"Yes, and several undertakers, and a huge lunatic asylum," cried Nellie.
"Well, perhaps it won't be so bad. There's nothing to cheer a body in Highfield. I'll try to put up with it, vor the sake of dear Mrs. Drake. She said I wur never to leave Miss Sophy. Poor Bessie'll fret herself into a decline when she hears I'm agoing away vor ever."
"Mind you don't tell her. I know you two are great friends, but directly Bessie hears we are going to move the furniture, she and Robert will be over here claiming all sorts of things."
"So they will," said Kezia uneasily. "I don't mind about Bessie—she's welcome to anything I don't want—but Robert's been talking a bit too sharp lately. I can't lay a hand on anything in the kitchen without him saying it belongs to Bessie, and telling me to be careful how I touches it."
"If it comes to the worst, we might let them have the mummy. Miss Sophy doesn't really care for it," suggested Nellie.
"They ain't agoing to have he. I wouldn't part wi' the dear old stuffed gentleman, not vor fifty pounds," cried Kezia.
"Oh dear!" sighed Nellie. "I can see very well we are in for a battle—feather beds torn in pieces—carpets rent asunder—you and Bessie tugging at opposite ends of Mrs. Drake's sofa. But suppose Robert brings a crowd!"
"I won't say a word," promised Kezia, breathing heavily with excitement. "They shan't know we'm going vor ever till the vans come. I suppose us couldn't move the things on a dark night, same as they does in towns?"
"Right under Bessie's window!" exclaimed Nellie. "Why, it will take them a whole day merely to pack the things."
"Robert won't let a thing be took. He ha' said so many a time. 'Not a stick, Kezia, is to go out of the house,' he says, 'unless I takes it.' Whatever shall us do, Miss Nellie?"
"We had better wait until Mr. George comes. Then, if he cannot suggest anything, I shall have to write and ask Mr. Hunter to come down and look after Miss Sophy's interests."
"But the furniture don't belong to she," objected Kezia.
"At all events she has a life interest in it," Nellie reminded her.
"Sure enough. Mrs. Drake said it wur to belong to Miss Sophy while she lived, but no longer. I suppose I'll have to see about letting the house now," Kezia remarked, gazing yearningly at the oleographs. "I did think once of living here, when Miss Sophy wur took, but it's too big vor me, and I'd feel lonely here. Besides, I wouldn't want to bring back the furniture. I ought to get thirty pounds vor it, and that's a nice bit coming in every year. Perhaps I might sell it, but I fancy Mrs. Drake wouldn't like me to do that. What would you do, if the place wur yours, Miss Nellie—would you let or sell it?"
The girl seized her letter and fled, being far too kindly a little coward to inform Kezia that the house belonged to George. She looked into the parlour, where Miss Yard was singing away happily and, after bidding her to go on with her warbles for another ten minutes, she ran out of the house; but hardly had turned towards the post office when a voice called from the opposite direction. Nellie turned, shading her eyes, seeing nothing at first because she was staring into the glow of the sunset; and then two figures advanced towards her—the policeman and George Drake.
"I was just going to post a letter to you. Whatever has made you turn up again?" she cried.
"The bad shilling has saved you a good penny stamp," replied George. "I seemed to have been away quite long enough and, as my lodgings were jolly dull, I decided to accept Aunt Sophy's invitation to live in my own house again. I ought never to have gone, for as soon as I was out of the house—what do you think the policeman has been telling me?"
"About the robbery."
"How that miserable Robert stole my things, while Bessie kept Kezia in the kitchen."
"That's right, miss. I guessed how it was at once, but couldn't say anything till I'd made sure. I was just coming to tell you when I met Mr. Drake," said the new sergeant, stroking his moustache complacently.
"It doesn't pay to be a rascal here," said George. "This policeman has caught a farmer burning down his house, and Robert making off with my property, within the last few days. I hope it won't be long before he gets a murder. I don't mind telling him to his face that he deserves a double murder and suicide."
The constable expressed his gratitude for this unsolicited testimonial, and added, "Mr. Drake thinks, miss, I'd better not go any further in the matter, as there seems to be a sort of doubt as to who owns the furniture."
"There is no doubt whatever. I own the things, and I'll see about getting them back without troubling you," said George.
"Right, sir!" Then the policeman bade them good evening and went his way.
Immediately they were alone, George burst out excitedly, "Nellie, there's another girl!"
"In your case? Well, nobody's jealous," she replied.
"A prettier one than ever, but very young, in short skirts, with her hair down, and her name's Teenie," he continued, without even hearing her comment.
"I think you've come back perfectly crazy," observed Nellie.
"If you don't believe me, you can just go to Black Anchor and find out for yourself."
"Oh, you mean another girl there!" she exclaimed, flushing angrily, and adding, "I don't want to hear any more—but how do you know?"
"She travelled in the same carriage with me, and I thought what a dear—I mean passable little thing she was. Directly the train stopped I saw Sidney, and he called out, 'Here I am, Teenie darling!' And the little girl fairly shouted, 'Oh, Sidney dear, how brown you are!' Then she jumped out, and they kissed and hugged. I never saw anything more disgraceful in my life. I sat back in the carriage so that Sidney shouldn't see me. I suppose they have driven through the village by this time, unless they have the decency to wait until it's dark."
"Where's your luggage?" asked Nellie rather sharply, but determined to change the subject.
"First the painted lady, then Dolly, now Teenie! Thirty, then twenty, and now fourteen! The next will be twelve, and after that they'll be coming in perambulators. My word, young Sidney is a patriarch!"
"Hold your tongue," cried Nellie, more sharply than she had ever spoken in her life.
"I'm sorry, but my feelings ran away with me—she was such a pretty youngster—but of course it's fearfully sad. I had to walk from the station, as I couldn't get a conveyance: the carrier can fetch my box. What's the news? Has Percy been?"
"He came, saw me, and fled," replied the girl more amiably.
"I knew he was a coward, but I didn't suppose you could frighten any one."
"He wanted Miss Sophy to buy the furniture. I told him it was hers already. He blustered and threatened; I stood like a tor. He was so rude that I lost my temper; and when I am angry I can frighten anyone. He yielded and ran. The news," continued Nellie, "is that we are going to run too."
"For a change of air. I'll come with you."
"A permanent change. We are going back to Drivelford. The house is taken, and the problem before me is how to move the furniture."
"So you wrote asking me to come back and do the dirty work?"
"If you like to put it that way."
"Aunt Sophy has no right to leave without giving notice. She is my tenant for life. If she breaks her contract I shall claim the furniture—it is mine really, as Percy didn't give me a fair price, and now he's gone to Tasmania he can't interfere. I have always regarded the furniture as belonging to me in spite of Percy's interference. Of course, when I say to me, I mean to us."
