ask for it."
"This is an appeal from the Society for Supplying Paper-patterns of the Latest Fashions to the Ladies of the Solomon Islands."
"That's where Percy is going. I do hope they will dress themselves properly for his sake."
"Oh, here it is!" cried Nellie, discovering a letter on the carpet. "So Mr. Taverner is coming here next week."
"And he's going to bring me some tomatoes."
"He's going to bring his fiancée," said Nellie.
"Now I've quite forgotten what that is."
"The young lady he's going to marry."
"That's what I mean. I get so confused between tomatoes and mortgages."
"He has just come into some money most unexpectedly," Nellie read. "He arrived at the conclusion long ago that the climate of England is quite unsuitable for the cultivation of tomatoes; and as he is anxious to exploit the capabilities of his new variety, he is going to settle, after his marriage, in Tasmania, which he believes is an island with a future. He is coming to Highfield to bid his dear good aunt a long farewell. Whatever gave you the idea he was going to be a missionary?"
"Doesn't he say so?" asked Miss Yard.
"No, he is going to Tasmania to grow tomatoes."
"I suppose I used to know something about Tasmania; but then I used to be very good at acrostics, and I can't do them now."
"It's an island near Australia. But not every one who goes to an island in the Pacific intends to be a missionary," said Nellie, adding to herself, "This will be delightful news for George."
That gentleman was depressed, for he had just received an anonymous communication threatening him with a fearful end upon the day that the first boulder of the new railway was blasted. Also Crampy had sent him a perplexing note, mentioning that some experts believed the vases were genuine, while others declared them to be forgeries; but, in any case, he had succeeded already in disposing of them.
When George had read Percy's letter, which Miss Yard passed across the breakfast table, with the remark that she herself would like to live "in the Pacific," if he could find her an island where the police insisted upon the wearing of apparel during divine service, he became highly suspicious, and suggested to Nellie in an undertone that Percy had selected the Antipodes with a view to removing himself as far as possible from the Central Criminal Court.
"He's going to grow Tasmanias in Tomato," announced Miss Yard.
"He means to grow giant tomanias—I mean tomatoes, in—oh, bother!" laughed Nellie. "Miss Sophy has muddled me. Why shouldn't Mr. Taverner grow tomatoes in Tasmania?"
"What about this money? Would anybody leave money to Percy unless they had to?" cried George.
"It may have been left to his young lady," suggested Nellie.
"He has robbed someone," said George bitterly, "and now he's running off the earth to hide the swag."
"If I wanted to say something nasty about Mr. Taverner," said Nellie, "I might suggest he had become engaged to Miss Lee because this money had been left to her."
"I should be certain of it, if he wasn't clearing out of the country," replied George.
"Isn't this honey?" complained Miss Yard. "What makes it taste so bitter?"
"Heavens, don't swallow them! Have they stung you?" cried Nellie, perceiving suddenly that the good lady was spreading her buttered toast with a mixture of crushed wasps and honey.
"They are not at all nice. Did the doctor order me to have them?"
"They are wasps, Aunt," said George bluntly.
"Are they the things that turn into butterflies?" gasped Miss Yard, rising from her chair and showing signs of distress.
"Don't worry, dear. They are quite harmless. Come and lie down, and I'll bring you something to wash out your mouth," said Nellie; and she carried off the old lady. While George, always ready to play emergency-man, rushed into the kitchen, acquainted Kezia with what had happened owing to her gross carelessness in putting away the honey pot with the lid off, and ordered her to despatch a telegram to the doctor. Then he went into the parlour and observed consolingly:
"People can live a long time with bullets inside them. Wasps can't be worse, especially as they must be digestible."
"I am afraid of the stinging parts," said Nellie.
"Perhaps they are worn off," he replied.
Miss Yard lay upon the sofa breathing peacefully, thankful she had made her will, but looking wonderfully healthy. She complained, however, of drowsiness, whereupon Bessie, who had rushed across the road at the first alarm, and was then standing in the parlour armed with the brandy bottle and blue bag, exclaimed incautiously, "That shows they'm stinging her. Robert ses his father wur bit by a viper, and he drank a bottle of brandy and lay unconscious vor twenty-four hours."
"Was it really a viper?" groaned the sufferer.
"I don't think they will do her any harm," said George. "In some countries the people live on frogs and slugs."
"And St. John the Baptist always had grasshoppers with his honey," added Bessie reverently.
"And Germans eat worms, and thrive on 'em," George concluded.
Kezia was crying in the hall, declaring that the jury would bring it in manslaughter. Being called upon by Bessie to make some valedictory remark to the poor lady, she approached, and blubbered out:
"Mrs. Cann ses, miss, you ain't to worry. She can't hardly open her mouth in the post office without swallowing something; and one evening, miss, taking her supper in the dark, she ate a beetle; and there's more good food about than us knows of, she ses; and it 'twas all cooked, miss, and if it warn't vor the look of such things, we might live a lot more cheaply than we do; vor she ses, miss, 'tis horrible to think what ducks eat, but there's nothing tastier than a duckling, 'cept it be a nice bit of young pork; and she ses, miss, she saw a pig of hers eat a viper—"
"There's nothing here about internal wasp stings," broke in Nellie, who had been consulting a book of household remedies.
