"Have ye heard the news, Mr. George?" she whispered excitedly. "Master ha' given Robert three pounds and a week."
"Three pounds!" cried George fiercely.
"Us can't make any one believe it. Three solid sovereigns, sir! Robert ha' got teethache through biting 'em."
"I am not surprised," said George. "Dyer has been left a lot of money—he told me yesterday. An uncle, who went to New Zealand years ago, has just died and left him thousands. He can buy up the whole village if he wants to."
"Master never told Robert he'd been left money. He gave 'en the sovereigns and said 'twas a reward vor the way Robert had worked. Couldn't spare 'em, he said, but his conscience worried him. They do say the Dyers ha' never given away anything avore 'cept the water what they boiled their cabbage in."
"When are you off?"
"First thing tomorrow. We'm going to my home, so it won't cost nothing 'cept the railway. I'm getting our things together now."
"Where's Robert?"
"Going round wi' the bread—that's him a-whistling. He'm fair mazed, Mr. George."
"Who is to take care of the house?"
"I'll lock it up and take the keys away wi' me. Why shouldn't us go? No one won't go near the house, wi' you and policeman about."
"I think you ought to wait until Miss Yard comes back," said George, who knew enough about women to be aware how the spirit of opposition acts upon them.
"And lose our holiday! The only real holiday we've had, and the chance to see my folks again. Not likely, Mr. George! If we don't go tomorrow, master will ask vor them three sovereigns back again. How did you manage to find out he'd been left all this money?"
"I was talking with him yesterday and—it just slipped out. You will hear more when you come back."
"I'll make Robert ask 'en vor a rise. How long be you staying, Mr. George?"
"I might be here when you return or, on the other hand, I might go tomorrow. Do you want me to take charge of the keys?"
"Somebody ought to go in and open the windows."
"I don't mind doing you a favour. If I'm called away I will leave the keys with Mrs. Dyer."
"Not wi' she. Leave 'em wi' Mrs. Cann to the post office. You come this evening, and I'll give ye the keys."
"All right," said George. "But you know I don't approve of your going after having been left in charge."
"If I don't go, Robert will, and he ain't going home without me," said Bessie. "I wouldn't like leaving if Kezia wur here, vor I'd dread her selling some of my things; but Robert ha' told the volks the house belongs to you, so there's no fear of any one breaking in, unless it be the Brocks. Policeman ha' promised to keep his eye on them."
George went on to punish the baker, who had succeeded with grievous pangs in handing over three sovereigns, but had failed in his endeavour to part with the fourth. Dyer affirmed Robert had lied, by no means for the first time; but, when George threatened to call the Mudges that they might give evidence upon oath, Dyer admitted it was just possible the missing coin might have slipped through a hole in his pocket; so he called his wife to light a candle and to sweep the floor. The elusive piece of gold, however, had passed entirely out of vision, although neither of the Dyers could feel surprised at that; the lady declaring it was wonderful how easily things lost themselves; while her husband said he had done nothing except drop money all his life.
"Very well, Mrs. Dyer," said George. "When you make up my bill for lodgings and bread puddings, just remember that you owe me a pound."
"You wouldn't think of such a thing. You'm too much of a gentleman," cried Mrs. Dyer.
"The missus fancies you meant it, sir. She ain't very humorous," explained the baker.
George had a trick of nodding after supper, and that evening he did not wake until it was nearly time to sleep more seriously. Remembering that Bessie would be sitting up to surrender the keys, he hurried out; but when he entered Windward House modestly by the back door—hoping to overhear some scraps of conversation—the house appeared deserted, until he pushed open the kitchen door, to discover the Wallower in Wealth sipping a cup of something hot beside the fire.
"Where are the Mudges?" cried George.
"Where's my musical box?" retorted the man in possession.
George had made a rule never to use bad language; by an exception then he proved the rule's existence. Some men are frightened when sworn at because they never know what may come next; and the Wallower in Wealth belonged to that class. He sat silent and sulky, while George repeated his question with one more exception.
"Gone vor their holiday," came the answer. "I looked in to wish 'em gude-luck, and Mrs. Mudge asked me to bide till you come. Keys be in the doors, I was to tell ye."
"Their train doesn't go till seven o'clock tomorrow morning."
"Postman told 'em there's an excursion up to London at eleven, so they reckoned they'd go part of the way in that, and get there quicker."
"The fools!" cried George. "That train will take them in the very opposite direction."
"They was a bit mazed. Robert had begun to enjoy his holiday, and Bessie wur trying to catch up wi' 'en. Now they'll ha' to wait all night outside the station."
"What are you drinking?" asked George, sniffing at the fumes.
"Mrs. Mudge said 'twur coffee, but it tastes more like hot whisky and water. I'll give ye thirty shillings vor the musical box."
"I'm not going to talk business at this time of night. It's my bedtime and yours too," said George, making a motion towards the door.
"There's a drop o' this wonderful nice coffee in the jug."
"Take it with you."
"I won't take it in the jug, lest I forget to bring it back. Your very good health, Mr. Drake—and I'll give anyone thirty-five shillings for that musical box."
George hurried into the town next morning, and ascertained from a porter who had relations in Highfield, that the muddled Mudges had started upon their journey in the right direction shortly after midnight, by obtaining an introduction to the guard of a goods train and travelling—contrary to all regulations—in his van. The porter mentioned that the guard had possibly been influenced by the fact that Bessie was carrying a basket of delicacies, while the neck of a bottle protruded from the pocket of Robert's overcoat.
Satisfied on this point, George visited a certain place of business, and interviewed the manager who promised to send up to Highfield, very early on the following morning, two furniture vans, with sufficient men to do the packing in one day. The simplicity of working out a plot caused George to laugh aloud; also to treat himself to a luncheon from which bread and margarine pudding was rigorously excluded.
On the way home he sighted, in the dip of the road, a pair of strolling youngsters, boy and girl, who looked back often as if expecting somebody; the back of the one, and the beauty of the other, seemed familiar. Suddenly the girl took to her heels and raced round the bend, while the boy allowed George to draw up to him.
"Why does the little girl run so fast?" asked George in a paternal fashion.
"She's full of beans," replied Sidney.