"Don't worry," she said. "Mr. Taverner has signed a deed of gift making over everything in the house to Miss Sophy; and, as she has signed a will in my favour, the furniture should come to me eventually—if Kezia and the Mudges don't grab it all."
"So you made Percy give my furniture to Aunt Sophy. Percy, who has never given away anything in his life except a bad cigar!"
"Marriage has improved him."
"He wasn't married when he came here."
"He was on the brink. I persuaded him that, as Miss Sophy had paid for the things, she ought to have them."
"That argument would simply slide off his back. You said he threatened you, and, from what I know of him, it's fairly certain that he swore at you. Is it likely he would threaten one moment, and give way the next? His young woman may have changed his vile nature—I hope she has—but you can't reform the stripes off a zebra. You found out something about him—you made him confess how he got hold of that money he wrote telling us about, and why he was clearing out of the country. He has defrauded the Yard estate, and Hunter helped him. The next thing we shall hear is that Hunter has gone to study the business habits and professional morals of the Esquimaux. Out with it, Nellie, or I shall suffer from a horrible suspicion that Percy has squared you."
"I have spoken nothing but the truth, and you won't squeeze anything more out of me," she said.
"When a fellow stays in lodgings," said George, "he must either read novels or go mad. I have been reading a quantity of novels, and they convinced me that women are deceitful beings."
"They have to protect themselves against the perfidy of men," cried Nellie.
"Remember poor innocent Adam! He was all right as long as he was engaged to Eve; but what happened when he married her?"
"It's a shame that story was ever invented."
"He wouldn't have eaten the apples; peaches and bananas were good enough for him," George continued.
"But the serpent started it, and the serpent was the devil in disguise, and the devil is a fallen angel, and all angels, as you told me once, are gentlemen. So the male sex is the most deceitful after all."
"Why can't you stick to the subject?" said George sourly.
"Certainly," laughed Nellie. "This business about the furniture must be settled finally one way or the other. Are the Mudges to have anything, and, if not, how are they to be prevented from taking just what they want?"
"Robert and Bessie are not to take a stick from the house, or a stone from the garden; and they must give back the things they have stolen," replied George.
"Are those scraps of paper worth anything at all?" she demanded.
"They are as useless as agreements between nations."
"Then why don't you tell Kezia?"
"Because the law is so slippery."
"That means you are not certain."
"I am quite positive; but how can I be responsible for judicial errors? Kezia may put her case into the hands of some shady lawyer—worse even than Hunter—and some stupid court may make a mistake in her favour. Kezia is going with you, so there will be no trouble with her while Aunt Sophy lives."
"But it's not fair to keep her in ignorance."
"It's supposed to be a state of bliss."
"Oh, I can't argue with you. Will you answer one question properly?"
"I'll try," said George.
"How are we to rescue the furniture from the Mudges?"
"If they don't know you are going to move, and have no suspicions," began George.
"They have none," said Nellie.
"And are not told."
"They won't be."
"Then you can leave it to me," said George.
Miss Yard shuffled contentedly downstairs, nicely dressed for her evening meal, which usually consisted of thin soup, a milk pudding, and boiling water; peeped into the parlour, drew a deep breath and peeped again, uttered a few exclamations, then shuffled back to the stairs, called Nellie, and announced:
"There's a great big man in the house!"
"It's only old George," whispered the irreverent girl.
"I don't know anybody of that name; but there used to be several King Georges, and they were followed by William, and then came our dear good Victoria, who was taken in the prime of life just when she seemed to have settled down, and after that I don't remember anything," said Miss Yard.
"George is the name of our present King—and of about ninety per cent, of his loyal subjects," said Nellie.
"What's he doing here? This isn't Windsor Castle," stammered Miss Yard. "Has he called for a subscription? Gentlemen who come here always want subscriptions. Does he want to hide? I do hope there's not a revolution. Go and show him into a cupboard, Nellie, and tell him how loyal we are."
"My dear lady," laughed Nellie, "you are clean muddled, confoozled, and astern of the times. This gentleman is your much respected relative, George Drake."
"Why couldn't you say so at once, without talking a lot of wicked rubbish about a revolution and the Royal Family hiding on Dartmoor?" demanded Miss Yard snappishly.
"Of all the injustice!" sighed Nellie; but the old lady had left her. Toddling at full speed into the parlour, she embraced George, and said how well she remembered him, though twenty years had passed since they had met. "I knew you at once, directly I looked into the room I recognised your stooping shoulders and your bald head," she added, looking at a portrait on the wall and describing that accurately.
"Nellie couldn't make you out at all," she continued, "but then she was a baby when you went away. Nellie, dear, where are you? Come and be kissed by your uncle. I told you he would come back some day."
"The soup is on the table," cried Nellie as she fled.
The mind of Miss Yard roamed in a free and happy state about the nineteenth century, enabling her, during the progress of a meal, to pass through a number of different periods. While taking her soup and sipping her boiling water, she informed the others that the first railway had recently been constructed, and it ran between Highfield and Drivelford, and for her part she was very glad of it, as she thought it was quite time the coaches were done away with, and she fully intended travelling by the railway if Mr. Stephenson would let her.
"Whoever is Stephenson?" inquired George, who ought to have known better.
"It's wonderful what things she does remember," replied Nellie. "She would forget me if I left her tomorrow; yet she can remember the man who invented railways."
"I think you had better go tomorrow," said George, taking the cue.
"Yes, I should like to be one of the first," Miss Yard admitted.
"Why have you put that idea into her head? It may stick, and then she'll drive me crazy," scolded Nellie; it being perfectly safe to speak openly before the old lady.
"Send her off with Kezia at once," urged George.
"I must go with her."
"Then take Kezia too. If she stays she will split to Bessie. Even if she tries her hardest not to, she won't be able to help herself. You can't keep anything a secret for long in a place like this. You clear off, and I'll go into lodgings—and read more novels."
"Won't that look queer?"
"It would if Kezia stayed: it won't if she goes. I can't put up here with nobody to look after me."
"And you will undertake to move the furniture?"
"I will," he promised.
"Very well," she murmured after a pause. "We can't possibly get away tomorrow, as it will take me a day to pack; but we will go the day after."
"Oh, well, it's no good bothering now," said Miss Yard in a voice of bitter resignation, pushing back her plate and kicking at her footstool. "They've started without us."
George occupied his old bedroom, positively for the last time, and in the morning went out to wrestle with his difficulties. His reception by the villagers was colder than ever because, during his absence, the Dismal Gibcat had made a speech directed mainly against the man who had dared to interfere with local progress. The Dismal Gibcat preferred to be in a minority of one, but such was his gift of eloquence that a single speech sometimes swung the majority over to his side; which was an embarrassing position only to be escaped from by repudiating his former opinions. This speech had done its work, as George was presently to discover when the Dumpy Philosopher and the Wallower in Wealth approached him with questions concerning the Dartmoor Railway Company.