"I can't think how it got into the house," Miss Yard was moaning, with her eyes fixed upon vacancy. "It seems wonderful that it should have run down my throat when I wasn't looking."
"Are you in any pain, dear?" asked Nellie.
"No," replied Miss Yard in a disappointed voice.
"They'm always like that," wept Kezia. "My poor missus was wonderful well the morning she wur took."
"I'm going away too," said the invalid. "Will you find me a train, George?"
"Where to?" asked the obliging nephew.
"The place where Nellie and I came from. I don't know what they used to call it."
"We'll go directly you are well," Nellie promised.
George brought a railway timetable, a pair of compasses, and a map of the British Isles; and delivered a lecture which delighted the old lady so much that she forgot her pangs, and was greatly astonished when the doctor bustled into the room thankful to know he was not too late.
"I suppose you want a subscription," said Miss Yard.
"I had a telegram saying you were seriously ill, but I have never seen you looking better," replied the doctor.
"Yes, I am wonderfully well, thank you. I hope you're the same," said the merry patient.
"Oh, doctor!" cried Nellie, entering the apartment. "Miss Yard was eating her breakfast—"
"And I swallowed a snake! Do you know I had forgotten all about it!" cried the old lady.
Nellie revised this version, and the doctor was professionally compelled to act the pessimist. He advised a little walk in the garden, to complete digestion of the wasps, recommended a stimulant, prescribed a tonic, and promised to call every day until the patient should be in a fair way to recovery.
Then he departed, and Miss Yard immediately suffered a relapse brought on entirely by the visit. She was stricken with some mortal disease, and they were hiding the truth from her. She consented to walk round the garden, as it would be for the last time; then, having insisted upon being put to bed, she implored Nellie to tell her the worst; and, when the girl declared it was nothing but a little indigestion, the old lady lost her temper, and said it was very unjust she should have to die of a disease that was not serious.
"There's nothing whatever the matter," said Nellie.
"Then what's all this fuss about?" asked Miss Yard.
"You are making the fuss."
"I didn't send for the doctor. And he's coming again tomorrow. It's not measles, and it's not whooping cough, but I believe it's poison. Bessie put poison into the teapot."
"Why Bessie?"
"I knew she would do something dreadful if she didn't stop growing. And Robert is so short. It must all mean something. He held the teapot while Bessie put in the poison. Nasty bitter stuff it was too! I suppose I must forgive them, though I don't like doing it. Where is George?"
"He is packing. He's going away tomorrow."
"But he must stay for the funeral!"
"There's not going to be a funeral. You know Mr. George must leave us; he has told you so lots of times."
"Tell him to come here. I must give him a present. Look in the cupboard and find me something to give George. And pack up all my clothes, for I shan't want them again. Send them to that Bishop who wrote and said he hadn't got any."
"I don't think, really, your clothes are suitable for the ladies of the Lonesome Islands," said Nellie.
"You must keep the best things. I want you to have my black silk dress and the coat trimmed with jet ornaments. They will come in nicely for your wedding. Perhaps George would like a brooch. Tell Bessie and Robert to come here at five o'clock to be forgiven—but I won't promise. You must write to Percy, and tell him I was so sorry not to be able to say good-bye, but the end came suddenly, though I was quite prepared for it. Why aren't you packing my clothes—or did you say George was doing it?"
"I'll call him. And if you worry me much more I shall swear," said Nellie.
George came and mourned over his aunt because the time of separation was at hand. Miss Yard agreed, but almost forgot her own impending departure when George explained he was referring to himself.
"Oh, but you are not going to die yet. I'm sure that isn't necessary. Besides, you are looking so well," she said earnestly.
"He is not looking a bit better than you are," cried Nellie.
"I am about to start on a long journey, Aunt," said George piteously.
"Oh, yes! I remember now about the island in the Pacific where the tomatoes grow."
"I have been working rather too much lately, and need a rest," he explained; "but directly you want me back you have only to send an invitation."
"I shall be left all alone—oh, but I forgot," said Miss Yard, interrupting herself in a shocked voice. "You must stay, George, to do me a great favour. I want you to bury me in Westminster Abbey in the next grave to Queen Elizabeth."
"My dear Miss Sophy!" exclaimed Nellie.
"Don't listen to that child. She is in a nasty cross mood—and somebody has been teaching her to swear. I took a fancy to Westminster Abbey when I was quite young, and, even if it is rather expensive, I should like to treat myself to a grave there."
"I'll see to it," George promised.
"You shouldn't say such a wicked thing," cried Nellie.
"Are you suffering at all, Aunt?" he inquired, anxious to change the subject.
"I don't think so," said Miss Yard. "It's all going to be wonderfully peaceful. I'm so thankful!"
"Shall I ask the vicar to call?" George whispered.
"Of course not," said Nellie fretfully. "She would think he had come to prepare her. I am very sorry you sent for the doctor. Here's another beastly wasp! Do kill it."
"Is she packing my clothes?" whispered Miss Yard, peering over the bedspread.
"No, and I'm not going to," replied the young rebel.
George struck out manfully at the living wasp, knocked it down somewhere, and began to search for the body which was still buzzing.
"Oh dear!" cried Miss Yard. "There's such a dreadful pain in my hand."
"I knocked it on the bed. She really is stung this time!" George shouted, seizing the insect in his handkerchief and destroying it; while Nellie fled for the restoratives which were necessary at last.
