Chapter 2

CHAPTER IIITHE MAN WHO WAS NOBODYIThat was one of the finest of all the fine mornings of that wonderful spring, and Miriam Weere, when she saw the sunlight falling across the orchard in front of her cottage, and heard the swirl of the brown river mingling with the murmur of the bees in their hives under the apple-trees, determined to do her day's work out of doors. The day's work was the washing of the week's soiled linen, and no great task for a strapping young woman of five-and-twenty, whose arms were as muscular as her gipsy-coloured face was handsome. Miriam accordingly made no haste in beginning it—besides, there was the eighteen-months-old baby to wash and dress and feed. He woke out of a morning sleep as she finished her breakfast, and began to make loud demands upon her. She busied herself with him for the next hour, laughing to herself gleefully over his resemblance to his father, big blue-eyed, blonde-haired Michael; and then, carrying him out to the daisy-spangled grass of the orchard, she set him down beneath an apple-tree, and left him grasping at the white and gold and green about him while she set out her wash-tubs a few yards away.Miriam Weere had never a care in the world. Her glossy hair, dark as the plumage on a rook's breast, her clear hazel eyes, her glowing cheeks, the round, full curves of her fine figure, combined with the quickness and activity of her movements to prove her in possession of rude and splendid health. There was only another human being in Ashdale who could compete with her in the appearance of health or in good looks—her husband, Michael, a giant of well over six feet, who, like herself, had never known what it was to have a day's illness. The life of these two in their cottage by the little Ash was one perpetual round of good humour, good appetite, and sound sleep. Nor was there any reason why they should take thought for the morrow—that is, unduly. Higher up the valley, set on a green plateau by the bank of the river, stood Ashdale Mill, between the upper and nether stones of which most of the grain grown in the neighbourhood passed. And Ashdale Mill was the property of Tobias Weere, Michael's father, who was well known to be a rich man, and some day Michael would have——That was the only question which occasionally made Miriam knit her brows. What would Michael have when old Tobias died? The mill, the mill-house, the garden and orchard around it, two or three acres of land beside, and the fishing rights of the river from Ashdale Bridge to Brinford Meadows belonged absolutely to Tobias, who had bought the freehold of this desirable property when he purchased the good-will of the business twenty years before. He had only two sons to succeed to whatever he left—Michael and Stephen. Michael was now general superintendent, manager, traveller, a hard indefatigable worker, who was as ready to give a hand with the grain and the flour as to write the letters and keep the books. Stephen, on the other hand, was a loafer. He was fonder of the village inn than of the mill, and of going off to race meetings or cricket matches than of attending to business. He was also somewhat given to conviviality, which often degenerated into intemperance, and he had lately married the publican's daughter, a showy, flaunting wench whom Miriam thoroughly detested. Considering the difference that existed between the two brothers, it seemed to Miriam that it would be grossly unfair to share things equally between them, and more than once she had said so to Michael. But Michael always shook his head."Share and share alike," he said. "I ask no fairer, my lass.""Then," she answered, "if it's like that, you must try to buy Stephen out, for he'll never do any good.""Ah, that's more like it!" said Michael.Miriam was thinking of these things as she plunged her strong arms into the frothing soapsuds and listened to her baby cooing under the apple-trees. She had heard from a neighbour only the night before of some escapade in which Stephen had been mixed up, and her informant had added significantly that it was easy to see where Stephen's share of old Toby's money would go when he got the handling of it. Miriam resolved that when Michael, who was away on business in another part of the country, came home she would once more speak to him about coming to an understanding with his brother. She was not the sort of woman to see a flourishing business endangered, and she never forgot that she was the mother of Michael's first-born. Some day, perhaps, she might see him master of the mill.Save for the murmur of the river flowing at the edge of the garden beneath overhanging alders and willows, and the perpetual humming of the insects in tree and bush, the morning was very still and languorous, and sounds of a louder sort travelled far. And Miriam was suddenly aware of the clap-clap-clap of human, stoutly-shod feet flying down the narrow lane which ran by the side of the orchard. Something in the sound betokened trouble—she was already drying her hands and arms on her rough apron when the wicket-gate was flung open and a girl, red-faced, panting, burst in beneath the pink and white of the fruit-trees."What is it, Eliza Kate?" demanded Miriam.The girl pressed her hand to her side."It's—th'—owd—maister!" she panted. "Margaret Burton thinks he's bad—a stroke. An' will you please to go quick.""Look to the child," said Miriam, without a glance at him herself. "And bring him back with you."Then she set off at a swift pace up the steep, stony lane which led to Ashdale Mill. The atmosphere about it suggested nothing of death—the old place was gay with summer life, and the mill-wheel was throwing liquid diamonds into the sunlight with every revolution. Miriam saw none of these things; she hurried into the mill-house and onward into the living-room. For perhaps the first time in her life she was conscious of impending disaster—why or what she could not have told.Old Tobias lay back in his easy-chair, looking very white and worn—his housekeeper, old Margaret Burton, stood at his side holding a cup. She sighed with relief as Miriam entered."Eh, I'm glad ye've comed, Mistress Michael!" she said. "I'm afeard th' maister has had a stroke—he turned queer all of a sudden.""Have you sent for the doctor?" asked Miriam, going up to the old man and taking his hand."Aye, one o' th' mill lads has gone post haste on th' owd pony," answered the housekeeper. "But I'm afeard——"Tobias opened his eyes, and, seeing Miriam, looked recognition. His grey lips moved."'Tisn' a stroke!" he whispered faintly. "It's th' end. Miriam, I want to say—summat to thee, my lass."Miriam understood that he had something which he wished to say to her alone, and she motioned the housekeeper out of the living-room."There's a drop o' brandy in the cupboard there," said Tobias, when the door was closed upon himself and his daughter-in-law. "Gi' me a sup, lass—it'll keep me up till th' doctor comes—there's a matter I must do then. Miriam!""Yes, father?""Miriam, thou's a clever woman and a strong 'un," the old man went on, when he had sipped the brandy. "I must tell thee summat that nobody knows, and thou must tell it to Michael when I'm gone—I daren't tell him."Miriam's heart leapt once and seemed to stand still; a sudden swelling seized her throat."Tell Michael?" she said. "Yes, father.""Miriam ... hearken. Michael—he weren't—he weren't born in wedlock!"Michael's wife was a woman of quick perception. The full meaning of the old man's words fell on her with the force of a thunderstorm that breaks upon a peaceful countryside without warning. She said nothing, and the old man motioned her to give him more brandy."Weren't born in wedlock," he repeated, "and so is of course illegitimate and can't heir nowt o' mine. It was this way," he went on, gathering strength from the stimulant. "His mother and me weren't wed till after he were born—we were wed just before we came here. We came from a long way off—nobody knows about it in these parts. And, of course, Michael's real name is Michael Oldfield—his mother's name—and, by law, Stephen takes all.""Stephen takes all!" she repeated in a dull voice.Old Tobias Weere's eyes gleamed out of the ashen-grey of his face, and his lips curled with the old cunning which Miriam knew well."But I ha' put matters right," he said, with a horrible attempt at a smile, "I ha' put matters right! Didn't want to do it till th' end, 'cause folk will talk, and I can't abide talking. I ha' made a will leaving one-half o' my property to my son, Stephen Weere; t'other half to Michael Oldfield, otherwise known as Michael Weere, o' Millrace Cottage, Ashdale, i' th' county——"The old man's face suddenly paled, and Miriam put more brandy to his lips. After a moment he pointed to a bunch of keys lying on the table beside him, and then to an ancient bureau which stood in a dark corner of the living-room. "It's i' th' top—drawer—th' will," he whispered. "Get it out, my lass, and lay the writing things o' th' table—doctor and James Bream'll witness it, an' then all will be in order. 