"That scheme is done for. It was one of my uncle's bubbles, but I have pricked it," he replied, groping his way back to popularity.
"Us wur told a lot of American gentlemen wanted to build the railway wi' something they called a syndicate," said the Wallower in Wealth.
"I told 'em the country is hardly flat enough," said George.
"It wur flat enough vor Captain Drake, and it wur flat enough vor you when you fetched that millionaire down along to look at it," said the Dumpy Philosopher.
"That's all a mistake. Mr. Jenkins came here to buy a pair of vases," said George, speaking the truth with disastrous results; for the two elders were not quite such fools as to believe a gentleman would travel from London to Highfield for the sake of purchasing a shilling's worth of crockery.
"They'm out o' cloam in London, I fancy," remarked the Wallower in Wealth.
"And in America," added the Dumpy Philosopher.
"Mr. Jenkins is a collector of vases," explained George.
"He never come to look at mine. There's a proper lot o' cloam in Highfield, and he didn't crave to see it. Us ha' heard he come to build the railway, and you stopped him from adoing it."
"Well, perhaps I did," replied George, trying to score a point by lying. "I know you are all against the scheme."
"Us wur agin it very strong, because it had never been properly explained," said the Wallower in Wealth. "Us hadn't been told they meant to put a terminus in Highfield. I ha' been to terminuses. 'Tis places where trains start from."
"And where 'em pulls up," added the Dumpy Philosopher.
"Where they starts from and where they pulls up again. It don't make no difference. I ha' started from terminuses, and I ha' stopped in 'em, so I knows what I'm telling about. A terminus brings a lot of money into a place. When they makes a terminus a town is soon built all round it. There's one or two in Highfield who ha' seen Waterloo, and that's a terminus. And they ses 'tis wonderful what a big town ha' been built all round it. A hundred years ago it wur just a ploughed field, where that tremenjus big battle was fought what made us all free volk vor ever; and now 'tis all terminus as far as you can see. That American gentleman come here wi' his syndicate...."
"'Tis something vor levelling the ground, I fancy," said the Dumpy Philosopher, when his colleague paused.
"He would ha' levelled the ground as flat as your hand, and made the terminus; and we would ha' sold our land vor what us like to ask. Now you've ruined us, sir. You ha' stopped the terminus—and you stole my musical box," said the Wallower in Wealth, combining his grievances in one brief indictment.
"You're talking like a child. How can I steal my own property?" cried George angrily.
"Mrs. Drake left all your furniture to Kezia," shouted the Wallower in Wealth.
"And the rest of it to Bessie," added the Dumpy Philosopher.
"They ha' got paper to prove it, Robert ses."
"Why did you offer me money for the musical box, then?" asked George.
"To try your honesty," replied the Wallower in Wealth. "And you warn't honest. You wouldn't take my money because it warn't big enough. Then you go and steal the musical box, wi' a lot of other things, from Kezia."
"And from Bessie Mudge," added the Dumpy Philosopher.
"And if you don't get sent to prison—"
"It won't be for the same reason that you aren't put away in a lunatic asylum," George finished; wondering, as he went on to engage a lodging, how it was his uncle had succeeded in ruling this community of wranglers.
A devout widow let religious rooms opposite the churchyard: they were religious because tables were piled with theological tomes, and walls were covered by black and white memorial cards, comforting texts, and discomposing pictures of Biblical tragedies in yellow and scarlet which helped to warm the house in chilly weather. Towards this dwelling George made his way, knowing the importance of being respectable, although he could not help feeling he had done nothing to deserve those pictures. But presently he swung round, and went off in the opposite direction. An idea had come to him: he remembered the Art Dyers.
That name described a married couple; not a business of giving a new colour to old garments; but the vocation of bread baking, cake making, and specialising in doughnuts. Arthur Dyer was the stingiest man in Highfield; he gave away no crumbs of any kind; had any one asked a stone of him, he would have refused it, but would assuredly have put that stone into his oven and baked it, hoping to see some gold run out. He went to church once a week, no entrance fee being demanded, and always put two fingers into the offertory bag, but whether he put anything else was doubtful. He was also Robert's employer. Mrs. Dyer had learnt in the school of her husband until she was able to give him lectures in economy; and in times past she had implored George, out of his charity, to drive the wolf from their door by finding her a lodger.
"She will ask a stiff price, and I shall get nothing to eat except bread puddings," he muttered, "but the game will be worth starvation."
George might also have remarked with poetic melancholy he had lived to receive his warmest welcome in a lodging house, when Mrs. Dyer had taken him in, showed him a bed, certain to be well aired as it stood above the oven, and promised to be much more than an ordinary mother in her attentions. The rooms appeared somewhat barren, but the air was excellent, being impregnated with an odour of hot fat which was a dinner in itself, and might very possibly be charged as one.
A slight difficulty arose regarding terms, owing to a sudden increase in the price of commodities and a shortage of domestic labour. Everything had got so dear Mrs. Dyer could not understand how people lived: it seemed almost wicked of them to make the attempt, but then a funeral had got to be such a luxury it was perhaps cheaper to struggle on. That was what she and her husband were doing from day to day, with everything going up except their income. Luckily they were still able to sell a few doughnuts: people insisted upon them for their tea. The local doctor spoke highly of them, and most of the babies in the parish were brought up on their doughnuts, with a little beer occasionally—the doctor said it helped. After sleeping in that atmosphere Mr. Drake would find one good meal a day—a chop followed by bread-and-butter pudding—would be almost more than he could manage. She did not want to make a profit, but if he could pay five shillings a day, she thought with careful management she might not lose much.
This matter arranged, George returned to Windward House, where the packers were as busy as a hen with one chicken. Miss Yard, feeling she must be doing something, was pinning sheets of newspaper round the mummy. Bessie was hindering Kezia from filling all manner of cases with various ornaments and photographs, which it was the custom to take away for the annual outing, although they were never removed from the boxes. Bessie felt uncomfortable, as it appeared to her Kezia was dismantling the place.
"You don't want to take all them pictures," she said at last.
"I'd feel lonely without 'em," explained Kezia.
"You never took 'em last time you went to the seaside. You'm not going to be away more than two weeks."
"Miss Sophy might fancy to be away a bit longer. I do like to have my little bits o' things round me, wherever I be."
"What's the name of the place you'm going to?"
"Miss Nellie will tell ye. 'Tis worry enough vor me to get ready without bothering where we'm going," replied the harassed Kezia.
"Miss Sophy ses 'tis Drivelford."
"'Tis something like that, I fancy," admitted Kezia, beginning to break down under cross-examination.
"That's where Miss Sophy come from. It ain't seaside."