It was the best thing that could have happened, for immediately her hand was bandaged, Miss Yard's interest became centred in that, and she forgot there was anything else to worry about. When the doctor called next day, he was advised to say nothing about affairs internally, but to concentrate all his ability, and his bedside manner, upon the outward and manifest sting; with the result that Miss Yard was pronounced out of danger within forty-eight hours; by which time George had vacated the premises and made room for Percy.
Hardly had he driven away when there came a knock upon the back door, and when Kezia went to answer it, she found the Wallower in Wealth standing there, with twenty-five shillings in his hand and a bargaining expression on his face. Having inquired after the well-being of every one in the house, and made a few remarks upon the climate, he stated that he had lately enjoyed a conversation with the blacksmith, who had declared there never was a machine he couldn't mend and, if the musical box were brought to his forge, he would speedily compel it to play all kinds of music.
"What's it all about?" asked Kezia; and, as she put the question, Bessie crossed the road. Upon those rare occasions when she happened to be at home, there was nothing going on in the house opposite which Bessie did not contemplate from her upstairs window.
"Mr. Drake promised me the musical box," explained the visitor, who had watched the departure of George before setting out on his expedition.
"It ain't his, and he knows it. And you knows it too," said Kezia warmly, "else you wouldn't ha' waited till he'd gone away."
"Gone away, has he!" exclaimed the Wallower in Wealth. "You give me his address and I'll send the money on to him."
"That musical box belongs to me," said Kezia.
This was a critical moment in Bessie's career; to have yielded then would have meant the complete abandonment of all her rights in furnishings. She did not hesitate in declaring war upon her ancient ally with two steely words:
"'Tis mine!"
"I'm surprised to hear you say such a thing, Bessie Mudge; and Miss Sophy lying ill in bed too," replied Kezia.
"Mrs. Drake left me the musical box, and I ha' got writing to prove it, and me and Robert are only waiting vor Miss Sophy's funeral to take it."
"Mrs. Drake said I wur to have all the furniture in the house."
"I wouldn't like to have to call you anything," said Bessie.
"And I'd be cruel sorry to fancy you craved to hear the like," retorted Kezia.
Then they paused to think out new ideas, and to place their arms in more aggressive attitudes.
"When furniture be left to more than one person simultaneous, 'tis usual to divide it," explained the Wallower of Wealth.
"Half a musical box b'ain't of no use to me."
"Nor me."
"You sell me the box, and I'll give you twelve shillings, and twelve shillings to Mrs. Mudge, and I'll get it put right at my own expense," said the Wallower in Wealth, seeking to introduce the peaceful principle of compromise.
"I wouldn't take twelve pounds. The Captain told me there warn't another box like that in this world," said Kezia.
"He told me there wur another, but 'twas lost," replied Bessie, adding with the same spirit of determination, "I wouldn't take twelve pounds neither. Robert ses not a thing in the house can be sold without his consent."
"Who's Robert Mudge?" cried Kezia, in the voice of passion.
"He's my husband," replied Bessie.
"And who be you?"
"I'm his wife."
"Sure enough! They'm husband and wife. I saw 'em married," said the Wallower in Wealth, with a distinct impression that Bessie was winning on points.
"I don't know what's going to happen to us, I'm sure," said Kezia. Then, in accordance with military strategy, she conquered the enemy by abandoning her position and slamming the door after her.
That evening Bessie advanced as usual for coffee, which included a hot meal, and during this campaign Robert did not accompany her, being detained, according to the best of his wife's belief, in the bakery, working overtime at buns. Kezia distrusted this communication, as no festival of buns was impending, and arrived at the conclusion that the assistant baker had absented himself from coffee drinking owing to a bashfulness not uncommon in the time of war and tumults. Having, as she supposed, abated the pride of Robert, Kezia sought to assuage the malice of Bessie by small talk concerning Miss Yard's convalescence, the departure of George, which was positively final like the last appearance of an actor, and the Turkish state of things at Black Anchor. But the musical box remained an obsession, playing a seductive jig for Bessie, and a triumphal march for Kezia; and at last the former said:
"Me and Robert ha' been talking, and he ses nothing should be took away avore Miss Sophy dies."
"That's what my dear missus said. Not me, nor you, nor Mr. George, wur to touch anything till Miss Sophy had been put away," agreed Kezia.
"Didn't Mr. George sell part o' the cloam?" asked Bessie.
"Well, Bess, I did give 'en a pair of old vases. I know I ought not to ha' done it, but we've got plenty o' cloam, and I wanted the poor fellow to have something, him being a relation."
"What us wants to think about is this," Bessie continued, "me and you ain't agoing to quarrel. Mrs. Drake made a lot of mistakes in her lifetime, poor thing, and 'tis vor us to make the best of 'em."
"I'm sure I put in a good word vor you many a time," declared Kezia.
"I know you did," said Bessie warmly.
"I used to say to missus, 'Never mind about me, but do ye leave Mr. George and Bessie something. I don't care about myself,' I said."
"When us come back from Miss Sophy's funeral, us will divide up the things. First I'll take something."
"First me!" said Kezia sharply.
"You'm the eldest. You can take first," said the generous Bessie. Then she inclined her head towards the door and whispered, "Ain't that someone in the hall?"