"Taking a holiday?" George continued.
"I fancied a friend might be coming by the three o'clock train; but I've had the walk vor nothing."
"Another young lady, I suppose?"
"That's right," said the laughing profligate.
"Well, I'm confounded! It seems to me you are collecting girls," George muttered.
"There's plenty. I'll leave ye a few to choose from," said Sidney.
"I've done my choosing and I'm going to settle down after this month. I suppose you know we are all clearing out of Highfield? Miss Blisland has gone already, and you'll never see her again. You tried to catch Nellie," said George, who frequently lost by his silly conversation all he had gained by his cunning. "But she saw through your nasty little ways, my lad. She didn't fancy your harem. Nellie is one of the most sensible girls I have ever met, and she's got the makings of a good woman in her."
"I reckon," said Sidney, like an oaf.
"It's a bit of a change to me to marry any one, but I don't mind sacrificing myself," George rambled on. "There's no secret about it. We've taken a house at a place called Drivelford, and we're going to let Miss Yard live with us. You won't get the chance to congratulate Nellie, and I shouldn't permit it in any case, as I don't think you are the sort of young fellow she ought to speak to; but I do hope you are feeling a bit sorry for yourself. I'm not perfect, but I do think a man ought to be honest and truthful, and be satisfied with one wife, so long as she does what he tells her."
"That's right enough," said Sidney.
"You see what a callous young fellow you are already. You pretended to be in love with the future Mrs. Drake; but, now that you have lost her, you don't care a hang."
"Not that much," said Sidney, snapping his fingers.
"That's your character," said George bitterly. "Why should you care? There are plenty of Dollies, and Teenies, and painted ladies, cheap for cash as the advertisements say."
"Here, you mind what you're saying. You're going a bit too far!" cried Sidney, rounding angrily upon his oppressor.
"I'm not insulting you," George explained. "But I do want to give you a little good advice before we part. I can quite understand that you don't want to hear the truth about your young women, and they wouldn't like to hear it either. That little girl ran away just now because she couldn't face a decent gentleman."
"She ran because she wouldn't be introduced to you."
"That shows she can't be altogether bad," said George approvingly. "Now I must leave you, as I'm going to take the short cut across the fields. I do hope you will remember what I've said. When this new young woman arrives, try to show yourself a lad of courage. Send her home again or, if you don't like to do that, send her to me."
For some inscrutable reason Sidney could not restrain his laughter.
"Ah, you think I should want to make love to her," said George angrily. "I know your nasty mind. You and your grandfather had better be careful. You haven't got a friend in the parish."
"Except the vicar," Sidney reminded him.
"And, if he goes on visiting you, he won't have a friend in the parish either. Do you know what they call you in the village?"
"Do you know what they call you?" Sidney retorted joyously.
"They call you the Mormon."
"And they call you Ananias!"
"Well, that beats everything," gasped George, as he dropped clumsily over the stile. "I never tell lies except in the way of business. I always speak the truth in private life."
Days were shortening, so that by the time George had finished his tea, which included a propitiatory offering of doughnuts, the boom of beetles sounded in the street. As life was dull in the bakery, he decided to spend a tranquil evening in his own house, surrounded by the furniture he had been brought up with. He went and settled himself in an easy chair with one of the copies, still unburnt, of his uncle's monumental work, "A History of Highfield Parish." But reading grew tedious, and the doughnuts he had consumed so recklessly began to trouble, and the buzzing of flies and wasps became tempestuous.
Yet these sounds recalled pleasant memories of the past; he had not done much with his life, still he had managed to win distinction as an insect killer. He had eased his uncle's labours by crushing the wasp, and averted his aunt's displeasure by obliterating the blowfly. He rose and went into the kitchen to search for a cork.
The lighted candle cast weird shadows as he blundered through the pantry to the larder; discovering at last a cork which smelt of alcohol. That at least would give the wasps a pleasant death. But, while hurrying back to the insect-haunted parlour, he heard a new disturbance: no sleepy buzzing, but the fall of active footsteps. Then a handbag was flung recklessly through the open window; banging upon a chair, rolling to the floor. The footsteps died away, and the gate of the garden slammed.
With horrible dread of a possible explosion, George crept towards the missile, and touched it gingerly. It was a neat brown bag, ridiculously small to hold a wardrobe, and it bore the initials N.B.
"That's what they put in books, when they want to draw your attention to something," he muttered.
It would have been extraordinary, after Teenie's visit, had Nellie not received a letter from Sidney, begging her to give him an opportunity of clearing up the mystery which had so long surrounded Black Anchor Farm. The style and spelling of this epistle moved her to the discovery that it would be necessary to leave Miss Yard in the hands of Kezia, and return to Highfield, for one night only, in order that she might superintend the packing of the furniture; in place of George, who might quite possibly prove untrustworthy.
She replied, not altogether to that effect, without one thought for the ridiculous nature of her expeditionary programme; she could not arrive at Highfield until late in the afternoon, she would be compelled to leave early the following morning, while the packers could not reasonably be invited to work from dusk to sunrise. Sidney could meet her at the station if he liked: in fact she thought that might be the best plan, "As poor old George does not possess a sense of humour." Sidney thought so too; but Nellie in her hurry missed the train. She was able to agree with Miss Yard, who could not travel without the observation, "They ought to do away with railway junctions."
There was no good reason for losing all sense of method upon her arrival at Windward House. As a methodist, she would have walked calmly indoors, announced to Bessie—who was presumably in charge—that she had returned to spend one more night in her old bedroom entirely out of sentiment; and then have gone for a walk, in the opposite direction to Black Anchor, among the moths and beetles, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new moon. But the sight of that open window, the garish lamplight, the cold apparition of George with a murderous cork in his hand, made her hopelessly unmethodical. Her mind became so entirely disorganised that everything escaped it, except that stupid necessity of going for a walk immediately. She flung her bag through the window and fled.