"A river ain't far off," Kezia muttered.
George had arrived and, hearing these voices, he tramped upstairs to save the situation.
"They are going to Drivelmouth," he said.
"I fancied Miss Nellie said Drivelford," remarked the futile Kezia.
"I know she did, and that's where Miss Sophy come from. Why does she want to go back there again?" Bessie inquired warmly.
"You ought to know by this time it's no use attending to what Miss Yard says. Drivelford is quite a different place from Drivelmouth, which happens to be on the sea just where that beautiful river, the Drivel, runs into it. There's a splendid sandy beach—and it's quite a new place they've just discovered," explained George.
"Seems funny, if 'twas there, they never found it avore," said the suspicious Bessie.
"It has just become popular. It was a little fishing village, and now they are making roads and building houses because doctors have discovered there's something in the air," George continued.
"That's what Miss Nellie told me. There's an amazing big cemetery, and 'tis a wonderful healthy place," said Kezia.
"You see, doctors recommend the place so highly that old people go there and die. That accounts for the cemetery, which is not really a local affair, for Drivelmouth is the healthiest place in England," said George.
"Miss Nellie ses there be a thousand volks, and seven be took, and one gets paralytics," commented Kezia.
"Drivelmouth is a great place for general paralysis. The paralytics are wheeled up and down the front all day. People go there just to see them," said George recklessly.
"Wish I wur going," Bessie murmured.
"Surely you are not going to take all those things!" George exclaimed, indicating a teaset, dinner service, and a quantity of art pottery.
"That's what I tells her. She don't want all them things away with her," cried Bessie.
"I don't like leaving them behind—wi' thieves breaking into the house to steal. I ha' lost enough already," said Kezia plaintively.
This was a fortunate remark, as it disconcerted Bessie and put a stop to questions, while at the same time it removed her suspicions. It was not surprising that Kezia should wish to take away as much treasure as possible. She would have done the same herself. Still, she did not like to see that dinner service go out of the house. Robert had been about to move that.
"How long be 'em going away for, Mr. George?" she asked presently, when Kezia had gone to gather up more of her possessions.
"That depends on the weather," came the diplomatic answer.
Packing continued steadily: boxes, crates, and hampers were piled up in the hall awaiting transport; Kezia had been prevented from leaking; Miss Yard continually inquired whether the railway was quite finished.
The calm of exhaustion prevailed, when there came a defiant knock upon the front door, and the bell rang like a fire alarm.
"It must be a telegram," said George gravely.
"I hope nothing has happened to Mr. and Mrs. Taverner," said Nellie.
"Why shouldn't something happen to them?" George muttered.
"What do they say? Is there any hope?" cried Miss Yard.
"We don't know anything yet," replied Nellie.
"The railway has gone wrong. I was afraid it would—they were so venturesome. You were reading about letters coming without wires."
"Telegrams," corrected Nellie, listening to the voices outside.
"Yes, the postmen are very wonderful. You said they were using the stuff we eat in puddings, tapioca—or was it macaroni?"
"You mean Marconi wireless messages, Aunt," said George.
"I always mean what I say," replied the lady curtly.
In the meantime Kezia and Bessie had advanced together, preparing themselves to face the police inspector, but hoping it would be nothing worse than the tax collector. Bessie opened the door, while Kezia sidled behind her. The next moment they both groaned with horror.
"Is Miss Blisland in?" asked a pert young voice.
"She might be," replied Bessie hoarsely.
"Ask her please if she'll come out and speak to me."
"Oh, my dear, shut the door and bolt it!" Kezia whispered.
This was done, and they presented themselves in the parlour with woeful faces.
"It's her!" Bessie announced. "She wants to see you. She's standing on our doorstep!"
"Who?" cried Nellie.
"The last of 'em—the one that come yesterday. She didn't tell us her name."
"She's ashamed of it," said Kezia.
"Perhaps Mr. George'll go and send her off," suggested Bessie.
"Who are you talking about?" asked Nellie impatiently.
"The wench from Black Anchor. She ain't no more than a child, but the way her stared on us wur awful."
"Sent a shiver through me—so bold and daring!" Kezia added.
"Miss Teenie, is it?" George muttered. "Sit down, Nellie; I'll go and talk to her."
"I can do my own business, thanks," said Nellie, going towards the door.
"I'll come with you anyhow," he said.
"You will do nothing of the kind," replied the young lady coldly.
Out she went, while Miss Yard stood trembling on the hearthrug, and Bessie listened at the keyhole, and Kezia sniffed beside the window. George was trying to persuade himself that no young woman would venture to trifle with his noble nature.
"Is it very bad?" asked Miss Yard.
"Yes, miss," replied Bessie. "She's brought her in—she's taken her into the dining room—she's shut the door. Oh, Miss, they're laughing!"
"I never did think Miss Nellie would go like this," Kezia lamented.
"She was here just now," said Miss Yard simply.
"Yes, miss, but she's gone now—gone to the bad."
"What's it all about?" asked the old lady, appealing to George who seemed to be the only comforter.
"I am sorry to say Nellie has got into bad company—into the very worst company—and we shall have to be very stern with her."
"Yes, indeed we must, or she will lose all her money. I know what these companies are. I get a lot of circulars, and I always tell Nellie she is to burn them," said Miss Yard in sore distress.
"Just listen to 'em talking!" cried Bessie.
"I can't abear much more," Kezia wailed.
The next minute Miss Yard was struggling towards the door, rejecting the advice of George, pushing aside the arms of Bessie; declaring that nobody should prevent her from dragging Nellie out of the pit of financial ruin. She stumbled across the hall, banged at the door of the dining room until it was opened to her; and then came silence, but presently the old lady's queer voice could be heard distinctly, and after that her bursts of merry laughter. Miss Yard had fallen into this very worst company herself. Kezia and Bessie crept silently toward the kitchen. The whole house was polluted. George searched for flies to kill.
"Oh, I say, what tons of luggage!" cried a childish voice.
"Yes, we are off first thing in the morning," said Nellie; and then followed some whispering, with a few words breaking out here and there:
"Miss Yard wants to be among her old friends again ... a great secret, you know" ... "of course I shan't tell anyone, but Sidney will be" ... "I'm so sorry, but it can't be helped" ... "there's such a thing as the post" ... "good-bye! I'm so glad you came."
The door shut, George jumped out of the window in time to see the young girl racing down the lane; then he returned to the house and asked sternly, "What's the meaning of this?"
"Really and truly I don't know," replied Nellie. "But I am at least satisfied that Highfield needs a missionary."
"Now you are shuffling. You invited that miserable little creature into my house, you encouraged her to cross my doorstep, I heard you laughing and talking as if you were enjoying yourself. You actually gave away the secret about Drivelford. Come outside!" said George, as if he meant to fight.