"'Tis only Miss Nellie," said Kezia. "There's a drop o' cocoa left in the saucepan, Bess."
"I'm sorry us had words today, Kezia," said Bessie, as she took the drop.
"Don't ye say anything more about it. I'm sure the dear missus would walk if she fancied we weren't friendly. But I do wish she hadn't got so forgetful like."
"That ain't Nellie!" cried Bessie, listening again.
"Sounds as if Miss Sophy had got out of bed and fallen down."
"'Twas a bump vor certain. I'm agoing to see," said Bessie, opening the kitchen door.
She advanced along the passage, but was back in a moment.
"The hall door's wide open—and I saw a light from the parlour."
"There's a man in the house!" screamed Kezia. "Don't ye go out, Bess!"
"Who's there?" called the valorous Bessie, advancing again to the passage. Then she shrunk back, crying:
"Here's a young man—and here's an old 'un. They're carrying something. Don't ye go out, Kezia."
"Oh, my dear, I ain't agoing to," faltered Kezia, retiring into the far corner of the scullery.
"They'm running!" Bessie muttered. "One wur youngish, and t'other wur oldish. They ha' gone now. I heard 'em shut the gate."
"'Tis they Brocks," whispered Kezia in terror of her life.
"'Tis somebody who knew Miss Sophy wur lying ill in bed."
Bessie took the lamp and went forth boldly, calling a challenge at every step. Presently Kezia plucked up courage to follow, and they went together into the parlour.
The musical box had disappeared: so had the pair of silver candlesticks, the Russian Ikon, and various other rich and rare antiquities.
"Oh, Kezia; ain't it awful in a Christian country!" exclaimed Bessie.
"Go vor policeman! No, don't ye—they may come back again."
Then Kezia's eyes fell upon the mummy, and she cried hysterically, "Thank heaven they ha' spared the King of Egypt!"
The constable, an exceedingly able man who was expecting to become a sergeant, gave it as his opinion that a thief had been at work. In support of this theory he pointed out certain prints of hob-nailed boots, which upon examination he discovered to be his own. Thereupon he increased his reputation by a shake of the head, and the statement that, even in a small community, mysteries were bound to happen.
Kezia began to mutter about Sidney Brock, who had eaten and drunk in her kitchen, and had endeavoured to entice Nellie into his harem; while Bessie had the effrontery to suggest she had seen two dark shadows, unquestionably substantial, disappearing along the lane in the direction of Black Anchor.
"You can get to London by that road," replied the policeman. "Were they walking or running?" he inquired.
"When I last saw 'em they was running fit to break their necks," said Bessie.
The constable twirled his moustache and smiled in a superior fashion; for he was about to make a point.
"Running with a musical box pretty near the size of a piano, not to mention other articles of furniture," he said.
"The box wur big, but not very heavy," explained Kezia. "It stood upon legs, four of 'em, but a man could lift it off and carry it."
"And the legs would follow after?" suggested the policeman, who believed in making people laugh; but he failed on this occasion.
"They would have to walk back for the legs," Kezia explained.
"How many men did you say there were?"
"Two, but I wouldn't swear to nothing," replied the tactful Bessie.
"If policeman wur to go along the lane he might catch up wi' them," suggested Kezia.
The officer declined, pointing out that it would be a physical impossibility for two men to carry such bulky articles all the way to Black Anchor, and a moral impossibility to do so and escape detection. Then he sought for information concerning the ownership of the purloined property.
"'Tis mine," came the simultaneous answer.
"That wants a lawyer," said the policeman, beginning to show the acumen which was winning him promotion; and when the position had been explained he continued, "Maybe Mrs. Drake left a like paper for Miss Yard?"
"Two of 'em," said Kezia.
"Leaving her everything?"
"Just the house and a pair of silver candlesticks."
"What ha' been stolen," added Bessie.
"And a paper for Miss Blisland?" went on the policeman, longing for a superior officer to hear him.
"Her left she the round table in the parlour, but that be rightfully mine," replied Kezia.
"Mine too," said Bessie.
"Likely enough she left a bit of writing for Mr. Drake?"
"He got a bit, but he wouldn't show it to no one," said Kezia.
"Maybe the person who took the things has got about as much right to them as certain other folks," said the constable darkly. "That's all I can say at present, but I'll make inquiries in the morning," he added, as Robert came up to find out what had happened.
Highfield was an honest place, where a farmer did not wait for a dark night to divert his neighbour's water supply, or postpone the cutting down of a hedge, which did not belong to him, to a misty day. The inhabitants therefore were convulsed with horror when informed by Robert that an act of real dishonesty had happened: to wit, a pair of desperate ruffians had broken into Windward House and departed with much furniture. It became at once obvious to everybody, except the policeman, that the district had been systematically plundered. Squinting Jack declared, now he came to think of it, eggs had been missing from his hen roost for weeks past; the Wallower in Wealth swore that a sum not exceeding twenty-five shillings had been extracted from his mattress; while the Dumpy Philosopher discovered a number of vacancies among the red cabbages in his back garden.