'Cause, you see, somed'y might chance-along as knew the secret, an' would let out that Michael were born before we were wed, an' then——"Sick and cold with the surprise and horror of this news, Miriam took the keys and went over to the old bureau. There, in the top drawer, lay a sheet of parchment—she knew little of law matters, but she saw that this had been written by a practised hand. She set it out on the table with pen and ink and blotting-paper—in silence."A lawyer chap in London town, as axed no questions, drew that there," murmured Tobias. "Wants naught but signing and witnessing and the date putting in. Why doesn't doctor come, and Jim Bream on the owd pony? Go to th' house door, lass, and see if ye can see 'em coming."Miriam went out into the stone-paved porch, and, shading her aching eyes, looked across the garden. Eliza Kate had arrived with the baby, and sat nursing it beneath the lilac-trees. It caught sight of its mother, and stretched its arms and lifted its voice to her. Miriam gave no heed to it—her heart was heavy as the grey stones she stood on.She waited some minutes—then two mounted figures came in sight far down the lane, and she turned back to the living-room. And on the threshold she stopped, and her hand went up to her bosom before she moved across to the old man's chair. But the first glance had told her what the second confirmed. Tobias was dead.Miriam hesitated one moment. Then she strode across the living-room, and, snatching up the unsigned will, folded it into a smaller compass, and thrust it within the folds of her gown.IIIt was a matter of wonder to everybody, and to no one more so than her husband, that Miriam appeared to be so much affected by her father-in-law's death. It was not that she made any demonstrations of grief, but that an unusual gloom seemed to settle over her. Never gay in the girlish sense, she had always been light-hearted and full of smiles and laughter; during the first days which followed the demise of old Tobias she went about her duties with a knitted brow, as if some sudden care had settled upon her. Michael saw it, and wondered; he had respected his father and entertained a filial affection for him, but his death did not trouble him to the extent of spoiling his appetite or disturbing his sleep. He soon saw that Miriam ate little: he soon guessed that she was sleeping badly. And on the fourth day after his hurried return home—the eve of the funeral—he laid his great hand on her shoulder as she was stooping over the child's cradle and turned her round to face him."What's the matter, my lass?" he said kindly. "Is there aught amiss? You are as quiet as the grave, and you don't eat, nor get sleep. The old father's death can't make that difference. He was old—very old—and he's a deal better off.""There is such a lot to think of just now," she replied evasively.Michael, man-like, mistook her meaning."Oh, aye, to be sure there is, lass," he agreed. "To-morrow'll be a busyish day, of course, for I expect there'll be half the countryside here at the burying, and, of course, they all expect refreshment. However, there'll be no stint of that, and, after all, they'll only want a glass of wine and a funeral biscuit. And as for the funeral dinner, why—there'll only be you and me, and Stephen and his wife, and your father and mother, and Stephen's wife's father and mother, and the lawyer.""The lawyer!" exclaimed Miriam. "What lawyer?""What lawyer? Why, Mr. Brooke, o' Sicaster, to be sure," answered Michael. "Who else?""What's he coming for?" asked Miriam."Coming for? Come, my lass, your wits are going a-woolgathering," said Michael. "What do lawyers come to funerals for? To read father's will, of course!""Is there a will?" she asked."Made five years ago, Mr. Brooke said this afternoon," he replied."Do you know what's in it?" she asked.Michael laughed—laughed loudly."Nay, come, love!" he said. "Know what's in it! Why, nobody knows what's in a will until the lawyer unseals and reads it after the funeral dinner.""I didn't know," she said listlessly."But, of course, that's neither here nor there," said Michael; "and I must away to make a few last arrangements. If there'll be too much work for you to-morrow, Miriam, you must get another woman in from the village.""There'll not be too much work, Michael," she answered.In her heart she wished there was more work—work that would keep her from thinking of the secret which the dead man had left with her. It had eaten deep into her soul and had become a perpetual torment, for she was a woman of great religious feeling and strict ideas of duty, and she did not know where her duty lay in this case. She knew Michael for a proud man, upon whom the news of his illegitimacy would fall as lightning falls on an oak come to the pride of its maturity; she knew, too, how he would curse his father for the wrong done to his mother, of whom he had been passionately fond. Again, if she told the truth, Michael would be bereft of everything. For Stephen was not fond of his brother, and Stephen's wife hated Miriam. If Stephen and his wife heard the truth, and proved it, Michael would be—nobody. For, after all, Tobias had not had time to make amends.And now there was the news of this will held by Lawyer Brooke! What could there be in it, and how was it that Tobias had not spoken of it? Could it be that he had forgotten it? She knew that for some years he had been more or less eccentric, subject to moods and to gusts of passion, though there had never been any time when his behaviour would have warranted any one in suspecting his mind to be affected or even clouded. Well—she could do nothing but leave the matter until to-morrow when the dead man's will was read.As wife of the elder son, Miriam was hostess next day, and everybody who saw her marvelled at two things—one, the extraordinary pallor on her usually brightly tinted cheeks; the other, the quiet way in which she went about her duties. She was here, there, and everywhere, seeing to the comfort of the funeral guests; but she spoke little, and keenly observant eyes would have said that she moved as if in a dream. At the funeral dinner she ate little; it was an effort to get that little down. As the time drew near for the reading of the will, she could scarcely conceal her agitation, and when they were at last all assembled in the best parlour to hear Tobias's testament declared, she was glad that she sat at a table beneath which she could conceal her trembling fingers.She wondered why Mr. Brooke was so long in cleaning his spectacles, so long in sipping his glass of port, so slow in breaking the seal of the big envelope which he took from his pocket, why he hum'd and ha'd so before he began reading. But at last he began....It was a briefly worded will, and very plain in its meaning. Having cause, it set forth, to be highly displeased with the conduct of his younger son, Stephen, and to believe that he would only waste a fortune if it were left to him, Tobias left everything of which he died possessed to his elder son, Michael, on condition that Michael secured to Stephen from the time of his (Tobias's) demise, a sum of three pounds a week, to which a further sum of one pound a week might be added if Stephen's conduct was such as to satisfy Michael. If Stephen died before his father, Michael was to make a similar allowance to his widow.The various emotions which had agitated Miriam were almost forgotten by her in the tumult which followed. Stephen's wife and her father and mother broke out into loud denunciation of the will; Stephen himself, after staring at the solicitor for a moment, as if he could not credit the evidence of his own eyes or ears smote the table heavily and jumped to his feet."It's a damned lie!" he shouted. And he made as if he would snatch the will and tear it to pieces. Mr. Brooke calmly replaced it in his pocket, and as calmly sipped his port."On the contrary, my friend," he said. "And—it is your father's will.""Father!" sneered Stephen's wife's mother. "A nice father to——"Michael rose with a gesture that brought silence."None of that!" he said. "Who's master here? I am! Say a word against my dead father, any of you, and by God! out you go, neck and crop, man or woman. Now, then, you'll listen to me. I'm bound to say, with every respect for him, that I don't agree with this will of my father's. My wife here'll bear me out when I say that my idea as regards Stephen and myself coming into his property was—share and share alike. It seems father had other notions. However, everything is now mine—I'm master. Now, a man can do what he chooses with his own. So listen, Stephen. Give up that drinking, and gambling, and such-like, and come to work again and be a man, and you shall have one-half of all that there is. But, mind you, I've the whip hand, and you'll have to prove yourself. Prove yourself, and we'll soon set matters straight. I want no more than my