On the way to Black Anchor Nellie succeeded in persuading herself that she was, if not exactly discreet, at least as sensible as any other young woman in revolt from the severity of everyday life towards a more picturesque and imaginative style of existence. She actually made a plan. As it was night, and sufficiently dark for spying, she would approach the farm among the bogs, flit around it like a will-o'-the-wisp, play watchful fairy at the window, act recording angel at the keyhole, until part at least of the mystery might be revealed. She had no particular wish to discover the secret of Sidney's fascination, which attracted to him young ladies of superior birth and education, but she desired very much to learn something about these prepossessing damsels; who they were and why they came; and above all it was her business to ascertain why Sidney spoke like a farmer's boy, but looked like a farmer's landlord, and wrote like the descendant of a poet laureate.
"How dark it is down here!" she murmured. "Lucky I know the geography. I wish I knew my history half as well."
Then it seemed to her that all kinds of light-footed people were leaping over the bogs and jumping the furze bushes; while the moor on each side twinkled with teasing eyes of local inhabitants sent out to watch the movements of the spy.
Nellie saw the farm, and knew by the stream of light that all the doors and windows stood wide open. The trackway beyond was dangerous because one window threw a searchlight right across it; but she walked on, having never been taught the art of scouting, and came presently to a colossal figure, carved apparently out of granite, or beaten into human shape by wind and weather, rising from an unhewn boulder halfway to the sky. This was a wonder of the moor never previously discovered, thought Nellie; but a moment later she felt certain ghosts were abroad, and this colossus was being worshipped by the local inhabitants, dancing invisibly all over the peat and tussocks: she could detect the smell of incense, see the smoke rising; any moment she might be compelled to witness a human sacrifice. There was a glow of fire undoubtedly. Again she fled, while the colossus shook from side to side although there was no wind.
"How silly of me!" gasped Nellie. "It was old Mr. Brock, sitting on a rock—bother the rhyme!—smoking a cigar."
Obsessed by the idea of finding out something concerning this enchanted region, she went on towards the farmhouse, forced to walk along the lighted trackway because it skirted the edges of a bog, where in full swing was the season of grand opera and, from a cool green dais, the bullfrog conductor constrained an enormous amount of energy out of his orchestra—it sounded like Tanhäuser but was more melodious—although the night-jars and owls did their best to mar the performance out of professional rivalry, while the beetles with their trombones were hopelessly discordant. But soon there were other sounds, far pleasanter; a scuffling in the furze-clad regions beyond; an approach, a trepidation, a capture, and a scream:
"You beast, Sidney! I did think I had hidden myself that time."
"I saw the white ribbon in your hair. You looked out just at the wrong moment."
"It's my turn to seek now."
"I'm going up to Highfield."
"I don't believe she's coming."
"I'll go and find out anyhow."
"Shall I come?"
"No, you stop at home."
"I won't spoil sport. If you see her, I'll cut off full lick."
"Listen! that was grandfather whistling."
Nellie stood upon the trackway shivering. Behind her old Mr. Brock closed the pass; in front Sidney was approaching; on the right side spread the bogs; on the left a jagged wilderness of boulders. From a strategical point of view she was done for. And she had come there to spy! She could only halt in vexation squeezed against a rock until captured, or advance with what little dignity remained to make an unconditional surrender.
"Boots muddy, hair all anyhow, crushed clothes—and caught in this abominable fashion," she murmured. "In fact I'm so untidy there's just a chance he may not recognise me."
She had not the slightest cause for worry. A girl may know when she looks attractive to other girls; but she seldom realises she is most fascinating to a man when her boots are muddy and her hair is all anyhow.
There came a rabbit-like scamper up the trackway, and the stampeding Teenie screamed again:
"Oh, I say—you did make me jump! Sidney! Sidney, you ass! Here she is! Here's Miss Blisland! Oh, what a lark!" shouted the child with shameless and barbaric jubilation.
"Don't talk such beastly nonsense," cried the other voice.
"It is her!" screamed the child.
"Yes, it's me," said Nellie faintly; and all three stood together, in an atmosphere of amazement and bad grammar.
"I thought, as it was such a lovely night—I mean evening—I would stroll in this direction to tell you I'm off again first thing in the morning," explained Nellie.
"This is splendid! I was just going to start for Highfield, but this is far better, as there's no old Drake to waddle about and quack. I was hanging about the road all the afternoon. This is Teenie Stanley—my cheeky young sister."
"Your sister! And your name isn't Brock at all!" cried Nellie.
"Run away, kid, and talk to grandfather," Sidney ordered; and the little whirlwind whisked round Nellie and departed.
"I did have the idea, but thought somehow it wasn't possible," Nellie was saying. "You have humbugged everybody, but you never really deceived me; if you had, I shouldn't be here now. I saw through your Dartmoor dialect, and all the rest of it. And I suppose Dorothy is your elder sister?"
"Of course she is."
"And the much-abused Mrs. Stanley—"
"Is my mother who, in spite of local rumour, does not put on local colour."
"Why ever didn't you tell me before? What was the sense of making such a mystery of it?"
"The people in Highfield made the mystery. We didn't want them to know we were here."
"Couldn't they see you, stupid?" said Nellie, more cheerfully.
"I mean grandfather didn't want them to know who we are; but I should have let out everything that evening—when you were spiteful—if we hadn't quarrelled. You know, Nellie, you were rather too cross about mother, and—and I lost my temper because you wouldn't trust me, and I made up my mind you should."
"You are nearly as bad as George Drake," she declared.
"Nearly isn't quite."
"And who are you, please?"
"Oh, we are not of vast importance. My full name is Arthur Sidney Stanley. It was a shame to give me such names, as I can't possibly put my initials on anything. That little beast, Teenie, always calls me ass. We're not exactly paupers, as we own a big share in a number of stores all over the south. There's one at Drivelford."
"I've been in it hundreds of times, and distinctly remember seeing you behind the counter."
"Don't be horrid. I've never been to Drivelford in my life, but I'm going there tomorrow if you are."
"Who is Mr. Brock?" she asked in a great hurry.
"Really my grandfather, and the owner of Black Anchor Farm, also the patron of the living. Now you know why the vicar condescends to visit us. Brock is such a common name in this part of Devonshire that nobody could dream he istheMr. Brock."