This being a matter of morality, the vicar was made the victim of a deputation, headed by the Dismal Gibcat, an inevitable but unfortunate selection, as this gentleman had not said his prayers in public for some years, because, according to his own statement, a violent fit of nasal catarrh seized upon him immediately he entered the church. The Dismal Gibcat, encouraged by the silent but moral support of several Nonconformists, who were generally credited with loving their neighbours rather more earnestly than themselves, framed an indictment against the Brocks: they were aliens who had sprung up at Black Anchor with the suddenness of toadstools; no respectable female presides in their kitchen; they were visited frequently by women of a certain class; they had already corrupted the young people of the neighbourhood; and were now breaking into houses and removing every article of value. Assassination of prominent personages would follow in due course.
"You are entirely mistaken," replied the vicar, somewhat stiffly. "It must be well known to the parish that I often visit the Brocks."
"They do say you'm friendly wi' every one," observed the Dismal Gibcat bitterly, as he was obviously an exception.
"I hope so. At all events I like the Brocks—indeed, I respect them."
"How about they women and gals?" cried the Dismal Gibcat.
"Probably their presence can be explained. As for this robbery, it is ridiculous to suspect the Brocks. I may as well mention that I knew something about them before they came here," said the vicar.
"They ses you turned Sidney out of the choir because he teased the maidens."
"That is quite untrue. He resigned and explained his reason for doing so."
"Well, if they'm friends of yours, 'tis no use us talking; but I believe they took them things as much as if I'd seen 'em doing it. Ain't that the general opinion?" demanded the Dismal Gibcat of his limp supporters.
"I takes volks as I finds 'em," replied the Dumpy Philosopher.
"I wouldn't like to say parson goes shares wi' the Brocks in everything—in every single thing," observed the Dismal Gibcat, as the deputation retired, "but I shouldn't be surprised if a lot o' volk didn't think so."
During this excitement Percy and his young lady arrived, two days before they were expected, and flustered Kezia so that she could think of the robbery only at intervals. Bessie made no mention of it: neither did Robert, though he went to the village shop, purchased a pound of candles, and tried unsuccessfully to buy a bottle of lubricating oil. As it was impossible in Highfield to enter into secret negotiations for the purchase of even a penny tin of mustard, the policeman, in the course of his inquiries, heard about it and, having worked out the problem without the aid of pencil and notebook, he proceeded to the bakery and told Robert he ought to be ashamed of himself.
"For why?" asked the assistant baker, with the assurance of a man who had nine points of the law in his favour.
"What did you buy this morning at Mrs. Trivell's shop?"
"Bottle o' blacking," replied Robert.
"Sure it wasn't whitewash? What else did you buy?"
"Penn'orth o' blacklead," said Robert cheerfully.
"Making the case pretty black, ain't you? You didn't buy a pound of candles, of course—best wax candles. But, if you did buy candles, what were you going to do with them?"
"I don't know what you can do wi' candles except light them," said Robert.
"And you didn't buy a bottle of lubricating oil, because Mrs. Trivell hasn't got any. If you did buy a bottle of salad oil, what would you be going to do with it?" continued the policeman, in his best and brainish manner.
"You can do pretty near anything wi' salad oil," declared Robert.
"Among the things stolen from Windward House last night were a pair of silver candlesticks and a musical box, out of order, but perhaps it might play a tune if you oiled the works," said the policeman sternly.
Robert stroked his nose and mentioned that an officer who could put one thing to another like that, was not at all required in Highfield parish.
"What were you doing when this robbery was taking place?" came the question.
"I fancy I might have been giving a hand," Robert admitted cautiously.
"Who helped you?"
"I don't know as anybody helped. But it wasn't a robbery, vor Mrs. Drake left all the things to Bessie," said Robert cheerfully.
"And to other folks as well."
"I b'ain't responsible vor that. First come, first served; and other volks take at their peril, I ses."
"It's my duty to tell Miss Blisland you took the things. Where have you hidden 'em?"
"Inside the peatstack. If you'm going to tell Kezia, I shall shift the things into town and sell 'em."
"That's your affair," replied the constable. "Seems you haven't exactly committed a robbery, as you have a sort o' right to the things; and you haven't committed a trespass, as you can go into the house when you want to. So I can't charge you with anything. But I reckon it won't be long before you have the lawyers after you; and then the Lord ha' mercy on your pocket, Robert Mudge."
Before the constable could reach Windward House to report how easily he solved a problem, his wife ran to meet him with cheering information concerning a great fire upon the outskirts of the parish; and, as conflagrations are things no policeman can resist, he mounted his bicycle and scorched towards an isolated farmhouse which was doomed to destruction; as its bankrupt owner had taken the precaution to store plenty of dry faggots, well sprinkled with petroleum, within the well-insured premises. The farmer was sitting upon an upturned pail, which smelt of anything but water, bemoaning his fate, and informing the neighbours that spontaneous combustion would happen sometimes no matter what you did to prevent it, when the constable arrived, sniffing greedily at the clue-laden atmosphere. The farmer replied that the oil barrel had leaked terribly, and there was no preventing that either. The policeman investigated, went on his way to report, and returned with papers in his pocket; and, while teaching the farmer a few cheerless facts concerning the legal meaning of arson, such a trifling affair as the Highfield grabbing passed naturally and conveniently from his mind.
Percy introduced himself to his Aunt, kissed her upon both checks according to a family tradition; the bride elect followed his example; and they all talked of Tasmania, tomatoes, tickets, and travelling, with a few remarks upon marriage licences, until Miss Yard rolled off the sofa for sheer joy of motion.