half, and now that all's mine—well, law or no law, I'll share with you ... but you'll have to show that you can keep my conditions."Everybody's eyes were fixed on Stephen Weere. He sat for a moment staring at the table—then, with a curse, he flung out of the room. The smell of the old flesh-pots was still in his nostrils; the odour of the wine-pots in his remembrance—a fact which probably sent him to the little room in which the refreshments of a liquid sort had been set out. He helped himself to a stiff glass of brandy and water, and had gulped half of it down when he felt certain fingers lay themselves appealingly on his left elbow. He turned with a curse, to encounter the witch-like countenance and burning eyes of the old housekeeper, Margaret Burton."What do you want, you old hag?" he said, with another curse. "Get out!"But the old woman stood—her bony fingers still on his arm."Hester Stivven!" she said. "Mester Stivven! Has he—has he left me owt?"Stephen burst into a harsh laugh and re-filled his glass."Left you owt?" he exclaimed jeeringly. "Left you owt? He's left nobody nowt but Michael—curse him! He's left him—all there is!"Margaret Burton drew back for a second and stared at him. He drew himself away from her eyes. Suddenly she laid her hand on him again."Mester Stivven," she said, coaxingly, "come wi' me—I ha' summat to tell you. Come!"Ten minutes later Stephen walked into the best parlour, followed by Margaret Burton. Michael was engaged in an earnest conversation with the rest, and especially with Stephen's wife, as to Stephen's future. Stephen lifted a commanding hand."Stop that!" he said. "We've had enough of you—we'll see who's master here. My turn," he went on, as Michael would have spoken. "Come forward, Margaret. This woman, Mr. Brooke, has been my father's housekeeper since my mother died, and was servant for years before that—weren't you, Margaret?""Twelve years before that, sir.""Twelve years before that—and in my mother's confidence," Stephen continued."Now, then, Margaret, take Mr. Brooke into that corner. Tell him what you've told me about what my mother told you the week she died, and give him those papers she left with you to prove what she said. And then—then we'll see, we'll see!"The rest of the people watched the whispered colloquy between the solicitor and the old woman with mingled feelings. It was a large, rambling room, with great embrasures to the windows, and nobody could hear a word that was said. But Miriam knew that she was not the only possessor of the secret, and she unconsciously slid her hand into Michael's.Lawyer Brooke, some folded papers in his hand, came back with knitted brow and troubled eyes. He was going to speak, but Stephen stopped him."I'm master here," he said. "Margaret, come this way." He pointed to Michael. "What's that man's real name?" he asked, with an evil sneer. "Is it—well, now, what is it? 'Cause, of course, his isn't what mine is. Mine is my father's—mine's Weere.""No, sir—it's Oldfield. His mother's name—'cause, of course, he were born out of wedlock. Your father and mother wedded later on."In the silence that followed Miriam heard the beating of Michael's heart. He rose slowly, staring about him from one to the other."It's not—true?" he said questioningly. "It's——"Miriam rose at his side and laid both hands on his arm."It's true, Michael," she said. "It's true. Your father told me ten minutes before he died."Michael looked down at her, and suddenly put his arm round her and kissed her."Come away, Miriam," he said, as if the others were shadows. "Come away. Let's go home—the child'll be wanting us."CHAPTER IVLITTLE MISS PARTRIDGENext to the church and the King George—with possibly the exception of the blacksmith's shop, where most of the idlers gathered to gossip of an afternoon, especially in winter—Miss Partridge's general store was the chief institution in Orchardcroft. To begin with, it was the only house of a mercantile character in the place, and it would have fared ill with any one rash enough to have set up an opposition business to it; to end with, its proprietor was so good-natured that she made no objection to the good wives of the village if they lingered over their purchases to chat with each other or with her. Life in Orchardcroft was leisurely, and an hour could easily be spent in fetching a stone of flour or a quarter of a pound of tea from Miss Partridge's emporium. And, as Miss Partridge often remarked, the women were better employed in exchanging views at her counter than the men were in arguing at the tap of the King George.It was a queer little place, this general store—a compendium of grocery, drapery, confectionery, and half-a-dozen other trades. There were all sorts of things in the window, from rolls of cheap dress goods to home-made toffee; inside the shop itself, which was neither more nor less than the front room of a thatched cottage, there was a display of articles which was somewhat confusing to eyes not accustomed to such sights. It was said of a celebrated London tradesman that he could supply anything from a white elephant to a pin—Miss Partridge could hardly boast so much, but it was certain that she kept everything which the four hundred-odd souls of Orchardcroft required for their bodies—butcher's meat excepted. What was more, she knew where everything was, and could lay her hands on it at a moment's notice; what was still more, she was as polite in selling a little boy a new ready-made suit as in serving a ploughman with his Saturday ounce of shag or nail-rod tobacco. For that reason everybody liked her and brought their joys and sorrows to her.On a bright spring afternoon, when the blackbirds and thrushes were piping gaily in her holly-hedged garden, Miss Partridge sat behind her counter knitting. She was then a woman of close upon sixty—a rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed woman, small in stature, grey of hair, out of whose face something of a benediction seemed always to shine upon everybody. She wore a plain black dress—nobody in Orchardcroft could remember Miss Partridge in anything but black for more than thirty years—over which was draped a real silk white shawl, fastened at the neck with a massive brooch of Whitby jet, and on her head was a smart cap in which were displayed several varieties of artificial flowers. Shawl and cap denoted that Miss Partridge was dressed for the day; in the morning less showy insignia were displayed."We're very quiet this afternoon, Martha Mary," observed Miss Partridge to her general factotum, who, having finished the housework, was now dusting the upper shelves. "There's been nobody in since old Isaac came for his tobacco.""No, m'm," said Martha Mary, "but there's Jane Pockett coming up the garden just now.""Then we shall hear something or other," said Miss Partridge, who knew Mrs. Pockett's characteristics; "Jane has always some news."Mrs. Pockett, a tall, flabby lady, who acted a great part in the village drama of life, seeing that she saw all its new-comers into the world and all its out-goers leave its stage for ever, came heavily into the shop and dropped still more heavily into a chair by the counter. And without ceremony she turned a boiled-gooseberry eye on the little shopkeeper."Hev' yer heerd the noos?" she said."What news, Jane?" asked Miss Partridge.Mrs. Pockett selected a mint humbug from a bottle on the counter and began to suck it."Well, of course, yer remember Robert Dicki'son, t' miller, at Stapleby yonder?" she said. "Him as died last year, leavin' a widder and two childer, a boy an' a girl?"Miss Partridge's head bent over her knitting."Yes," she said."Well," continued Mrs. Pockett, "it were thowt 'at he died middlin' weel off, but now it turns out 'at he didn't. In fact, he's left nowt, and t' mill were mortgaged, as they term it, and now they're barn to sell 'em up, lock, stock, and barril. It's a pity, 'cos t' lad's a nice young feller, and they say 'at if nobbut they could pay t' money he could work up a good trade. It's a thousand pounds 'at they want to settle matters. See yer, I hev' a bill o' t' sale i' my pocket—t' billposter gev' me it this mornin'. Ye'll notice 'at there's a nicish bit o' furniture to dispose on. But what will t' widder and t' two childer do, turned out i' that way?""It's very sad," said Miss Partridge; "very sad."She laid the bill aside and began to talk of something else. But when Jane Pockett had purchased three yards of flannel and departed, she read the bill through and noted that the sale was to take place on the next day but one. And taking off her spectacles she laid them and the knitting down on the counter, and bidding Martha Mary mind the shop, she went up to her own room and, closing the door, began to walk up and down, thinking.Forty years slipped away from Miss Partridge, and she was once more a girl of nineteen and engaged to Robert Dickinson. She remembered it all vividly—their walks, their talks, their embraces. She opened an old desk