"And why did you come here? Why have you lived, like a couple of common people, in this ramshackle place, without housekeeper or servant? You simply made the people talk about you. How could they understand a couple of gentlemen pigging it! Your mother and sisters coming here naturally made a scandal. Even I couldn't believe they were your relations, though I was positive you were much better than you pretended to be. I shall never forgive you for talking to me in Devonshire dialect, though I'm quite willing to forget you had supper one Sunday evening in our kitchen."
"Wasn't it fun too!" Sidney chuckled. "I wanted grandfather to come, but he drew the line at that. When you know grandfather well—and that's going to be jolly soon—you will guess how enormously he has enjoyed his time here. It was his idea entirely. He loves roughing it, he has spent most of his life knocking about the world, and he's only really happy in a cottage. He declares luxury and high feeding kill more people than any disease. It's only the rustic who lives to be a hundred, he says; and, as he means to score a century himself, he takes a spell of living like a rustic occasionally. He could never get a satisfactory tenant for this place, so he told father one day he'd made up his mind to show the commoners what hard work could accomplish on a Dartmoor farm."
"Where do you come in?"
"Just here. I hadn't been very strong since leaving school—crocked myself rowing—and the doctor said I ought to work in the open air for a time before taking up anything serious. You can't persuade doctors that farming is work; they look upon it as a recreation. So grandfather suggested I should come along with him. Father was willing, but mother was horrified. I jumped at the idea of course. Grandfather is the grandest old fellow alive, and I would rather be under him than all the doctors in the world. He wouldn't have a housekeeper, as he likes doing everything for himself when he's roughing: besides, a woman would have seen his papers and letters, and found out who he was; and naturally he doesn't want the people to know that the patron of the living, and biggest landowner in the parish, is grubbing in the bogs down here."
"Didn't the scandal make him angry?"
"He has never heard a word of it."
"So that's the mystery!" cried Nellie, feeling rather ashamed of herself.
"It's jolly simple after all. We are going away before winter, when there's a flood four days a week, and a gale the other three. Grandfather owns the place has beaten him. He says a man who tries to farm on Dartmoor ought to receive a premium instead of paying a rent. If it isn't bog, it's rock, and, if it isn't rock, it's 'vuzzy trade.' And if you do put in a crop, the moles turn it out; and, if the moles don't turn it out, rabbits, sheep, mice and grubs in millions and slugs in trillions gobble it up completely. Now come and be introduced to grandfather, and then I'll take you home. He is sure to growl at you, but you must stand up to him, and then he'll love you. He likes anyone to stand up to him. The vicar got the living by contradicting him. I say, Nellie, don't hurry back to Drivelford."
"Are you aware you have not called me Miss Blisland once?" she demanded, showing no inclination to approach the terrible black grandfather.
"Quite! And are you aware you have never once called me Sidney?"
"I must go back in the morning. Miss Yard will be crazy all night without me. She will think I've been kidnapped," Nellie hurried on.
"She won't be wrong."
"I should like to start at once, though I hate the idea of facing George. I'm a dreadful coward really, and I'm afraid he will think I have treated him badly. He knows of my arrival, but I'm quite certain he is not bothering to look for me."
"A kick in the face will do him good," replied Sidney disdainfully.
"He can't take a joke, though he did try to take me, and I'm much the biggest joke he has ever run against. The truth of the matter is he has made up his mind to get back the Captain's furniture, which belongs to Miss Yard now, and he knows the only way he can get it is by marrying me."
"There's grandfather growling! He's telling Teenie to go to bed, and she's telling him to go himself. That kid never is tired. Now he's chuckling! Grandfather likes to be cheeked."
"I ought to have gone long ago. It must be getting on for midnight."
"And we've got to be up early. I'm coming with you, and you shall introduce me to Miss Yard, and then I'll take you to my people, and then we'll get married—"
"Well, of all the precociousness!" she gasped. "Do you know I'm older than you?"
"You can't blame me for that."
"And I expect to be treated with respect. And my father was never anything more than a very poor curate."
"Well, a curate is a bishop on a small scale, and we are only shopkeepers on a large scale. It's funny that poor curates should always have the nicest daughters."
"And I can't forgive you for talking to me like a farmer's boy."
"Then I won't forgive you for saying horrid things, and thinking worse about my mother and sisters."
"Of course we might forget. But then that wouldn't be enough. So I can never marry you, Sidney—at least, not until Miss Sophy dies."
"She'll have to be jolly quick about it," said the young man fiercely.
"She is very kind and considerate," Nellie murmured doubtfully; trying to work out the algebraical problem. If a Giant Tortoise is hale and hearty at five hundred, and a Yellow Leaf is trying to inveigle a Mere Bud towards the matrimonial altar at ninety-something, what is the reasonable expectation of life of an old Lady who has nothing to die for?
"All this time," said Sidney, "grandfather is peering at us, while Teenie is simply goggling. We have got to pass them, and then—thank heaven!—we shall be alone."
"If I let you come with me—" she began.
"As if you could prevent it!"
"Will you stand up to George for me? Will you play the Dragon, andnotget beaten?"
"Rather! I owe the saint one for his sermons."
But Sidney was not given the opportunity, for, when they reached Windward House, after wasting an extraordinary amount of time in climbing the hill, they found the place deserted; but the key was in the door, and a note lay on the table. They read it with explosions of sheer rapture.
Why Nellie had returned to Highfield George, for his part, could not imagine; but he considered her conduct on the whole disgraceful, and begged to remind her that nothing but a satisfactory explanation could avert a rupture. She, in her selfishness, had supposed, no doubt, he would either light a lantern and seek to track her footsteps; or sit up and wait until she should be pleased to return. He had no intention of doing either of these things. A game of hide-and-seek about the Highfield lanes at dead of night, after a long and fatiguing day, was not much to his taste; while the rôle of henpecked lover, awaiting the return of a profligate fiancée to the family hearth, was a part he was still less suited for. It was his habit to retire at half past ten. He had retired, utterly worn out and exhausted. In the morning he would give Nellie an opportunity for explaining her conduct; and, if the explanation should prove unsatisfactory, he should seriously contemplate asking her to return all the presents he had given her.
"What has he given you, darling?" asked Sidney.
"Nothing whatever, dearest."
They had learnt a number of words like that while toiling up the hill.