"Nellie!" she called. "Pack my things at once! Percy and Emmie have got a licence to go to Tasmania, and tickets to get married, and I won't stay here any longer."
"But this is your home, Aunt," mentioned Percy.
"And there are not many places like that, you know," Miss Lee added.
"I used to have a much better home than this. We had tea parties, and mothers' meetings, and all sorts of nice things. I'm going to forget the past and begin all over again."
"Miss Sophy is quite serious," Nellie explained, when Percy approached her on the subject. "It's very seldom she keeps an idea in her head, but, when she does, it governs her completely. Ever since she was stung by the wasp she has been worrying to get away."
"How about taking her back to Drivelford?" suggested Percy.
"That would do nicely. But you must see to it, else Mr. Drake will; and there will be more trouble between him and Hunter."
"George has gone for good," said Percy sternly.
"He told me all he had to do was to go away; there was nothing said in the agreement about the time he was to be away. Miss Sophy has written already inviting him back."
"If he insists upon returning here to live—" began Percy.
"You will be at the other end of the world, and Hunter won't know anything about it," she concluded.
"George is a great scoundrel," said Percy. "I have only another two weeks in England; but I suppose I must go to Drivelford and find a house."
Miss Yard was delighted when Nellie informed her that the golden age of tea and talk was about to be restored; and she blessed Percy with such tenderness that her nephew felt compelled to make her a most liberal offer.
"You know, Aunt, the furniture in this house belongs to me. It was left to George, and I bought it from him for two hundred pounds. Don't you think the best plan would be for you to buy it from me for—shall we say—one hundred and fifty pounds? I lose and you gain, but that's as it should be."
"What an excellent idea!" cried Miss Yard. "Nellie, bring my cheque-book."
"You cannot afford to spend so much money, especially as we have a move before us," said Nellie quietly.
"Oh, I'll take a hundred pounds," said Percy.
"Miss Sophy cannot afford that either."
"That's what she always says, but I tell her I can afford it," said Miss Yard crossly.
Percy began to feel uncomfortable, as this was the first time his golden goose had been prohibited from egg laying. He made up his mind that Nellie was developing into an offensive young person; honest no doubt, and admirably suited to control Miss Yard; but with mistaken notions as to the dignity of a nephew and trustee. He sought, therefore, a secret interview with the young lady, in order that he might caution her against any further opposition, and remind her that in all financial matters his word must be the last; and this interview was granted very willingly.
"Sit down, please," he began, when they had entered the dining room.
"If you stand, I shall too," replied Nellie, who was holding a small article wrapped in paper.
"Just as you like," said Percy. "Is that Miss Yard's passbook?"
"No," she replied. "But if you want to see the passbook I will fetch it. Miss Sophy has a little over two hundred pounds at present."
"Another dividend is due next month. My aunt is quite able to pay a hundred pounds for the furniture."
"The question is," said Nellie, "to whom does the furniture belong?"
"To me, of course."
"Have you what the lawyers call a good title?"
"I hope you are not going to be impertinent, Miss Blisland," said Percy sharply.
"I know Mrs. Drake left the furniture to Mr. George," she continued, thankful of her promise not to mention those numerous scraps of paper.
"And I bought the stuff from him."
"With Miss Sophy's money."
"What has that to do with you? I can borrow from my aunt, and of course she does not expect me to repay the money."
"But I expect it. I manage her affairs, and I tell you plainly this borrowing must cease. I shall not allow Miss Sophy to pay you a single penny for the furniture, because it is hers already," said Nellie, with all the coldness of a magistrate sentencing a poacher.
"The little devil! You had better keep your mouth shut, or I may be tempted to say something rude. I don't want to forget I am talking to a young woman. You have just got to do what I tell you," blustered Percy.
"But I decline," said Nellie sweetly.
"Then you can look out for another job. I shall tell Hunter I have dismissed you for gross impertinence. That's all I have to say. You may go now."
"Thank you," she said. "But I haven't finished yet. I want to know what is going to be done about the furniture."
"I have nothing more to say to you."
"You must tell Miss Sophy, and she will consult me. So I may as well hear your decision at once."
"I shall have a sale," replied Percy. "My aunt can buy new furniture when she gets to Drivelford. After all, it's not so very much more expensive than moving it."
"You will do nothing of the kind," said Nellie.
Again Percy was tempted to say something rude; and again he yielded. Then an explanation flashed across his mind and he began to laugh.
"I see what it is! My aunt has promised to leave you as much as she can—"
"Then why should I object to her buying the furniture?"
"All I know is you won't get it. I shall visit the nearest auctioneer tomorrow—"
"It's time we changed the subject. I believe this is your property," interrupted Nellie, holding out the packet wrapped in paper. "Do you think it fair to ask Miss Sophy to pay for the furniture twice over, when you have just come into two thousand pounds?" she added.
"Who told you that?" cried Percy, snatching the packet and tearing off the covering. "My pocketbook! You stole it from my room. You have been through my letters. You are the most unscrupulous young woman!"
"We had better not talk about stealing. Perhaps you remember sitting in the garden with Miss Lee yesterday evening. You did not come in until dark, and you were so much engaged in discussing your plans that you forgot to bring in the chairs. You also forgot your pocketbook. Kezia found it and gave it to me. Now I return it."