and took from it a faded photograph of a handsome lad, some equally faded ribbons, a tarnished locket—all that was left of the long-dead dream of youth. She put them back, and thought of how they had parted in anger because of a lover's quarrel. He had accused her of flirting, and she had been too proud to defend herself, and he had flung away and gone to a far-off colony, and she had remained behind—to be true to his memory all her life. And twenty years later he had come back, bringing a young wife with him, and had taken Stapleby Mill—but he and she had never met, never spoken. And now he was dead, and his widow and children were to be outcasts, beggars.Customers who came to the little shop that evening remarked to each other on its mistress's unusually quiet mood, and hoped Miss Partridge was not going to be ill. But Miss Partridge was quite well when she came down to breakfast next morning, dressed in her best and wearing her bonnet, and she looked very determined about something."You'll have to mind the shop this morning, Martha Mary, for I'm going to Cornchester," she said. "Get Eliza Grimes to come and do the housework."Once in Cornchester Miss Partridge entered the local bank—an institution which she regarded with great awe—and had a whispered consultation with the cashier, which resulted in that gentleman handing over to her ten banknotes of a hundred pounds each—the savings of a lifetime."Going to invest it, Miss Partridge?" said the cashier, smiling."Y-yes," answered Miss Partridge. "Y-yes, sir—to invest it."She put the thousand pounds in her old-fashioned reticule and went off to a legal gentleman whom she had once or twice had occasion to consult. To him she made a communication which caused him to stare."My dear madam," he exclaimed. "This is giving away all you possess.""No," interrupted Miss Partridge. "I have the shop.""Well, at any rate, take the place as security," began the solicitor; "and——""No," said Miss Partridge, firmly. "No, sir! No one is to know; no one is ever to know—except you—where the money came from. It's my money, and I've a right to do what I please with it.""Oh, very well," said the solicitor. "Very well. I'll settle the matter at once. And you may be sure the poor things will be very grateful to their unknown benefactor."Miss Partridge walked home by way of Stapleby churchyard. She turned into its quietude and sought out Robert Dickinson's grave. There were daisies growing on the green turf that covered it, and she gathered a little bunch of them and carried them home to put away with the ribbons and the locket. And that done she took off her best things and dropped once more into the old way of life.CHAPTER VTHE MARRIAGE OF MR. JARVISWhen the lift-boy came down to the ground-floor again and threw open the door of the cage in which he spent so many mechanical hours every day, he became aware that the entrance hall was just then given up to a solitary female who was anxiously scanning the various names which appeared on the boards set up on either side. He gathered a general impression of rusticity, but, sharp as he was, would have found himself hard put to it to define it—the lady's bonnet was not appreciably different from the bonnets worn by respectable, middle-class, town ladies; the lady's umbrella was not carried at an awkward angle. Nevertheless he was quite certain that if the lady was going aloft to anywhere between there and the sixth floor she was about to step into an elevator for the first time.He stood waiting, knowing very well that the stranger would presently address him. It was gloomy in the entrance hall, and he saw that she could not see the names on the top-half of the board at which she was gazing. She turned, glanced hastily at the opposite board, then looked half-doubtfully at him."Young man," she said, "can you tell me if Mr. Watkin Vavasower's office is anywhere about here?""Mr. Vavasore, mum?—third floor, mum—just gone up, has Mr. Vavasore," replied the lift-boy.He stood aside from the door of his cage with an implied invitation to enter. But the lady, whom in the clearer light of the inner hall he now perceived to be middle-aged and of stern countenance, looked doubtfully at the stairs."I suppose I shall see the name on the door if I go up-stairs, young man?" she said. "It's that dark in these London places——""Step inside, mum," said the lift-boy.The lady started and looked inside the cage as she might have looked inside one of her own hen-coops if she had suspected the presence of a fox therein. She turned a suspicious eye on the boy."Is it safe?" she said.Then, instinctively obeying the authoritative wave of the official hand, she stepped inside and heard the gate bang. She gave a little gasp as the world fell from under her feet; another when the elevator suddenly stopped and she found herself ejected on a higher plane."Well, I'm sure——" she began."Second door on the left, mum," said the boy, and sank from view.The lady paused for a second or two, glanced down the shaft as if she expected to hear a shriek of agony from the bottom, and then slowly moved in the direction which the boy had indicated. A few steps along the corridor and she stood before a door on which was inscribed in heavy brass letters, highly polished, the name "Mr. Watkin Vavasour."She hesitated a moment before knocking; when she did so, her knock was timid and gentle. But it was heard within, for a girl's voice, sharp and business-like, bade her enter. She turned the handle and walked into a comfortably furnished room wherein sat a very smart young lady who was busily engaged with a typewriter and who looked up from her work with questioning eyes."Is Mr. Watkin Vavasower in?" inquired the caller.The smart young lady rose from her desk with an air of condescending patience."What name, madam?" she asked.The caller hesitated."Well, if it's agreeable," she said, "I'd rather not give my name to anybody but the gentleman himself, though of course if——""Take a chair, please," said the smart young lady. She vanished through an inner door marked "Private," leaving the visitor to examine an imitation Turkey carpet, a roll-top American desk, two office chairs, and a reproduction of the late Lord Leighton'sMarried, which hung over the fire-place. She was speculating as to the nationality of the two persons concerned in this picture when the smart young lady returned with an invitation to enter Mr. Vavasour's presence. Mr. Vavasour, a somewhat more than middle-aged, stoutish gentleman, whose name would more fittingly have been Isaacs, Cohen, or Abraham, and who evidently set much store by fine linen and purple and the wearing of gold and diamonds, rose from behind an elegant rosewood writing-table and waved his visitor to the easiest of chairs with much grace. His highly polished bald head bowed itself benevolently towards her."And what can I have the pleasure of doing for you, my dear madam?" Mr. Vavasour inquired blandly.The visitor, who had examined Mr. Vavasour with a sharp glance as she made a formal bow to him, gave a little prefatory cough, and gazed at Mr. Vavasour's cheery fire."Of course," she said, "I am addressing Mr. Watkin Vavasower, the matrimonial agent? The Mr. Vavasower as advertises in the newspapers?""Just so, madam, just so," replied Mr. Vavasour in soothing tones. "I am that individual. And whom have I the pleasure of receiving?""Well, Mr. Vavasower, my name is Mrs. Rebecca Pringle," said the visitor. "Of course, you'll not know the name, but you're familiar with the name of the place I come from—the Old Farm, Windleby?"Mr. Vavasour swept a jewelled hand over his high forehead."The Old Farm, Windleby?" he said. "The name seems familiar. Ah, yes, of course—the address of a respected client, Mr.