"But surely, sweetheart, he must have given you something."
"I expect he's thinking of the furniture; but I got that for myself, though he doesn't know how."
Then they made their plans, but George had also made his. His usual habit was to permit the sun to warm the world before he walked upon it; but on this occasion he had requested Mrs. Dyer to call him early. Nellie, on the other hand, overslept, having nobody to call her, and being naturally tired after so much travelling, romance, excitement and happiness: excellent things but all fatiguing.
She woke with a dream of a battlefield where shells of monstrous size were exploding upon every side, each one missing her by inches; nor was this surprising for, upon opening her eyes, she soon became aware that stones were being hurled into the room.
"It can't be Sidney," she murmured sleepily. "He wouldn't wake me so roughly, even though I am late. Goodness—that's a rock!"
It was not Sidney. It was George, as she discovered by one swift glance. He frowned like an artillery man while adding to his stock of ammunition.
"Stop it! You've broken the water jug, and my room is flooded," she cried.
"So I've got you up at last! You threw your bag into my window last night, so I throw stones into your window this morning. It's what they call thelextalionis."
"Please go away! I'm not dressed yet," she called.
"I'm waiting to hear your explanation, and I'm going to stand here, in this very same place where I was first beguiled by your deceitful face at the window, when you sat and worked a sewing machine, like that lady in the Bible who got pushed out and trodden underfoot," said George wrathfully; for during the night a suspicion of the truth had reached him.
"I'd better get it over at once," Nellie murmured. Then she wrapped herself in the quilt and approached the window.
"Here I am!" she said brightly.
"What a nasty, hostile, ungrateful expression. And you ought to be in a white sheet instead of that scarlet quilt," said George bitterly.
"Well, you shouldn't be so rude as to throw stones at me. They were not pebbles either."
"It's my house and my window. Why have you come back?"
"Because I wanted to."
"That's a woman's answer. Did you give your address to that wicked little girl who answers to the name of Teenie?"
"I might have."
"That's another woman's answer. Did that young man who wallows in vice write to you?"
"A young gentleman known here as Sidney Brock did write to me."
"That's the sort of confession a woman does make. And you actually replied? You had no shame whatever?"
"I sent an answer."
"Then came!"
"And saw and conquered," she murmured happily.
"What are you muttering about?"
"I suppose you would call them my sins. But, if you speak to me again like that, I shall shut the window," Nellie replied with spirit.
"I'm blest if she isn't going to argue," George mumbled. "I don't want to be hard upon you, young woman, but I can't have this sort of thing," he went on sternly. "You desert my dear old aunt, and come back here, and rush into bad company, and you don't even ask my permission. I'm a liberal and broad-minded chap, but I can't stand that."
"How are you going to prevent it?"
"By asserting myself, by putting my foot down. Here am I working and toiling for you. I have sent Robert and Bessie away for a well-earned holiday, and presently vans will be coming for the furniture. It's all for you. I don't think of myself at all. I'm saving the furniture, and handing it over to you at great expense, while you are breaking my heart by making appointments with young Mormons in the dark, and going to such a place as Black Anchor at dead of night, and staying there till morning. That sort of conduct makes men commit murder and suicide, and other things they are sorry for afterwards. But I'm not a criminal, and I'm not passionate. I'm practical, and cool, and—and amiable. I have taken quite a fancy to you, Nellie. Other people don't think much of you, but I can see you have good qualities, only you won't show them. Now I want you to tell me why you wrote to young Sidney, and why you met him last night. Be very careful how you answer, as the whole of your future happiness may depend on it."
"I wanted to clear up the mystery," she said.
"There is no mystery about shameful wickedness. Being about to marry a respectable gentleman, who bears a highly honoured name, upon the last day of this month—"
"Oh, stop! Do please!" cried Nellie appealingly. "We are only playing. We have been fooling all along, and you must have known it. I was always laughing and teasing—have you ever seen me serious, as I am now?"
"You don't mean to tell me you are trying to get out of it—you are not going to keep your promise?"
"What was my promise?"
"That you would marry me on the last day of this month."
"It wasn't put like that. I promised, in fun, to marry you on the thirty-first of September, and, of course, I thought you would have seen through that joke long ago."
"I suppose the point of the joke is that you mean to become a Mormon?"
"There is no thirty-first of September. And I am going to become a Mormon, if you like to put it that way, for I am engaged to Sidney Brock."
"And I'll tell you what I am going to do," George shouted. "I'm going to jilt you."
"Thanks so much," laughed Nellie.
George stalked out of the garden, and was not seen again until Sidney and Nellie had departed, and big vans had drawn up beside Windward House to the wonder and dismay of all the village. Then he revisited the scenes of his former triumphs and issued certain orders to the packers. After that he hurried off to the town and visited an auctioneer.
Returning to Highfield, he passed behind Robert's cottage, demolished the peatstack, and brought to light the musical box, the silver candlesticks, and all the rest of the purloined articles. These were deposited in the vans.
A hostile crowd had collected, but George took no heed of anyone; not even the Wallower in Wealth who sought ineffectually to obtain possession of the musical box by force and without payment. The unhappy Dyer had his eyes opened to the exceeding perfidy of his lodger, but he dared not open his mouth as well.
The following day bills were posted about the neighbourhood, announcing a sale to be held at short notice, in the market hall of the town, of the valuable furniture and remarkable antiquities formerly in the possession of Captain Francis Drake, by order of the Executor of the will of Mrs. Drake deceased.
"I'm sorry for Aunt Sophy, but she ought to have kept out of bad company," was George's only comment.
When Bessie and Robert returned to Highfield; when the people discovered how the light railway, which originally had been a matter of electricity, and then had degenerated into an affair of steam, was in fact a proposal of gas entirely; when Windward House remained empty and unswept, with the giant tortoise lord of the manor; and when the niggardly Dyer was attacked on all sides as the confederate of the public enemy—there unfortunately existed no genius of the lamp competent to continue the parochial record from the point where Captain Drake had closed it. Genii of the lantern undoubtedly did exist, and these made another story, a kind of fairy tale, which was not told outside the village. All the water was spilt near the pump. Nobody took part in the revolution which followed, causing an alteration in the landscape; at least nobody in particular; but there was not a man, woman, or child of destructive age who did not give a hand towards the general rubbing of the lamp. When the furniture failed to arrive at the banks of the Drivel, and inquiry elicited the fact that all had passed into the hands of dealers, Kezia fell into a state of melancholy which not even her favourite Sunday walk around the cemetery was able to relieve; and when the cruel truth of George's unassailable title to Windward House was broken gently room by room, despondency increased upon her to such an extent that she actually paid a visit to the electric theatre.