"After turning it inside out," he muttered, dropping the lion's hide and assuming the calfskin.
"I have not even opened it," she replied.
"Then how do you know I have come into two thousand pounds?"
"A gentleman called Crampy told me."
"Crampy! He couldn't tell you—he wouldn't!"
"It must have been one of the parrots then," said Nellie gleefully. "Let me tell you a story! Once upon a time there was an idle gentleman who had made up his mind never to work for his living, because he owned a pair of Chinese vases which were supposed to be priceless. This gentleman had a cousin, who knew the vases were exceedingly valuable, and, as he was a bad man, in fact a terribly unscrupulous man," said Nellie, opening her eyes widely.
"Here, I say! You stop that!" bellowed Percy.
"I'm having my revenge for being called a little devil," she said gaily. "As this cousin was a thorough scoundrel, he determined to grab the vases, so he went to another unscrupulous man called Crampy and told him, if he could get the vases cheaply from the idle gentleman, he should have half the profit. Crampy agreed, visited the gentleman, saw that the vases were genuine, and offered him a thousand pounds. The offer was refused and Crampy went away, beaten on the first round. His next step was to send the idle gentleman a list of collectors who could be trusted; and this was followed by a visit from an American millionaire, Josiah P. Jenkins, who in his own domestic circle was generally known as Bill Sawdye."
Percy forgot himself and swore.
"The story is not very clear at this point, but it appears Bill Sawdye was a sort of handyman employed by Crampy for dirty little jobs like this. He offered the idle gentleman two thousand pounds for the vases. This was accepted, Bill paid the money, and took the things away."
"I don't want to hear any more," muttered Percy, gulping like a fish.
"But I must have the satisfaction of showing you how well up I am in the latest criminal news," said Nellie. "Next day Bill sent back the vases, swearing they were forgeries, and assuring him Crampy was the last hope. The idle gentleman communicated at once with Crampy, agreeing to accept his offer. Crampy paid the thousand pounds and went off with the vases. He sold them for five thousand, and that left four thousand to be divided between the wicked cousin and himself. It was understood that Crampy should pay Bill and all expenses. These two scoundrels expect to live happily ever after, but I'm sure they won't," concluded Nellie.
"I was a fool to have kept Crampy's letter. But what right had you to take it out of my pocketbook and read it?" growled Percy.
"I told you I never looked inside your pocketbook, but you left it unfastened, and there was a good deal of wind in the night. This morning, when I went out to pick sweet-peas, I saw a letter blown against the sticks. I glanced at it out of ordinary curiosity, I read on out of interest, and I finished it out of duty."
"Now you can hand it over," said Percy sulkily.
"I intend to keep it for the present. I may even have to send it on to Mr. George."
"He can't do anything. It was a trick, but a perfectly straightforward business trick. Crampy made an offer, and he accepted it."
"Mr. George is a stronger man than you, though he does pretend to have a weak back. If he knew about this, and could get at you, I believe he would break your head. He would write to Hunter anyhow, tell Miss Lee and all her family—"
"Do you know his address?"
"Yes, and I can bring him here tomorrow; and I will too, if you refuse to make over the furniture to Miss Sophy. That is only fair, as she has paid for it."
"If I consent to make my aunt a present of the furniture?" suggested Percy.
"Then I promise not to mention the matter to Mr. George."
"All right. I'll tell Hunter to draw up a deed of gift. Of course you understand it would be useless telling George, as he cannot recover the vases or make any claim against me?"
"Then why are you clearing out of the country?"
"The soil of Tasmania is said to be ideal for—"
"Fugitives from justice," finished Nellie.
"Emmie, my darling," said Percy, a few minutes after this interview, "I feel quite certain there is something wrong with the drains. I shall tell aunt we are leaving in the morning."
"Percy is so wonderfully unselfish," said Miss Yard to Nellie that evening. "He has made me a present of all the furniture; and tomorrow he is going to find me a new home."
Miss Yard became uncontrollable, almost dangerous, when Percy wrote informing her he had discovered a house situated upon high ground, quite fifty feet above the meadows through which the Drivel percolated. The garden soil was a singularly fertile gravel; the view, which was monotonous, consisting chiefly of mole heaps, was fortunately blotted out by lichened apple trees; while the principal reception room had been designed, in his opinion, with a view to knitting parties; and a retired Archdeacon had quite recently passed away in the best bedroom.
The old lady craved for Drivelford delights every hour of the day. She escaped constantly from the garden to begin the first of the hundred miles which separated her from such a respectable abode. When imprisoned in the parlour, she wrote a quantity of letters to old friends, most of whom had travelled far outside the radius of the postal union, inviting them to her first tea party at the Lodge, Drivelford. The name of the house was really Wistaria Lodge; but Percy had recommended the shorter form as less of a committal.
"Percy must live with us; he will enjoy the river. Don't you remember the gentlemen, in long coats and round hats, who used to sit all day smoking and tasting something out of jars? Percy would like that," she said merrily.
"Mr. Taverner is now a married man, and by this time he is a thousand miles away. I suppose you are referring to Mr. George," said Nellie.
"Of course I mean George. Why don't you listen, child? He can sit by the river with the rest of the gentlemen. He can hand round the cakes, and talk to the ladies. Give nice things, and say nice things. I wonder if somebody told me that, or whether I invented it. I used to be clever once; twenty years ago I could have told you what Wistaria meant."