—yes, Mr. Stephen Jarvis. Dear me—yes, of course. A very worthy gentleman!""Well, Mr. Vavasower," said Mrs. Pringle, smoothing her gown, which the agent's sharp eyes noticed to be of good substantial silk, "there's many a worthy gentleman as can make a fool of himself! I've nothing to say against Stephen, especially as I've kept house for him for fifteen years, which is to say ever since Pringle died. But I'm not blind to his faults, Mr. Vavasower, and of course I can't see him rush to his destruction, as it were, without putting out a finger to stop his headlong flight."Mr. Vavasour made a lugubrious face, shook his head, and looked further inquiries."'It's come to my knowledge, Mr. Vavasower," continued Mrs. Pringle, "that Stephen Jarvis, as is my first cousin, has been having correspondence with you on the matter of finding a wife. A pretty thing for a man of his years to do—five-and-fifty he is, and no less—when he's kept off the ladies all this time! And I must tell you, Mr. Vavasower, that his family does not approve of it, and that's why I have come to see you."Mr. Vavasour spread out fat hands."My dear madam!" he said, deprecatingly. "My dear Mrs. Pringle! It is a strict rule of mine never to discuss a client's affairs, or to——"Mrs. Pringle favoured him with a knowing look."Of course, it would be made worth Mr. Vavasower's while," she said, tapping a small reticule which she carried. "The family doesn't expect Mr. Vavasower to assist it for nothing."Mr. Vavasour hesitated. He called up the Jarvis case in his mind, and remembered that Mr. Stephen Jarvis did not want a moneyed wife, and that, therefore, there would be no commission in that particular connection."Who are the members of the family, ma'am?" he inquired.Mrs. Pringle looked him squarely in the face."The members of the family, Mr. Vavasower," she replied, "is me and my only son, John William, as has always been led to look upon himself as Stephen Jarvis's heir. And, of course, if so be as Stephen Jarvis was to marry a young woman, well, there'd no doubt be children, and then——""To be sure, ma'am, to be sure!" said Mr. Vavasour comprehendingly. "Of course, you and your son have means that would justify——""My son, John William, Mr. Vavasower, is in a very nice way of business in the grocery line," answered Mrs. Pringle. "But of course I don't intend to see him ousted out of his proper place because Stephen Jarvis takes it into his head to marry at his time of life! Stephen must be put off it, and there's an end of the matter.""But, my dear madam!" exclaimed Mr. Vavasour. "How can I prevent it? My client has asked me for introductions; he is somewhat particular, or I could have suited him some weeks ago. He desires a young and pretty wife, and——""Old fool!" exclaimed Mrs. Pringle. "Well, he's not to have one, Mr. Vavasower—as I say, it's not agreeable to me and John William that he should. And as to how you can prevent it, well, Mr. Vavasower, I've a plan in which you must join—me and John William will make it worth your while to do so—that will put Stephen Jarvis out of conceit with matrimony. The fact of the case is, Mr. Vavasower, Stephen is a very close-fisted man. He's the sort that looks twice at a sixpence before he spends it—and then, like as not, he puts it back in his pocket."Mr. Vavasour inclined his head. He was interested."Now, Mr. Vavasower," continued Mrs. Pringle, "Stephen is as innocent of the ways of young women as what a pagan negro is. He's never had aught to do with them; he doesn't know how expensive they are. If he knew how the young woman of now-a-days flings money about, he'd faint with terror at the prospect of wedding one. Now, you must know a deal of clever young women, Mr. Vavasower, your profession being what it is—actresses and such-like, no doubt, as could play a part for a slight consideration. If you could get such a one as would come down to the Old Farm as my guest for a fortnight or so, and would obey orders as to showing Stephen Jarvis what modern young women really is—well, we should hear no more of this ridiculous marrying idea. Of course, I could pass the young woman off as a distant relation of my poor husband's, just come from America or somewhere foreign. I would like her to show expensive tastes and to let Stephen see what a deal it would cost to keep a young wife. And of course she'd have to be a bit what they call fascinating—-but you'll understand my meaning, Mr. Vavasower. And I can assure you that although Stephen Jarvis is such a well-to-do man, he's that near and mean that you'll do better to deal with me and John William than with him."Mr. Vavasour, who had been thinking hard, rubbed his hands."And the terms, my clear madam?" he said. "Let us consider the terms on which we shall conduct this little matter. Now——"Then Mrs. Pringle and Mr. Vavasour talked very confidentially, and eventually certain crisp bank-notes passed from the lady to the agent, and a document was signed by the former, and at last they parted with a very good understanding of each other."For you'll understand, Mr. Vavasower," said Mrs. Pringle, as she shook hands at the door of the private room, "that I'm not going to be particular about spending a hundred or so when it's a question of making sure of a good many thousands and a nice bit of property. And Stephen Jarvis is a hearty eater, and disposed to apoplexy, and he might be took sudden."Then Mrs. Pringle went away and returned to the Old Farm, and for the next fortnight kept a particularly observant eye on Mr. Jarvis and on the correspondence which reached him from and through Mr. Vavasour. She noticed that he became grumpy and dissatisfied almost to moroseness—-the fact was that the agent, in order to keep his contract with Mrs. Pringle, was sending the would-be Benedick a choice of unlikely candidates, and Mr. Jarvis was getting sick of looking at photographs of ladies none of whom came up to his expectations. As for Mrs. Pringle, she conducted her correspondence with Mr. Vavasour through John William, whose grocery establishment was in a neighbouring market-town, and it was not until the end of the second week after her return home that she received a communication from him which warranted her in taking the field."Well, upon my honour!" she exclaimed, as she sat at breakfast with Mr. Jarvis one morning and laid down a letter which she had been reading. "Wonders never will cease, and there's an end of it. Who do you think I've heard from, Stephen?""Nay, I don't know," growled Mr. Jarvis, who had just received the photograph of a very homely-looking young woman from Mr. Vavasour, and was much incensed by what he considered the agent's stupidity. "Who?""Why, from my niece—leastways a sort of niece, seeing as she was poor George's sister Martha Margaret's daughter—Poppy Atteridge, as has just returned to England from foreign parts," answered Mrs. Pringle. "Her father was an engineer and took her over to Canada when he went to settle there after his wife died. He's dead now, it seems, and so the poor girl's come home. Dear me!—I did once see her when she was little. She writes quite affectionate and says she feels lonely. Ah, if I'd a house of my own, I'd ask her to come and see me!""Ask her to come and see you here, then!" said the farmer. "I'm sure there's room enough, unless she wants to sleep in six bed-chambers all at once.""Well, I'm sure it's very kind of you," said Mrs. Pringle, "and if you really don't mind, I will ask her. I don't think you'll find her in the way very much—they were always a quiet, well-behaved sort, the Atteridges."Mr. Jarvis remarked that a few lasses, more or less, in the house were not likely to trouble him, and having finished his breakfast, lighted a cigar, and locked up the homely-looking lady's photograph in his desk with a hearty anathematization of Mr. Vavasour for sending it, went out to look at his sheep and cattle and forgot the breakfast-table conversation. Indeed, he thought no more of it until two days later, when, on his going home from market to the Saturday evening high tea, Mrs. Pringle met him in the hall with the news that her niece had arrived, and was in the parlour."Oh, indeed!" said Mr. Jarvis, who was in a very benevolent mood, consequent upon his having got an uncommonly good price for his wheat and spent a convivial hour with the purchaser. "Poor thing—I doubt she'll have had a rare cold journey."Then he walked into the parlour to offer the poor young thing a welcome to his roof and hearth, and found himself encountered by a smiling and handsome young lady who had very sparkling eyes and a vivacious manner, and whom he immediately set down as the likeliest lass he had seen for many a long day. He thought of the gallery of dowdies whom Mr. Vavasour had recently sent him by counterfeit presentment, and his spirits rose rapidly."Well, deary me to-day!" he said, as he began to carve the home-fed ham in delicate slices. "Deary me to-day! I'd no idea that we were to be honoured with so much youth and beauty, as the saying is. I was looking forward to seeing a little gel, Mrs. Pringle. Your aunt there didn't prepare me for such a pleasant surprise, Miss—nay, I've forgotten what the name is!""Atteridge," said Mrs. Pringle's supposed niece. "But call me Poppy, Mr. Jarvis—I shall feel more at home.""Poppy!" chuckled Mr. Jarvis. "Ecod, and a rare pretty poppy an' all! Deary me—deary me!""The Atteridges was always a good-looking family," said Mrs. Pringle."I should think they must ha' been," said Mr. Jarvis, handing his guest some cold fowl and ham with an admiring look. "I should think they must ha' been, ma'am, judging by the sample present. So for what we're about to receive——"Mr. Jarvis, Mrs. Pringle, and Miss Atteridge spent a very pleasant evening. The guest, in addition to great vivacity, talked well and interestingly, and it began to dawn upon the housekeeper that she really must have been in Canada, as she knew so much about life there. In addition to Miss Atteridge's conversational powers it turned out that she played the piano, and in response to Mr. Jarvis's request for a tune or two, she sat down to an ancient instrument which had not been opened within the recollection of Mrs. Pringle, and extracted