"I mean you can't believe a word that Highfield says," she explained, following obediently. "That little girl's as good as gold."
"To begin with, who is she?" George demanded, scowling like the Dismal Gibcat.
"That is more than I can tell you. She told me her name was Christina—sometimes Chrissie—but those who love her generally call her Teenie."
"What did she want?"
"She invited me to tea at Black Anchor Farm on Sunday. She also promised to chaperon me."
"The infamous urchin!" groaned George.
"I should have gone," she said steadily.
"Then you must be altogether—absolutely wrong somewhere. Go there to tea! Sit opposite that wicked old man, beside that abandoned youth, and positively touching that shameless child who hasn't got a surname! After all that has passed between us, after all your promises to me, after all that I have done for you—all my kindness and self-sacrifice—you would drink tea out of their teapot, and let yourself be talked about as one of the young women of Black Anchor!"
"My suspicions are not quite gone. But directly I saw little Miss Christina I knew the horrible things we have heard are all lies. She's a young lady. She goes to school at Cheltenham."
"That makes it worse. You know old Brock—he's an ordinary labourer. While Sidney is a common young fellow who can't even speak English. They are not fit to lick the polish off your shoes."
"But then I don't want the polish licked off my shoes; it's enough trouble putting it on. I do not understand the Brocks, and I can't imagine why Miss Teenie wouldn't tell me her whole name. If I could have gone to Black Anchor on Sunday, I might have found out something."
"These Dollies and Teenies, and painted females, are no relations of such common chaps. And I won't have you speaking to any of them."
"Really!" she murmured with great deliberation.
"No, I won't; and they are not to write either—I heard something about the post. Just suppose you had thrown yourself away utterly, suppose you had lowered yourself so fearfully as to have got engaged to this Sidney instead of to a Christian gentleman—how awful it would have been!"
Nellie changed colour and gazed significantly at her left hand, which was unadorned by any lover's circlet.
"You would not only have lost me, which would have been bad enough, but I should have lost the furniture, all my dear uncle's precious antiquities and priceless curios—"
"Which would have been far worse," she added.
"It would have been dreadful. Now I have secured all the furniture to you—"
"I did that for myself; I got it from Mr. Taverner," she interrupted.
"But I advised Aunt Sophy to make her will. Of course I was thinking of myself—we must do that sometimes—but I was quite unselfish in the matter. I knew if the furniture was left to you, it would be the same as—as—"
"Be careful, or you'll spoil the unselfishness," she broke in gently.
"Things have come to a head now," George continued. "You are going away tomorrow, and, of course, you will never see these horrible people again. We must do something, Nellie—we must be reckless, as we are both getting on in life. This is the third of September, and I do think before the month is out we ought to—I mean something should be done. Shall we settle on the last day of the month? I have quite made up my mind to live with Aunt Sophy; it will be good for her, and cheap for us."
"This is what the Americans call a proposition," she murmured.
"Then when she dies, there will be the furniture all round us. And Kezia can go on living with us, imagining that the furniture is hers, until she too departs in peace. We can teach Aunt Sophy how to save money, and show her how to invest it for our benefit. It looks to me as if we'd got the future ready-made."
"Is there anything very serious in all this?" she asked.
"Well, it's not like a bad illness, or any great disaster. It's comfort, happiness, all that sort of thing. When we are in for a jolly good time, we don't regard that as serious."
"But what is to happen on the last day of the month?"
"It has just occurred to me we might do the right thing—obviously the right thing. Don't you think so, Nellie? What's the good of waiting, and wearing ourselves out with ceaseless labour? On the thirty-first of this month, the last of summer, let us make the plunge."
"Do you mean it?" she asked, with a queer little laugh, which was perhaps a trifle spiteful; but then the lover was so very callous.
"I have thought over it a great many times, and I've always arrived at the same conclusion."
"But what do you want me to do on the thirty-first?"
"To go to church."
"I go every Sunday."
"For a special purpose."
"I always have one."
"To hear the service read."
"Will that make any difference to me?"
"Why, of course it will."
"It will change my present B. into a lifelong D.?"
"That's a very artistic way of putting it," said George, rubbing his hands.
"On the thirty-first?"
"It will suit me nicely."
"For the sake of peace and quietness I agree. But I want you to promise one thing—don't waste money over an engagement-ring; as, if you do, I won't wear it."
"That's a splendid idea! But all the same, Nellie, I should never have thought of going to any expense."
"You are so economical. It's the one thing I like about you."
"And the one thing I like about you," said George, not to be outdone in compliments, "is your willingness to listen to good advice."
They parted, with quite a friendly handshake. George went to his bed, and was baked so soundly above the oven that, before he reached Windward House the following morning, Miss Yard and her attendants had departed.
Kezia had locked up the house and given to Bessie possession of the keys; because she had always been left in charge when the family departed to the seaside, having received her commission as holder of the keys from Captain Drake himself in the days when she was growing. Now there was a husband in command, and one who held decided views regarding property. Robert expressed his willingness to undertake the duties of custodian; but, in order that the work might be performed efficiently, he proposed to Bessie that they should close their own cottage and retire into luxurious residence across the road.
So when George called at his own house, which was occupied by caretakers he had not appointed, the doors were locked against him. He was not refused admittance, as that might have looked like an unfriendly act; his presence was simply ignored. Robert, smoking in the parlour, with his feet upon the sofa, heard the knocking; but he struck another match and smiled. Bessie, who was preparing the best bedroom, heard the ringing; but she peeped behind the curtain and muttered, "Can't have him in here taking things."
George retired to his lodgings and stared at the framed advertisements, until he heard Dyer singing as he scoured the oven. The baker had been heard to declare that, if he had not known how to sing, he would have lost his senses long ago owing to the fightings and despondings which beset him. As a matter of fact he did not know how to sing, and those who listened were far more likely to lose their senses. George descended, assured Dyer it was a sin to bake bread with a voice like that, and went on to inquire affectionately after the business.
"Going from bad to worse, sir," came the answer. Dyer was more than a pessimist; he was not content merely to look on the dark side of things, but associated himself with every bit of shadow he could find.
"I don't see how that can be. People may give up meat, they may reduce their clothing; but they must have bread," replied George.
"But they don't want nearly so much as they used to," said Dyer bitterly, "and they looks at anything nowadays avore they takes it. When I started business a healthy working man would finish off two loaves a day; and one's as much as he can manage now. The human race ain't improving, sir; 'tis dying out, I fancy. They used to be thankful vor anything I sold 'em, but now if they finds a button, or a beetle, or a dead mouse in the bread—and the dough will fall over on the floor sometimes—they sends the loaf back and asks vor another gratis. And the population is dwindling away to nought."
"According to the census—" began George.