"It's a creeper," explained Nellie. "But Mr. Taverner as good as says there isn't one."
"I'm glad of that. I do not like creeping things. Now I'm going to write to George. My memory is wonderfully good today, and yet I cannot remember the name of the lady he married."
"My memory is better than yours, but I cannot remember it either," laughed Nellie. "When Mr. George marries, I shall expect to hear your banns read out."
"I could have married once," declared Miss Yard. "He was a curate with such a funny face, and his nose was just like a cork."
"Why didn't you?" asked Nellie.
"I think there was some impediment. I rather fancy he took to comic songs, or perhaps he forgot to mention the matter. Why did George go away, if he never means to get married?"
"That's a long story, which I cannot tell you now, as I must get on with the packing. Don't you write to Mr. George. Leave that to me."
"He is coming with us," cried Miss Yard.
"He is not," said Nellie.
She went out, locking the door lest Miss Yard should commence one of her perambulations towards Drivelford, murmuring to herself:
"Kezia goes with us, so there will be no trouble with her; but Bessie, of course, stays with her husband. Whatever will she and Robert say—and do—when we begin to move the furniture? George must come back. He's pretty artful, and perhaps he'll suggest a plan."
The artfulness of George was a thing to be reckoned with, so, when Nellie wrote, she did not mention that the furniture was now the legal property of Miss Yard; but merely informed him they were leaving Highfield, and requested him to return as soon as possible.
She had hardly finished this letter when Kezia entered the room, seated herself in the most comfortable chair, as prospective mistress of all she surveyed, and announced her intention of getting to the bottom of everything.
"I don't know what's going on, but there's something being kept back what I have a right to know. Who stole my things, Miss Nellie? Who come into this house, when me and Bess wur sitting in the kitchen, and took my musical box, and my silver candlesticks, what dear Mrs. Drake left me—snatched 'em out of my hand, as you might say? Mr. George had gone away, so it couldn't be him. It warn't nobody here. It warn't the Brocks, they ses. That musical box wur so heavy the dear Captain couldn't lift it without saying something Mrs. Drake wur sorry vor. And it went off avore my face as if 'twur smoke."
"I'm just as much puzzled as you," said Nellie. "Perhaps the policeman will tell us all about it when he comes home."
"I've got a fancy he took the things himself. He's got a way of hanging about after dark what I don't like," said Kezia. "I ha' never trusted policeman, since one kissed me when I was a young gal. 'Twas ten o'clock at night, and I wur standing by the gate—and then he begged my pardon, said he'd mistook the house, and 'twas the gal next door he meant to kiss. You can't trust them, miss. They ses he's gone to run in a farmer whose place got burnt down, but it's my belief he's gone to sell my candlesticks."
"You mustn't say such things," cried Nellie.
"And what's all this about going away? Mr. Percy come here, and I heard 'en tell about finding a house, and Miss Sophy does nought 'cept worry about packing and getting off, and her talks all day about a place called Drivelford. Nobody tells me nothing about it."
"Miss Sophy has told you a great deal."
"I don't pay no attention to what she ses. Mrs. Drake said Miss Sophy wur to die here, and be put away in Highfield churchyard, and nothing was to be touched in her lifetime."
"But surely Miss Sophy can please herself!"
"Mrs. Drake said I wur to look after Miss Sophy," muttered Kezia.
"And so you shall. We are going away, as Miss Sophy really ought to live in a place where she can see a few people. We have taken a house in Drivelford, which is where she used to live, and we shall go there some time this month. Kezia, I want you not to mention this to anyone, not even to Bessie," said Nellie impressively.
"Well, I never!" gasped Kezia. "I fancied we should never be going away from here, and I don't think it's right. I'm sure Mrs. Drake wouldn't like it. What sort of a place is this Drivelford?"
"Oh, it's quite a bright little town, and a lot of old people go there to live because the death rate is only seven and a half in a thousand."
"What do that mean?" asked Kezia.
"Statistics are beyond me, but I suppose if means that out of a thousand people only seven and a half die."
"What happens to the old folk what don't die? How long do the person what half dies bide like that? Do he get better or worse? How be us to know whether me, and you, and Miss Sophy, won't be among the seven? I can't sense the meaning of it."
"It does seem rather hard to explain, especially as Drivelford has the biggest cemetery I ever saw in my life. You will like the place, Kezia. There are plenty of houses and rows of shops—one very big one, called Field, Stanley, and Robinson, where you can buy anything."
"I'd like to be among a few shops," said Kezia more cheerfully. "Ain't Stanley the name of that dreadful woman what came to Black Anchor?"
"I believe that was the name, but it is quite a common one. There are no Stanleys in Drivelford anyhow; but there are three churches and two chapels."
"That'll keep us busy on Sundays," said Kezia delightedly.
"And there's an electric theatre."
"What's that?" asked Kezia suspiciously.
"A place where they show pictures."
"I won't go there. I've heard a lot of loud talk about them places. I heard of a young woman who went into one, and was never seen again. That Stanley woman came from an electric theatre, where there was singing and dancing and showing their legs, you may depend. Ah, they'll be weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth some day. Is there a dentist in Drivelford?"