what music she could from it. Mr. Jarvis was highly delighted, and said so."But if you're so fond of music, Mr. Jarvis, you should buy a new piano," said Miss Atteridge airily. "I've no doubt this has been a good one, but I'm afraid it's quite done for now.""Happen I might if I'd anybody to play on it," said Mr. Jarvis, with a sly look."Oh, you could find lots of people to play on it," said Miss Atteridge.When the guest had retired Mr. Jarvis mixed his toddy, and in accordance with custom, handed a glass to Mrs. Pringle."She's a rare fine lass, that niece o' yours, missis," he said. "You're welcome to ask her to stop as long as she likes. It'll do her good."Next morning Mr. Jarvis, saying that he had business in the market-town, ordered out his smart dog-cart and the bay mare, and asked Miss Atteridge to go a-driving with him. They made a good-looking pair as they drove off, for the farmer, in spite of his five-and-fifty years, was a handsome and well-set-up man, with never a grey hair in his head, and he had a spice of vanity in him which made him very particular about his personal appearance.Mr. Jarvis and Miss Atteridge were away all the morning—when they returned to dinner at half-past one both seemed to be in very good spirits. They and Mrs. Pringle were sitting in the parlour after dinner when the housekeeper perceived a cart approaching the house, and remarked upon the fact that it contained a queer-looking packing-case and was attended by two men who wore green baize aprons."Aye," said Mr. Jarvis, carelessly, "it'll be the new piano that I bought this morning for the young lady here to perform upon. You'd better go out, missis, and tell 'em to set it down at the porch door. If they want help there's John and Thomas in the yard—call for 'em. And we'll have the old instrument taken out and the new one put in its place."Mrs. Pringle went forth to obey these orders, feeling somewhat puzzled. The young lady from Mr. Vavasour's was certainly playing her part well, and had begun early. But why this extraordinary complaisance on Mr. Jarvis's part—Mr. Jarvis, who could, when he liked, say some very nasty things about the household accounts? She began to feel a little doubtful about—she was not sure what.That night the parlour was the scene of what Mr. Jarvis called a regular slap-up concert. For it turned out that Miss Atteridge could not only play but sing, and sing well; and Mr. Jarvis was so carried away with revived musical enthusiasm, that after telling the ladies how he used to sing tenor in the church choir at one time, he volunteered to sing such pleasing ditties as "The Farmer's Boy," "The Yeoman's Wedding," and "John Peel," and growing bolder joined with Miss Atteridge in duets such as "Huntingtower," and "Oh, that we two were maying." He went to bed somewhat later than usual, declaring to himself that he had not spent such a pleasant evening since the last dinner at the Farmers' Club, and next morning he made up a parcel of all the photographs and documents which Mr. Vavasour had sent him, and returned them to that gentleman with a short intimation that he had no wish for further dealings with him, and that if he owed him anything he would be glad to know what it was.On the following Sunday Mr. John William Pringle, a pale-eyed young gentleman who wore a frock-coat and a silk hat, and had a habit of pulling up his trousers at the knees whenever he sat down, came, according to custom, to visit his mother, and was introduced to his newly-found relative. John William, after a little observation, became somewhat sad and reflective, and in the afternoon, when Mr. Jarvis and Miss Attendee had walked out into the land to see if there was the exact number of sheep that there ought to be in a certain distant field, turned upon his parent with a stern and reproachful look."And a nice mess you've made of it with your contrivings and plannings!" he said witheringly. "You've done the very thing we wanted to avoid. Can't you see the old fool's head over heels in love with that girl? Yah!""Nothing of the sort, John William!" retorted Mrs. Pringle. "Of course, the gal's leading him on, as is her part to do, and well paid for it she is. You wait till Stephen Jarvis reckernizes what he's been spending on her—there's the piano, and a new hat, and a riding-habit so as she can go a-riding with him, and a gipsy ring as she took a fancy to that day he took her to Stowminster, all in a week and less—and you'll see what the effect will be. You're wrong, John William!""I'm dee'd if I am!" said John William, angrily. "It's you that's wrong, and so you'll find. Something's got to be done. And the only thing I can think of," he continued, stroking a badly sprouted growth on his upper lip, "is that I should cut the old ass out myself. Of course, I could throw the girl over afterwards."With this end in view Mr. Pringle made himself extraordinarily fascinating at tea-time and during the evening, but with such poor effect that at supper he was gloomier than ever. He went home with a parting remark to his mother that if she didn't get the girl out of the house pretty quick he and she might as well go hang themselves.As Mrs. Pringle had considerable belief in John William's acumen she was conscience-stricken as to her part in this affair, and took occasion to speak to Miss Atteridge when they retired for the night. But Miss Atteridge not only received Mrs. Pringle's remarks with chilling hauteur, but engineered her out of her room in unmistakable fashion. So Mrs. Pringle wrote to Mr. Vavasour, saying that she thought the purpose she desired had been served, and she wished Miss Atteridge to be removed. Mr. Vavasour replied that her instructions should be carried out. But Miss Atteridge stayed on. And more than once she and the housekeeper, Mr. Jarvis being out, had words."As if you ever was in Canada!" said Mrs. Pringle, sniffing.Miss Atteridge looked at her calmly and coldly."I lived in Canada for three years," she answered."A gal as goes to a agent to find a husband!" said Mrs. Pringle."No—I went to get employment as a lady detective," said Miss Atteridge. "Mr. Vavasour, you know, is a private inquiry agent as well as a matrimonial agent.""And what did you come here for?" demanded Mrs. Pringle.Miss Atteridge looked at her interlocutor with a still colder glance."Fun!" she said.Then she sat down at the new piano and began to play the "Moonlight Sonata," and Mrs. Pringle went into the kitchen and slammed the parlour door—after which she wondered what John William would say next Sunday. On the previous Sunday he had been nastier than ever, and had expressed his determination to be dee'd at least six times.But when the next Sunday came Miss Atteridge had departed. All Friday she had been very quiet and thoughtful—late in the afternoon she and Mr. Jarvis had gone out for a walk, and when they returned both were much subdued and very grave. They talked little during tea, and that evening Miss Atteridge played nothing but Beethoven and Chopin and did not sing at all. And when Mrs. Pringle went to bed, after consuming her toddy in the kitchen—Mr. Jarvis being unusually solemn and greatly preoccupied—she found the guest packing her portmanteau."I am going away to-morrow, after breakfast," said Miss Atteridge. "As I shall not be here on Sunday please say good-bye for me to Mr. John William."John William, coming on Sunday in time for dinner, found things as they usually were at the Old Farm in the days previous to the advent of Miss Atteridge. Mr. Jarvis was in the parlour, amusing himself with a cigar, the sherry decanter, and theMark Lane Express; Mrs. Pringle was in the front kitchen superintending the cooking of a couple of stuffed ducks. To her John William approached with questioning eyes."She's gone!" whispered Mrs. Pringle. "Went off yesterday. He's been grumpyish ever since—a-thinkin' over what it's cost him. Go in and make up to him, John William. Talk to him about pigs."John William re-entered the parlour. Mr. Jarvis, who was of the sort that would show hospitality to an enemy, gave him a glass of sherry and offered him a cigar, but showed no particular desire to hear a grocer's views on swine fever. There was no conversation when Mrs. Pringle entered to lay the cloth for dinner."We've had no music this day or two," said Mrs. Pringle with fane cheerfulness. "Play the master a piece, John William—play the 'Battle of Prague' with variations."John William approached the new piano."It's locked," he said, examining the lid of the keyboard. "Where's the key?"Mr. Jarvis looked over the top of theMark Lane Express."The key," he said, "is in my pocket. And'll remain there until Miss Atteridge—which her right name is Carter—returns. But not as Carter, nor yet Atteridge, but as Mrs. Stephen Jarvis. That'll be three weeks to-day. If John William there wants to perform on t' piano he can come then and play t' 'Wedding March'!"Then John William sat down, and his mother laid the table in silence.