"Don't you believe in censuses," cried the horrified Dyer. "That's dirty work, sir. Government has a hand in that. If me and you wur the only two left in Highfield parish, they'd put us down, sir, as four hundred souls."
"You have a big sale for your cakes and doughnuts," George suggested.
"I loses on 'em," said the dreary Dyer.
"Then why do you make them?"
"I suppose, sir, 'tis a habit I've got into."
"My uncle used to say he had never tasted better cakes than yours."
"Captain Drake was a gentleman, sir. His appetite belonged to the old school what be passed away vor ever. When he wur alive I could almost make both ends meet. But he gave me a nasty fright once, when he got telling about a tree what grows abroad—bread tree he called it. Told me volks planted it in their gardens, and picked the loaves off as they wanted 'em. 'Twas a great relief to my mind when he said the tree wouldn't be a commercial success in this country because the sun ain't hot enough to bake the bread. Talking about gentlemen, sir, what do you think of the Brocks?"
"A bad lot," said George, wagging his head.
"Sure enough! They make their own bread," whispered the baker.
"I didn't know they went so far as that," replied the properly horrified George.
"Some volks stick at nothing. But is it fair, sir? How be struggling tradesmen to escape ruin when volks break the law—"
"It's not illegal."
"There's Government again! I tell ye how 'tis, sir, Government means to get rid of me, though I never done anything worse than stop my ears when parson prays vor Parliament. I hates Government, sir, and I do wish it wur possible to vote against both parties. If I wur to make my own tobacco, or vizzy wine such as rich volk drink at funerals, they'd put me away in prison. Why ain't it illegal vor volks to make their own bread? I'll tell ye why, sir: 'tis because Government means to do away wi' bakers. They ha' been telling a lot lately about encouraging home industries, and that's how they stir up volks to ruin we tradesmen by making all they want at home."
"You are not ruined yet. Robert declares you are the richest man in Highfield—not that I believe much he says," George remarked, settling down to business.
"Quite right, sir. I ha' learned Robert to bake, but I can't prevent him from talking childish. He'd like to see me out of the business, so that he could slip into the ruins of it. When he sees I'm the richest man in the village he means the poorest. 'Tis just a contrairy way of talking. Captain Drake often looked in to tell wi' me—out of gratitude vor my doughnuts what helped him to sleep, he said—'twur avore he died so sharp like."
"I guessed as much," said George.
"And he used to tell me, if you wanted to make a man real angry you had only to say the opposite of what you meant in the most polite language you could find. He told Robert the like, I fancy."
"My uncle generally found the soft answer a success," said George. "He told me once how another captain once called him 'a bullying old scoundrel with a face like a lobster-salad,' and he replied, 'You're a ewe-lamb.' The other man got madder than ever though, as my uncle said, you can't find anything much softer than a ewe-lamb. But Robert isn't always calling you a rich man. He's in our kitchen every evening, and he talks pretty freely when he has a drop of cocoa in him."
"He ain't got nothing against me. Me and the missus ha' been a father to him," said the baker, with suspicious alacrity.
"He thinks he has a grievance."
"Then I suppose he's still worrying over his honeymoon. A man what's been married years and years ought to be thinking of his future state and his old-age pension. He might as well be asking vor his childhood back again."
"He says you cheated him out of his honeymoon," said George, who knew the story: how Dyer's wedding present to his assistant had been leave of absence, without pay, from Saturday to Monday; coupled with a promise of a week's holiday, with half pay, at some future date when business might be slack; which promise belonged to that fragile order of assurances declaimed so loudly at election time.
"'Tis a lot too late now," said the baker.
"I suppose a deferred honeymoon is better than none at all," George remarked. "Anyhow, Robert and his wife are grumbling a good bit and, as I'm staying here, they asked me to remind you of your promise, business being very slack at present."
"I ha' never known it to be anything else, but 'tis funny it should be picking up a little just now. I got a big order vor cakes this morning, as there's a school treat next week. Me and Robert will be kept very busy all this month—but it's a losing business. There's no profit in cakes, nor yet in bread. There used to be a profit in doughnuts, but that's gone now."
The cautious George said no more, being content with the knowledge that he had given Dyer something to worry about. The baker would certainly not mention the matter so long as Robert kept silent; and Robert had probably forgotten all about the promise, although many months back George had overheard him assuring Bessie it would be time to think of a new dress when master's wedding present came along.
"One thing is certain: nobody can get the better of me," George chuckled as he left the bakehouse. "I beat Hunter at his own game, I diddled Crampy in his, I scared Percy out of the country—at least that's my belief—and now I'm going to make old Dyer set a trap to catch the furniture snatchers."
The Mudges, unsuspecting treachery, were glittering like two stars of fashion; Robert lolling at ease in the parlour until Bessie summoned him to supper in the dining room. If it was their duty to look after the house, it was also their pleasure to take care of themselves. They did not regard George as either friend or enemy; they despised and pitied a poor fellow who possessed no visible means of support, while attributing his presence in Highfield to a cat-like habit of returning to a house which might have been his had he behaved with propriety.
The only person they feared was Kezia, who certainly did appear to have almost as much right to the Captain's furniture as themselves. This suspicion was in Robert's mind when, the shutters having been closed and the lamps lighted, he stood beside the round table upon which were spread various scraps of paper beginning to show signs of wear and tear.
"If we takes all that Mrs. Drake sees we'm to have, what do Kezia get?" he asked.
"Not much," replied Bessie.
"If Kezia takes all the things Mrs. Drake said she could have, what do we get?" continued Robert.
"Nought," said Bessie.
"When property be left this way, volks sometimes share and share alike; or they sells the stuff, and each takes half the money," continued Robert.
"Kezia won't neither sell nor share. She'll bide quiet till Miss Sophy dies, and then she'll see a lawyer," declared Bessie.
"Our bits o' paper are as gude as hers."
"Kezia would sooner lose everything than see us take any little old bit of stuff. She'm a spiteful toad."
"The nicest thing we can do, Bess, is to go on shifting, one bit now and agin. Kezia won't notice nothing, if us takes 'em gradual."
"Where can us hide them?" asked Bessie. "We can't put 'em over in the cottage. Kezia ain't such a vule as you think. If I wur to take a kitchen spine she'd miss it."
"She never found out about the last lot," Robert reminded her.
"Policeman went away sudden and forgot to tell her. We'll have to shift those things, vor rainy weather'll be starting soon, and that musical box will spoil inside the peatstack."
"I'll get 'em out avore they comes back home; I b'ain't ashamed of claiming what be rightly ours. I told policeman we'd took what belonged to us, and he said 'twas all right this time, but us mustn't do it too often. I'm going to shift a few more pieces across the way in a day or two."
"Best wait till Miss Sophy dies," said Bessie nervously.
"We'll let the big furniture bide till then. Where's Miss Sophy going to be buried?"