Miss Yard laughed merrily at the humorous idea of buying new furniture, and told everybody about her provincial escape from the fire which had destroyed everything she possessed, and how a young gentleman called Sidney had rescued her from the flames at great personal risk. She was so grateful that she suggested he might become engaged to Nellie, and he had done so at once; which showed how absurd it was to say that young men of the present day were rude and disobedient. Of course it was understood that the engagement was only to continue during her lifetime. As for Nellie, she breathed a great sigh of relief. The loss of the furniture might be a serious matter, so far as Kezia's future and Miss Yard's banking account were concerned; but it meant the total eclipse of George. He could not show his face either in Highfield or Drivelford; he had done for himself completely. She refused to listen to Sidney's proposal of instructing Hunter to institute proceedings.
"By doing nothing we get rid of him for ever," she said.
"Anyhow, we can take action against the people who bought the things," he urged.
"We shall do nothing of the kind. It would worry the old lady into her grave; and I believe that's your object."
"I want to punish the brute for bullying you and preaching at me."
"You can't make a thick-skinned creature like George feel anything," she answered. "If he were put in prison, he would congratulate himself upon living free of expense. And if he refunded the money, he would insist upon coming here and living with Miss Sophy. It would be no use turning him out. He would come back like a cat and make us all miserable. Leave him alone, and we shall hear no more of him."
She prophesied truly. Those who had been honoured by the society, and somewhat doubtful friendship, of George Drake were not privileged to look upon him—or on his like—again. After gathering in his harvest, he retired into the privacy of lodgings, having a sum of sixteen hundred pounds to his credit, and spent a couple of years drinking tea, smoking cigars, and trying to make up his mind whether his landlady's daughter "would do."
This young lady was of a more orthodox type than Nellie. She possessed a head of golden hair, upon which much time and dye had been expended; her eyes were dull; her countenance was flaming. George secretly admired that style of beauty. The young woman could make tea, arrange cushions, fetch and carry slippers, stand in a deferential attitude; she showed unmistakable signs of honesty, and obeyed the call of her mother instantly; she had no conversation, the possession of which was a gift that marred so many women; she giggled respectfully when addressed; nor did she shrink from admitting that gentlemen of Mr. Drake's magnificence unhappily grew scarcer every year.
George became highly delighted with Matilda which, he remarked, was a sweet, old-fashioned name, suggesting to him somehow the odour of lilac and honeysuckle. He congratulated himself frequently upon having thrown over that designing young woman, Nellie, just in time; and, at the expiration of eighteen months of indolence, he informed her—for in such a matter he disdained all questions—of the social position that awaited her. She was capable of improvement, he admitted, and no doubt she would improve. Grace she would acquire by watching him. The heavy tramping about the house might be exchanged for a gentle footfall by the use of more appropriate footwear. He begged her to bear these things in mind, and above all never to forget that out of all the women in the world he had selected her.
Matilda appeared quite satisfied. So did her mother, who was deep in debt, and had no scruples against adding to the burden, when informed by her future son-in-law that his resources were practically unlimited.
"It has just occurred to me I have a property on Dartmoor worth a couple of thousand," he said in the grand manner, well suited to his wealth and indolence. "I have not been near it for the last two years. It's a fine house—a beautiful Elizabethan mansion—but it has a somewhat peculiar history," he added.
"Is there a ghost?" asked Matilda's mother, who was greatly impressed by everything George said.
"There are several ghosts," he replied.
"Don't ye ask me to live there then," said Matilda, with her giggle which ought to have been illegal.
"Nothing would induce me to go near the place," said George with perfect truth. "I ought to have sold it long ago, but these little things escape one's memory. I will dispose of it at once, and buy a cottage, with a bit of land. I shall keep bees and prune the rose trees; while you look after the poultry and the cow, do the cooking, mind the house, and attend to me."
Matilda was a poor mathematician, but even to her this did not appear a fair division of labour. Already she was running up a little account against her future husband. His courtship was not of that vigorous order she had a right to expect; his indolence seemed to her a type curable only by the constant application of a broomstick; his craving for tea and tobacco, unless checked, might easily become morbid. Matilda possessed some wits; not many, but ingenious ones; and, until George was safely tied to her by matrimony, she was going to pretend she had no conversation.
When George observed that the Dartmoor property had just occurred to his memory, he intended perhaps to say he had thought of little else during the last two years. He had almost succeeded in believing that his disposal of the furniture had come perilously near actual dishonesty; by which he meant to imply his action had been unbusinesslike and foolish; though he had the satisfaction of knowing that Nellie had been justly punished for her offences. He had planned to sell, or to let, Windward House immediately; but had reckoned without his cowardly nature, which conjured up visions of all manner of people seeking vengeance against him. Bessie and Robert would be clamouring for his arrest; Kezia might have taken her scraps of paper to some solicitor; Nellie might have placed the matter in the hands of Hunter; the dreary Dyer might be forced to bring an action for conspiracy to clear his own mean character. George had been so terrified by these fancies that, for several months, he hardly dared to stir from his lodgings, and could not look a policeman in the face.
But now that two years had passed, and nobody had tapped him on the shoulder, he decided it would be perfectly safe to emerge from his obscurity to the extent of communicating with a land agent in Exeter, which city was a satisfactory distance from Highfield, and instructing him to offer the property for sale by public auction or, should an opportunity arise, to dispose of it at once by private treaty. For sake of convenience George requested that letters should be addressed to him at a certain post office, as he still thought it advisable to protect the sanctity of his private residence.
The land agent replied that a sale by auction was generally the most lucrative manner of disposing of a property, and suggested the despatch of a clerk skilled in valuation to inspect the premises. He mentioned also that applications for houses in the Highfield district reached his office continually, and he would be pleased to issue orders to view the property which by the description appeared a valuable one.