CHAPTER III

THE MAN WHO WAS NOBODY

I

That was one of the finest of all the fine mornings of that wonderful spring, and Miriam Weere, when she saw the sunlight falling across the orchard in front of her cottage, and heard the swirl of the brown river mingling with the murmur of the bees in their hives under the apple-trees, determined to do her day's work out of doors. The day's work was the washing of the week's soiled linen, and no great task for a strapping young woman of five-and-twenty, whose arms were as muscular as her gipsy-coloured face was handsome. Miriam accordingly made no haste in beginning it—besides, there was the eighteen-months-old baby to wash and dress and feed. He woke out of a morning sleep as she finished her breakfast, and began to make loud demands upon her. She busied herself with him for the next hour, laughing to herself gleefully over his resemblance to his father, big blue-eyed, blonde-haired Michael; and then, carrying him out to the daisy-spangled grass of the orchard, she set him down beneath an apple-tree, and left him grasping at the white and gold and green about him while she set out her wash-tubs a few yards away.

Miriam Weere had never a care in the world. Her glossy hair, dark as the plumage on a rook's breast, her clear hazel eyes, her glowing cheeks, the round, full curves of her fine figure, combined with the quickness and activity of her movements to prove her in possession of rude and splendid health. There was only another human being in Ashdale who could compete with her in the appearance of health or in good looks—her husband, Michael, a giant of well over six feet, who, like herself, had never known what it was to have a day's illness. The life of these two in their cottage by the little Ash was one perpetual round of good humour, good appetite, and sound sleep. Nor was there any reason why they should take thought for the morrow—that is, unduly. Higher up the valley, set on a green plateau by the bank of the river, stood Ashdale Mill, between the upper and nether stones of which most of the grain grown in the neighbourhood passed. And Ashdale Mill was the property of Tobias Weere, Michael's father, who was well known to be a rich man, and some day Michael would have——

That was the only question which occasionally made Miriam knit her brows. What would Michael have when old Tobias died? The mill, the mill-house, the garden and orchard around it, two or three acres of land beside, and the fishing rights of the river from Ashdale Bridge to Brinford Meadows belonged absolutely to Tobias, who had bought the freehold of this desirable property when he purchased the good-will of the business twenty years before. He had only two sons to succeed to whatever he left—Michael and Stephen. Michael was now general superintendent, manager, traveller, a hard indefatigable worker, who was as ready to give a hand with the grain and the flour as to write the letters and keep the books. Stephen, on the other hand, was a loafer. He was fonder of the village inn than of the mill, and of going off to race meetings or cricket matches than of attending to business. He was also somewhat given to conviviality, which often degenerated into intemperance, and he had lately married the publican's daughter, a showy, flaunting wench whom Miriam thoroughly detested. Considering the difference that existed between the two brothers, it seemed to Miriam that it would be grossly unfair to share things equally between them, and more than once she had said so to Michael. But Michael always shook his head.

"Share and share alike," he said. "I ask no fairer, my lass."

"Then," she answered, "if it's like that, you must try to buy Stephen out, for he'll never do any good."

"Ah, that's more like it!" said Michael.

Miriam was thinking of these things as she plunged her strong arms into the frothing soapsuds and listened to her baby cooing under the apple-trees. She had heard from a neighbour only the night before of some escapade in which Stephen had been mixed up, and her informant had added significantly that it was easy to see where Stephen's share of old Toby's money would go when he got the handling of it. Miriam resolved that when Michael, who was away on business in another part of the country, came home she would once more speak to him about coming to an understanding with his brother. She was not the sort of woman to see a flourishing business endangered, and she never forgot that she was the mother of Michael's first-born. Some day, perhaps, she might see him master of the mill.

Save for the murmur of the river flowing at the edge of the garden beneath overhanging alders and willows, and the perpetual humming of the insects in tree and bush, the morning was very still and languorous, and sounds of a louder sort travelled far. And Miriam was suddenly aware of the clap-clap-clap of human, stoutly-shod feet flying down the narrow lane which ran by the side of the orchard. Something in the sound betokened trouble—she was already drying her hands and arms on her rough apron when the wicket-gate was flung open and a girl, red-faced, panting, burst in beneath the pink and white of the fruit-trees.

"What is it, Eliza Kate?" demanded Miriam.

The girl pressed her hand to her side.

"It's—th'—owd—maister!" she panted. "Margaret Burton thinks he's bad—a stroke. An' will you please to go quick."

"Look to the child," said Miriam, without a glance at him herself. "And bring him back with you."

Then she set off at a swift pace up the steep, stony lane which led to Ashdale Mill. The atmosphere about it suggested nothing of death—the old place was gay with summer life, and the mill-wheel was throwing liquid diamonds into the sunlight with every revolution. Miriam saw none of these things; she hurried into the mill-house and onward into the living-room. For perhaps the first time in her life she was conscious of impending disaster—why or what she could not have told.

Old Tobias lay back in his easy-chair, looking very white and worn—his housekeeper, old Margaret Burton, stood at his side holding a cup. She sighed with relief as Miriam entered.

"Eh, I'm glad ye've comed, Mistress Michael!" she said. "I'm afeard th' maister has had a stroke—he turned queer all of a sudden."

"Have you sent for the doctor?" asked Miriam, going up to the old man and taking his hand.

"Aye, one o' th' mill lads has gone post haste on th' owd pony," answered the housekeeper. "But I'm afeard——"

Tobias opened his eyes, and, seeing Miriam, looked recognition. His grey lips moved.

"'Tisn' a stroke!" he whispered faintly. "It's th' end. Miriam, I want to say—summat to thee, my lass."

Miriam understood that he had something which he wished to say to her alone, and she motioned the housekeeper out of the living-room.

"There's a drop o' brandy in the cupboard there," said Tobias, when the door was closed upon himself and his daughter-in-law. "Gi' me a sup, lass—it'll keep me up till th' doctor comes—there's a matter I must do then. Miriam!"

"Yes, father?"

"Miriam, thou's a clever woman and a strong 'un," the old man went on, when he had sipped the brandy. "I must tell thee summat that nobody knows, and thou must tell it to Michael when I'm gone—I daren't tell him."

Miriam's heart leapt once and seemed to stand still; a sudden swelling seized her throat.

"Tell Michael?" she said. "Yes, father."

"Miriam ... hearken. Michael—he weren't—he weren't born in wedlock!"

Michael's wife was a woman of quick perception. The full meaning of the old man's words fell on her with the force of a thunderstorm that breaks upon a peaceful countryside without warning. She said nothing, and the old man motioned her to give him more brandy.

"Weren't born in wedlock," he repeated, "and so is of course illegitimate and can't heir nowt o' mine. It was this way," he went on, gathering strength from the stimulant. "His mother and me weren't wed till after he were born—we were wed just before we came here. We came from a long way off—nobody knows about it in these parts. And, of course, Michael's real name is Michael Oldfield—his mother's name—and, by law, Stephen takes all."

"Stephen takes all!" she repeated in a dull voice.

Old Tobias Weere's eyes gleamed out of the ashen-grey of his face, and his lips curled with the old cunning which Miriam knew well.

"But I ha' put matters right," he said, with a horrible attempt at a smile, "I ha' put matters right! Didn't want to do it till th' end, 'cause folk will talk, and I can't abide talking. I ha' made a will leaving one-half o' my property to my son, Stephen Weere; t'other half to Michael Oldfield, otherwise known as Michael Weere, o' Millrace Cottage, Ashdale, i' th' county——"

The old man's face suddenly paled, and Miriam put more brandy to his lips. After a moment he pointed to a bunch of keys lying on the table beside him, and then to an ancient bureau which stood in a dark corner of the living-room. "It's i' th' top—drawer—th' will," he whispered. "Get it out, my lass, and lay the writing things o' th' table—doctor and James Bream'll witness it, an' then all will be in order. 'Cause, you see, somed'y might chance-along as knew the secret, an' would let out that Michael were born before we were wed, an' then——"

Sick and cold with the surprise and horror of this news, Miriam took the keys and went over to the old bureau. There, in the top drawer, lay a sheet of parchment—she knew little of law matters, but she saw that this had been written by a practised hand. She set it out on the table with pen and ink and blotting-paper—in silence.

"A lawyer chap in London town, as axed no questions, drew that there," murmured Tobias. "Wants naught but signing and witnessing and the date putting in. Why doesn't doctor come, and Jim Bream on the owd pony? Go to th' house door, lass, and see if ye can see 'em coming."

Miriam went out into the stone-paved porch, and, shading her aching eyes, looked across the garden. Eliza Kate had arrived with the baby, and sat nursing it beneath the lilac-trees. It caught sight of its mother, and stretched its arms and lifted its voice to her. Miriam gave no heed to it—her heart was heavy as the grey stones she stood on.

She waited some minutes—then two mounted figures came in sight far down the lane, and she turned back to the living-room. And on the threshold she stopped, and her hand went up to her bosom before she moved across to the old man's chair. But the first glance had told her what the second confirmed. Tobias was dead.

Miriam hesitated one moment. Then she strode across the living-room, and, snatching up the unsigned will, folded it into a smaller compass, and thrust it within the folds of her gown.

II

It was a matter of wonder to everybody, and to no one more so than her husband, that Miriam appeared to be so much affected by her father-in-law's death. It was not that she made any demonstrations of grief, but that an unusual gloom seemed to settle over her. Never gay in the girlish sense, she had always been light-hearted and full of smiles and laughter; during the first days which followed the demise of old Tobias she went about her duties with a knitted brow, as if some sudden care had settled upon her. Michael saw it, and wondered; he had respected his father and entertained a filial affection for him, but his death did not trouble him to the extent of spoiling his appetite or disturbing his sleep. He soon saw that Miriam ate little: he soon guessed that she was sleeping badly. And on the fourth day after his hurried return home—the eve of the funeral—he laid his great hand on her shoulder as she was stooping over the child's cradle and turned her round to face him.