"Somewhere in London, she ses. Said she wouldn't be buried here if they paid her vor it."
"That's got it!" cried Robert. "When Kezia goes to the funeral, I'll shift the furniture."
"Don't that seem like trying to get the better of her?"
"Ain't she trying to deprive us of our rightful property? Don't she want to see me and you cut off wi' a fry pan? See what's wrote on this paper—'I want Bessie to have all the furniture in the spare bedroom.' And on this one—'all the furniture in the dining room.' And on this here—'all the stuff in the kitchen.' Ain't that clear?"
"Sure enough," said Bessie.
"Then there's the house and garden; worth a thousand pounds, I reckon."
"It seems as how Mrs. Drake never left the place to no one, unless it wur to Miss Sophy. But, I tell ye, Kezia means to have it."
"Parson had best keep his eyes open, or she'll slip off wi' the church," said Robert grimly.
"If Miss Sophy ha' got it, 'tis only vor her life. She can't keep it afterwards," explained Bessie. "So Nellie can't get it, and Mr. George ain't to have nothing, and I'll watch Kezia don't have it, though I wouldn't mind letting her the attic where they keeps the boxes."
"What about Mr. Percy!"
"Well, there! I never thought of him. But the house belonged to Captain Drake, and he didn't like Mr. Percy, so it don't seem right the place should go to him."
"Mr. George would know."
"'Tis him, I fancy, who's been knocking such a lot," said Bessie.
"Go and let 'en in," directed Robert. "He can't do us any harm, and he may do us a bit of gude."
Bessie obeyed, and George entered, beaming in the most sunny fashion, assuring the Mudges he too had frequently been deluded into the belief that a loose branch had been tapping against the door, when in reality somebody was knocking and ringing. It was a mistake, he thought, to plant umbrageous perennials so close to the front doorstep, which had been nicely purified since Miss Teenie stood upon it. Their plan of acting the part of caretakers with the thoroughness of ownership he commended highly; as, with autumn approaching, it was necessary to keep the house warm and the furniture dry; and the only satisfactory way of doing so was for Robert to smoke his pipe in the parlour while Bessie reclined upon the easy chairs which, he went on to suggest, would be her own some day.
"Us might as well take t'em now as wait vor 'em, Robert ses," replied Bessie, delighted at the geniality of her visitor. "Won't you sit down, Mr. George, and make yourself comfortable? I was surprised to hear you had gone to Mrs. Dyer's. I'd have asked ye to come here, if I'd known you wur going to stay."
"Thank you very much," said George simply. "I should have been far more comfortable here; but I am not making a long stay, and I felt sure you would be wanting to turn out these rooms."
"Kezia said you weren't coming back again," observed Robert, hoping to obtain raw material for gossip.
"What do she know?" snapped Bessie.
"Nothing," replied George. "I had to come back on business in connection with the railway. You see, I'm civil engineer to the company, and I have to prepare a report."
"They did say you had given up the railway," remarked Bessie, beginning to understand the politeness of George's manner, although she did not know why engineers had to be more civil than other people.
"That railway has been in the air a long time, but I shall never rest until I've made it," said George with energy. "Everything is arranged now except a few preliminary details, such as issuing the prospectus, collecting the money, and obtaining of Parliamentary powers. I have an idea of turning this garden into the terminus, and making the house the station. This will make a good waiting room, while the dining room can be converted into the booking office. The station-master and his family can live upstairs. I shall be station-master, as well as general manager."
Bessie gulped and Robert whistled.
"Your cottage will do for a goods' station. I shall build a platform round it, put up a crane—"
"What about the street?" cried Robert.
"I shall divert that, if necessary. If I find the church is in my way, it must come down."
"But you won't start till Miss Sophy dies. Mrs. Drake said nothing wur to happen till Miss Sophy died," said Bessie.
"We can't possibly wait for her. We have got to make progress," replied George firmly.
"What about Mr. Percy?" asked the crafty Robert.
"What has he got to do with our affairs?"
"Ain't he to have the house and garden?"
"The whole of this property belongs to me, and Miss Sophy is my tenant," replied the far more crafty George; for this was the question he had been leading up to.
"Kezia won't have it anyhow," Robert muttered with satisfaction, removing his boots from the sofa. He wanted to go out into the village and talk.
"You never did tell us much about that paper what Mrs. Drake left vor you," said Bessie reproachfully.
"It was just an ordinary will, leaving me some money and the house. She couldn't deprive me of that, as the property belonged to my uncle, and he made her promise I should have it. If you don't believe me, you can ask Miss Blisland," George added lightly.
"Of course we believes you. I always thought it funny Mrs. Drake shouldn't have left you nothing," said Bessie.
"What do you think she meant to do about the furniture, sir?" asked Robert boldly.
"Ah, that's a troublesome question," said George cautiously.
"I fancy she meant to leave half to Kezia and half to me; but she wur such a kind-hearted lady that she left all of it to both of us," observed Bessie.
"Not all—tell the truth, Bess. We ain't going to claim what don't belong to us. She never left you the carpet on the stairs, nor yet the old bed in the attic," said Robert severely.
"You can't be too honest in business, and that means, if you are too honest, some one else will get the better of you," said George. "If Mrs. Drake had left the furniture to Mr. Taverner and myself, as she has left it to Kezia and you—"
"What would you ha' done, sir?" asked Robert eagerly.
"I should have looked after my own interests," George answered, as he reached for his hat.
The Mudges escorted him to the door of his own house, and hoped he would look in any time he was passing.
"It's right about the house," said Robert, as he too reached for his hat. "And it's right about the railway. I know Captain Drake meant to build it; he talked a lot about it, and he brought gentlemen down to look round the place; they pretended to be fishing, but we knew what they wur up to. Mr. George ain't clever like his uncle. He made a vule of hisself when he said the American gentleman come here to buy a pair of vases—all the way from America to buy a bit o' cloam! Everybody knew he'd come about the railway. Mr. George ain't clever—that's a sure thing. He can't talk so as to deceive a child. 'Twas the American gentleman what put him up to the idea o' turning this house into the terminus. He would never ha' thought of it."
Next morning George invited the dreary Dyer to step into the parlour with a view to continuing the diplomatic conversation commenced the previous day. The baker responded with a certain amount of trepidation, as he thought it possible Mr. Drake might desire to buy a share in the business, and he did not at all relish the idea of confessing that the profits were considerable. His relief, therefore, was only equalled by his amazement when George inquired:
"Did you ever buy a penny weekly journal, Mr. Dyer?"
"Never in my life, sir," replied the baker.
"Then you know nothing about picture puzzles?"
"Never heard of 'em avore, sir."
"A penny weekly journal exists upon its picture puzzles," George continued. "The last time I went away I bought one of these papers. The competition interested me, as the pictures represented the names of certain railway stations, and that's a subject I know as much about as any man in England."