George agreed to everything, but was inclined to lay stress upon the private sale if possible, as he did not wish the local inhabitants to know that the ownership of the house was about to change hands. Included in the sale, he mentioned, would be a giant tortoise—or the animal might be offered separately—more than half a thousand years old. This reptile, which would appeal alike to animal lovers and to antiquarians, was a fixture with the garden, above which it browsed one half of the year, and below which it slept for the other half.
Some days passed, during which George became a prey to various emotions. Then came a letter which puzzled him exceedingly. The land agent would be much obliged if Mr. Drake could make it convenient to call at his office in order that certain misunderstandings might be removed. He did not care to say anything more definite at the moment, as it was quite possible he had read Mr. Drake's instructions wrongly. If this was not the case, something very mysterious had happened.
George thought of all manner of things, but above all he suspected treachery. If he entered the office, he might find himself trapped; with Bessie in one corner, Kezia in another, Dyer in the third, and Nellie in the fourth; with that notorious oppressor of widows and orphans, Hunter himself, standing vindictively in the centre; not to mention a horde of howling Highfielders outside the office. So he decided to take Matilda with him. It would be a nice outing for the girl. He could send her into the office to spy out the land; and, if necessary, he could sacrifice her to the violence of the mob.
However, no precaution was required for, upon reaching the office and peering anxiously through the glass portion of the door, George discovered one clerk sprawling over a desk asleep, and another reading a newspaper. Reassured by these peaceful signs of business as usual, he told Matilda to go and look at the shops, and to cultivate a gift of imagination by selecting those articles of dress and adornment which she most desired; then entered, and asked the clerk, who seemed more capable of action, whether his master was disengaged. The reply being favourable, George gave his name, though with less noise than usual, and was immediately invited to step upstairs and to open the first door that occurred. He did so, reproaching himself bitterly for the shameful timidity which had kept him in hiding for two years, and entirely convinced that the purloining of the furniture was a very ordinary and straightforward piece of business.
But this fine humour was knocked out of shape when the land agent, after a few preliminary remarks concerning hurricanes and anticyclones—appropriate under the circumstances—remarked courteously:
"In what part of Highfield parish is the property situated?"
"Near the end of the village street, just above the post office," answered the astounded George.
"So I judged from your description. It sounds a very remarkable thing to say, Mr. Drake, but—we can't find it."
"What the deuce do you mean?" George stuttered. "Not find it! Not find Highfield House! Why, it's the only gentleman's residence in the village. It stands out by itself. It hits you in the eye. It's as obvious as Exeter Cathedral."
"Then you have no explanation to offer?"
"Explain! What do you want me to explain?"
"Why my clerk, also a possible purchaser, both acting on the same day though independently, were unable to locate the property. And why the local residents have no knowledge of its existence."
"Of course, they went to the wrong village."
"There is only one Highfield in Devonshire. I will tell you precisely what happened. Upon receiving your instructions, I directed my valuation clerk to go to Highfield and inspect the property. I also displayed a notice in the window. Houses on Dartmoor are selling well just now, as very few are available, and the district has become highly popular as it is said to be the healthiest part of England. Hardly was the notice in the window, when a gentleman called and asked for an order to view the property; and he travelled in the same train as my clerk, though neither was aware of the other's existence; nor did they meet in Highfield, as my clerk had left the village—supposing that a mistake had been made—before the gentleman arrived. Since then several people have inquired after the property, but I had to put them off until I had seen you. Now, Mr. Drake, surely you can explain the mystery."
"Mystery—there can't be one. There's the house simply blotting out the landscape! If they couldn't find it they must have been blind and paralysed," George shouted.
"My clerk could see no signs of a gentleman's residence in the village, and when he asked one or two of the inhabitants they knew nothing about Windward House. He did not press his inquiry, as he naturally supposed you had somehow sent the wrong instructions."
"I should like to know what part of the world he did go to," George muttered.
"The gentleman who went to view the property, returned here in a pretty bad temper, as he thought I had made a fool of him," continued the agent.
"He too inquired of the local inhabitants where Windward House might be situated, and received the same answer. They either did not know, or would not tell him."
"Are you making this up? Have you received instructions from people answering to the names of Hunter, Mudge, Dyer, Blisland, Kezia, Brock, to humbug me?" cried George.
"Certainly not, sir," said the agent sharply.
"Then I'm confounded! I don't believe in magic, ghosts, witches, evil eye, Aladdin's lamp, or pixies. Have you ever heard of such a thing in your life? Have you ever known a fine, big, well built, modern residence to vanish off the face of the earth, together with the ground it stood on, and the garden around it? Do you believe such a thing is possible? Because, if you do believe it, I am ruined."
And having thus spoken George wiped away the most genuine moisture that had ever dimmed his vision.
"I cannot offer any explanation, Mr. Drake, but it's certain your house has disappeared. Don't you think the best thing you can do is to go there yourself and find out what really has happened?"
"I won't go near the place," cried George. "I wouldn't be seen in it. I—I might disappear too."
"Then will you put the matter into the hands of the police?"
"I'll have nothing to do with them either," declared George.
"Shall I go myself and make inquiries of the vicar or some other reliable person?"
"All right," said George heavily. "It means more expense, but that's nothing to me now. If my house has gone, I may as well go to my last home at once. It's no use trying to kick against the powers of darkness," he muttered.
So the agent travelled to Highfield and collected a few details from certain inhabitants, who did not altogether approve of the local revolution, but were not going to make themselves unpopular by refusing to take a rub at the lamp themselves. Having learnt so much, it was easy to add to his information by assuming hostility to George and expressing approval of the punishment which had been meted out to him.
"Mr. Drake said one thing and meant another all the time he wur here," explained the Dumpy Philosopher. "Us didn't mind that, but when he started to treat us as human volks wur never meant to be treated, us had to learn 'em a serious lesson. His uncle promised to build us a railway, and they do say he left money vor it; but Mr. Drake did all he could to stop it from a-running. American gentlemen come here—a lot of 'em—to make the railway; but he said us didn't want it, and he drove 'em away, and he wouldn't let 'em spend a shilling. Said they'd come here to buy cloam. Said he'd rather see us all starve. Said he'd build the railway himself out of his own pocket, and he'd put a big waterwheel atop o' Highfield hill to draw the trains up; though us knew he couldn't, vor there ain't enough water coming over in summer to draw up a wheelbarrow. Said he'd make Highfield House a station and put a terminus in the back garden. I don't know what else he warn't going to do, but he wur talking childish day by day. And when he'd deceived us more than us could bear, he run away."
"What he done to poor and honest volk don't hardly seem possible," said the Gentle Shepherd. "Mrs. Drake left 'en Highfield House, and all the furniture she left to Bessie Mudge what married Robert Mudge who works vor Arthur Dyer. They ses she left part of the furniture to Kezia, but Bessie ses that part o' the will be so mixed up it can't be hardly legal. Mr. Drake kept on going away, and coming back again; and one day he come back, and drove Miss Yard and Kezia out of the place; and he goes to Dyer and bribes 'en to send Robert and Bessie away vor a holiday; and when they'm gone he brings up vans and clears out all the furniture; and he breaks into Robert's house and steals a lot of his furniture, what he bought and paid vor wi' his own money; and he sells the lot by auction avore us could recover from the shock; and he ain't never been seen nor heard of since. And I fancy 'tis the most disgraceful deed what can ha' happened since the creation of the world."
"But he couldn't take the house, nor yet look after it, vor us wasn't going to have him back again after the way he'd used us, and us wasn't going to have 'en letting or selling the place neither, and making money out of our misfortunes," said the Wallower in Wealth. "He tried to ruin us all, he ha' brought the Mudges to awful poverty, and he ha' pretty near drove the Dyers into the asylum, and he stole a musical box what ha' been in my family vor generations out o' mind. It wur a fine house, sure enough, but 'tis all gone now. There's nought left but foundations, and there's not much o' them, and you can't see 'em, vor they'm covered wi' grass. The trees be all cut down, and the shrubs ha' got moved, and the garden wall ain't there no longer. The house warn't there one day, and gone the next, as some volk say. It seemed to go so gradual that no one noticed it really was a leaving us. Us all knew why it wur going, and how it wur going; but us didn't talk about it much, vor what be everybody's business ain't nobody's business."
"The youngsters started it," said Squinting Jack. "They smashed the windows and got inside. They sort o' took possession of the place and played there every day. They played at soldiers mostly. One lot o' children climbed up into the roof, and defended themselves wi' tiles and laths, while another lot attacked 'em wi' doors and window frames. And when they'd finished play, they took home all the broken stuff vor firewood. That wur the beginning, but in an amazing short time the house began to alter; it wur never the same place after the children got playing in it. When an old woman wanted wood vor the fire, she just went vor it; and when any one wanted a new door or window, they knew where one wur handy. Then one or two started building a cottage, and as the cottages went up Windward House come down. Some mornings us missed a bit o' wall what seemed to ha' fallen in the night, but nobody asked questions, vor us all had a hand in it, but there's no evidence to prove it. You won't find anything worth taking away now, not if you was to search wi' a miscroscope. The house didn't vanish away suddenly, not by no manner of means."
"It seemed to me," said the Gentle Shepherd, "as if it melted."
"It vanished in small pieces," added the Dumpy Philosopher.
The Wallower in Wealth had nothing more to say. The giant tortoise had transferred itself to his garden, having apparently engaged a wheelbarrow for that purpose. Either it was anxious to adopt the Wallower in Wealth, or he desired to study its habits in order that he too might attain eternal life. Or possibly he was determined to obtain some compensation for the lost musical box, through the possession of a genuine antique, which might with some propriety be styled the sole remaining item of the Captain's furniture.
The Dismal Gibcat said nothing whatever, although at one time he had been exceedingly loquacious. His was the only voice raised in protest against those who pillaged windows and door posts, or flitted at moonlight with joists and floorings. He publicly rebuked a poor old dame whom he caught staggering homeward with her apron full of laths. He explained the law as to wilful damage and petty larceny, and he dealt with the moral aspect of the matter till all were weary. Finally he announced his intention of protecting the property of the absentee owner by taking care of it for him: and he removed at least one half of the material and, by judicious guardianship of the same, succeeded in doubling the accommodation of his house.
George had no difficulty in speaking like a whale, but when he tried to talk like a sprat he made a mess of things. Therefore he could not bring Matilda and her mother to understand how a rascally trustee, whose name was Hunter, had sold his property and made off with the cash. They were sorry but firm; Matilda asserting it cost very little to keep a woman; while her mother pointed out with considerable fluency that matrimony was always less expensive than breach of promise actions. George gave way—having a horror of the fierce light of publicity which beats upon law courts—and became very melancholy. Nor was he much restored to gaiety by the joys of married life; for Matilda rapidly developed a flow of small talk which astounded him; when George ordered her to bring him a cup of tea she prescribed herself a glass of beer; and when he called for his slippers she threw the dirty boots at his head and told him to clean them. Matrimony was not all bee-keeping and rose-pruning for George.
Still more tragic were affairs at Drivelford, where Nellie and Sidney had come to realise that, for them at least, the married state was unattainable. Old ladies can be very selfish sometimes, and in that stimulating atmosphere, which shared with many others the distinction of being the healthiest in the land, Miss Yard grew no weaker daily. She suffered from a slight cold last winter, but was all the better for it in the spring. Indeed in merry May-time she made the shocking suggestion that Sidney should teach her to ride the bicycle.
With such dispiriting examples as the Yellow Leaf, whose longevity was becoming a public scandal, and whose conduct was disgraceful, as he would not be refused his right to wed the youngest grandchild of one of his middle-aged connections; and the giant tortoise, who found fresh lettuces more luscious than the weeds of his fifteenth century diet; and the eternal obstacle, Miss Yard, who was continually giving children's parties because she felt so young herself; with such monuments of senile selfishness before them, Nellie and Sidney did indeed appear condemned to single blessedness.
But happily, according to the latest report from Drivelford, Miss Yard was not feeling very well. She was suffering from broken chilblains.
THE END