"I don't know as I quite get your meaning," said the baker.
"I'll explain. Suppose the picture is intended to represent Marylebone. You may be shown a drawing of a little girl eating a mutton chop. Of course, you are expected to have some brains."
"I wouldn't use mine vor such a purpose," said the baker somewhat sharply.
"It's quite simple when you've got the trick. You have to assume the little girl's name is Mary, andleis French for the, and there's more bone than anything else in a mutton chop. Well, I went in for this competition, and I've won second prize. I don't know why I didn't get the first, but perhaps that was suppressed for economic reasons."
"I suppose it would be the same sort of thing as a flower show," suggested Dyer. "I got second prize for carrots once. It should ha' been half a crown, but they ran short o' money, so I got only eighteen pence, and I never showed again."
"My prize was worth winning," said George, who had really received a solatium of ten shillings. "It was fifty pounds."
Dyer repeated the amount, firstly as a shout of admiration, secondly as a whisper of covetousness; then he released all kinds of exclamations for some moments; and presently observed with emotion:
"Education does it, sir! If I could ha' gone to a big school, and to the University, I might ha' gone in vor them pictures too. Little gal eating a mutton chop—well done, sir! They'm nought but bone as you ses. You found out her name wur Mary, and you talked French, and you learned all about the railways. Ah, that's wonderful! But I fancy, sir, you must ha' used a map."
"I did it by skill entirely, but of course I had an advantage over my competitors owing to my connection with the railways. Now you are wondering why I'm telling you this?"
"We all knows you does business in railways," said Dyer absently.
"I find myself with a large sum of money, and I mean to make a good use of it. I propose spending the whole amount in giving happiness to others; but I want to do it unobtrusively. I intend to give a meat tea to the old folk of this parish, but I shall hand the money to the vicar and request him to keep my name out of it."
"Perhaps, sir, you'm a-paying vor the cakes ordered yesterday," cried Dyer.
"Don't mention the matter," said George.
"You can trust me, sir."
"Another thing I am anxious to do is to give the Mudges a real good holiday. That's what I wanted to see you about, Mr. Dyer. I know you wish to keep your promise—about the wedding present, you know—but, of course, you can't afford it. My idea is to send them away for a week to the seaside. Bessie served my uncle and aunt faithfully for a number of years, while Robert was always ready to make himself useful in the house; but I've done nothing for either of them. We could give them the best week of their lives for five pounds."
"Did you say anything about me, sir?" asked the baker.
"Yes, because I felt sure you would insist upon contributing something, though I should like them to think the whole amount comes from you. Suppose I give three pounds. You can make up the other two."
"Can't be done, sir. Can't possibly be done. Besides, sir, business is looking up, owing to your generosity, and I can't spare Robert."
"It will give you a splendid reputation for liberality. Everybody in the parish will know you have given the Mudges five pounds and a week's leave of absence."
"I works vor my reputation, sir. Two pounds would ruin me. I can't tell ye how bad things be; I'd be ashamed to speak the truth, sir; I don't hardly like to think on it. Often, when missus fancies I'm asleep, she has a gude cry. She knows we can't pay five shillings in the pound if miller wur to call vor what us owes 'en."
"I'll subscribe four pounds, if you will give the other," said George.
"Where would I get a pound from?" asked Dyer, more drearily than ever. "I'd have to borrow, or sell the bed I tries to sleep on, but can't vor all the trouble. A sovereign, sir, is more to me than to any one else in this parish."
"I've heard that before, and I believe it."
"And it's the truth. Twenty shillings might make the difference between pulling down the blinds today, or keeping 'em up till next week."
"Will you give ten shillings?" George inquired desperately.
The baker shook his head like one in pain, muttering something about last straws and poor relief.
"Will you give anything?"
"Well, sir, to show my heart's in the right place I'll sacrifice a shilling. I'll grab it from the till when missus ain't looking."
"Here is the money," said George, counting out five sovereigns. "You had better see Robert at once: tell him to get away tomorrow. This is September, and fine weather may break any day."
Such a rush of philanthropy numbed the baker's faculties; but even in that semi-paralysed condition he remained a man of business. His fingers closed upon the coins, his feet carried him to the door; then he turned back to face this benefactor, who was shedding sovereigns in the reckless fashion of a tree casting its autumnal leaves. The old folk were to be provided with a meat tea; the Mudges were to be given a week at the seaside; the donor was to remain anonymous. Dyer in all his dreariness could not understand why Mr. Drake should desire to benefit his fellow creatures at all; but, more than that, he was actually proposing to do good stealthily. Where then was the advertisement?
"It's a lot of money, sir. You could buy a bit of land vor this," he said at last.
"I do not require any land," George answered.
"You don't get any profit so far as I can see," the baker proceeded.
"I am helping you to give Robert and Bessie the first real holiday they have ever known; I am enabling you to keep your promise; and I am enjoying the satisfaction of performing an unselfish action."
"'Tis there I'm beat. Why don't ye give the money to Robert, and tell 'en 'tis a present from me and you?"
"I will, if you like, and tell him your share is one shilling."
Dyer again moved towards the door; but still he hesitated.
"They could do it on less than five pounds, sir."
"Give them four, then, and keep the other sovereign for yourself," George replied, breaking out into bribery.
"What about the shilling?" asked Dyer eagerly.
"I'll let you off that."
The baker became a reformed character at once. He did not profess to understand Mr. Drake's extraordinary conduct, but he was quite willing to benefit by the eccentricities of any man. His meanness had become a by-word in the parish. Now Mr. Drake was offering to purchase him a reputation for generosity, which was almost as good as an annuity, and was giving him a sovereign for himself. Dyer was not the man to shrink from duty that was profitable.
"You're the son of your uncle, sir," he said with feeling.
"I have always set his example before me," replied George.
"I'll spare Robert a week from tomorrow. Don't ye think, sir, four pounds are a bit too much?"
"I couldn't let them do it on less," said George firmly.
"And you don't want me to tell 'em part of the money comes from you?"
"I want them to think you are keeping your promise."
The baker retired, muttering, "He wants to get 'em out of Highfield House vor certain. But that don't matter to me so long as I get my profit."
George went for a long walk to refresh himself, not bothering about his popularity any longer, as he was contemplating an act which would make future residence in Highfield impossible; but he met the Wallower in Wealth, who demanded his musical box; and the Dumpy Philosopher, who put searching questions concerning the railway and the amount of compensation for wounded feelings he was likely to receive; and the Yellow Leaf, who had just lost his wife and was going courting. Returning, during the late afternoon, he stopped at his own house, knocked, but received no answer from that side of the street. Bessie looked out from the cottage window opposite and invited him to step in that direction.