"What's the matter, my lass?" he said kindly. "Is there aught amiss? You are as quiet as the grave, and you don't eat, nor get sleep. The old father's death can't make that difference. He was old—very old—and he's a deal better off."

"There is such a lot to think of just now," she replied evasively.

Michael, man-like, mistook her meaning.

"Oh, aye, to be sure there is, lass," he agreed. "To-morrow'll be a busyish day, of course, for I expect there'll be half the countryside here at the burying, and, of course, they all expect refreshment. However, there'll be no stint of that, and, after all, they'll only want a glass of wine and a funeral biscuit. And as for the funeral dinner, why—there'll only be you and me, and Stephen and his wife, and your father and mother, and Stephen's wife's father and mother, and the lawyer."

"The lawyer!" exclaimed Miriam. "What lawyer?"

"What lawyer? Why, Mr. Brooke, o' Sicaster, to be sure," answered Michael. "Who else?"

"What's he coming for?" asked Miriam.

"Coming for? Come, my lass, your wits are going a-woolgathering," said Michael. "What do lawyers come to funerals for? To read father's will, of course!"

"Is there a will?" she asked.

"Made five years ago, Mr. Brooke said this afternoon," he replied.

"Do you know what's in it?" she asked.

Michael laughed—laughed loudly.

"Nay, come, love!" he said. "Know what's in it! Why, nobody knows what's in a will until the lawyer unseals and reads it after the funeral dinner."

"I didn't know," she said listlessly.

"But, of course, that's neither here nor there," said Michael; "and I must away to make a few last arrangements. If there'll be too much work for you to-morrow, Miriam, you must get another woman in from the village."

"There'll not be too much work, Michael," she answered.

In her heart she wished there was more work—work that would keep her from thinking of the secret which the dead man had left with her. It had eaten deep into her soul and had become a perpetual torment, for she was a woman of great religious feeling and strict ideas of duty, and she did not know where her duty lay in this case. She knew Michael for a proud man, upon whom the news of his illegitimacy would fall as lightning falls on an oak come to the pride of its maturity; she knew, too, how he would curse his father for the wrong done to his mother, of whom he had been passionately fond. Again, if she told the truth, Michael would be bereft of everything. For Stephen was not fond of his brother, and Stephen's wife hated Miriam. If Stephen and his wife heard the truth, and proved it, Michael would be—nobody. For, after all, Tobias had not had time to make amends.

And now there was the news of this will held by Lawyer Brooke! What could there be in it, and how was it that Tobias had not spoken of it? Could it be that he had forgotten it? She knew that for some years he had been more or less eccentric, subject to moods and to gusts of passion, though there had never been any time when his behaviour would have warranted any one in suspecting his mind to be affected or even clouded. Well—she could do nothing but leave the matter until to-morrow when the dead man's will was read.

As wife of the elder son, Miriam was hostess next day, and everybody who saw her marvelled at two things—one, the extraordinary pallor on her usually brightly tinted cheeks; the other, the quiet way in which she went about her duties. She was here, there, and everywhere, seeing to the comfort of the funeral guests; but she spoke little, and keenly observant eyes would have said that she moved as if in a dream. At the funeral dinner she ate little; it was an effort to get that little down. As the time drew near for the reading of the will, she could scarcely conceal her agitation, and when they were at last all assembled in the best parlour to hear Tobias's testament declared, she was glad that she sat at a table beneath which she could conceal her trembling fingers.

She wondered why Mr. Brooke was so long in cleaning his spectacles, so long in sipping his glass of port, so slow in breaking the seal of the big envelope which he took from his pocket, why he hum'd and ha'd so before he began reading. But at last he began....

It was a briefly worded will, and very plain in its meaning. Having cause, it set forth, to be highly displeased with the conduct of his younger son, Stephen, and to believe that he would only waste a fortune if it were left to him, Tobias left everything of which he died possessed to his elder son, Michael, on condition that Michael secured to Stephen from the time of his (Tobias's) demise, a sum of three pounds a week, to which a further sum of one pound a week might be added if Stephen's conduct was such as to satisfy Michael. If Stephen died before his father, Michael was to make a similar allowance to his widow.

The various emotions which had agitated Miriam were almost forgotten by her in the tumult which followed. Stephen's wife and her father and mother broke out into loud denunciation of the will; Stephen himself, after staring at the solicitor for a moment, as if he could not credit the evidence of his own eyes or ears smote the table heavily and jumped to his feet.

"It's a damned lie!" he shouted. And he made as if he would snatch the will and tear it to pieces. Mr. Brooke calmly replaced it in his pocket, and as calmly sipped his port.

"On the contrary, my friend," he said. "And—it is your father's will."

"Father!" sneered Stephen's wife's mother. "A nice father to——"

Michael rose with a gesture that brought silence.

"None of that!" he said. "Who's master here? I am! Say a word against my dead father, any of you, and by God! out you go, neck and crop, man or woman. Now, then, you'll listen to me. I'm bound to say, with every respect for him, that I don't agree with this will of my father's. My wife here'll bear me out when I say that my idea as regards Stephen and myself coming into his property was—share and share alike. It seems father had other notions. However, everything is now mine—I'm master. Now, a man can do what he chooses with his own. So listen, Stephen. Give up that drinking, and gambling, and such-like, and come to work again and be a man, and you shall have one-half of all that there is. But, mind you, I've the whip hand, and you'll have to prove yourself. Prove yourself, and we'll soon set matters straight. I want no more than my half, and now that all's mine—well, law or no law, I'll share with you ... but you'll have to show that you can keep my conditions."

Everybody's eyes were fixed on Stephen Weere. He sat for a moment staring at the table—then, with a curse, he flung out of the room. The smell of the old flesh-pots was still in his nostrils; the odour of the wine-pots in his remembrance—a fact which probably sent him to the little room in which the refreshments of a liquid sort had been set out. He helped himself to a stiff glass of brandy and water, and had gulped half of it down when he felt certain fingers lay themselves appealingly on his left elbow. He turned with a curse, to encounter the witch-like countenance and burning eyes of the old housekeeper, Margaret Burton.

"What do you want, you old hag?" he said, with another curse. "Get out!"

But the old woman stood—her bony fingers still on his arm.

"Hester Stivven!" she said. "Mester Stivven! Has he—has he left me owt?"

Stephen burst into a harsh laugh and re-filled his glass.

"Left you owt?" he exclaimed jeeringly. "Left you owt? He's left nobody nowt but Michael—curse him! He's left him—all there is!"

Margaret Burton drew back for a second and stared at him. He drew himself away from her eyes. Suddenly she laid her hand on him again.

"Mester Stivven," she said, coaxingly, "come wi' me—I ha' summat to tell you. Come!"

Ten minutes later Stephen walked into the best parlour, followed by Margaret Burton. Michael was engaged in an earnest conversation with the rest, and especially with Stephen's wife, as to Stephen's future. Stephen lifted a commanding hand.

"Stop that!" he said. "We've had enough of you—we'll see who's master here. My turn," he went on, as Michael would have spoken. "Come forward, Margaret. This woman, Mr. Brooke, has been my father's housekeeper since my mother died, and was servant for years before that—weren't you, Margaret?"

"Twelve years before that, sir."

"Twelve years before that—and in my mother's confidence," Stephen continued.

"Now, then, Margaret, take Mr. Brooke into that corner. Tell him what you've told me about what my mother told you the week she died, and give him those papers she left with you to prove what she said. And then—then we'll see, we'll see!"

The rest of the people watched the whispered colloquy between the solicitor and the old woman with mingled feelings. It was a large, rambling room, with great embrasures to the windows, and nobody could hear a word that was said. But Miriam knew that she was not the only possessor of the secret, and she unconsciously slid her hand into Michael's.

Lawyer Brooke, some folded papers in his hand, came back with knitted brow and troubled eyes. He was going to speak, but Stephen stopped him.

"I'm master here," he said. "Margaret, come this way." He pointed to Michael. "What's that man's real name?" he asked, with an evil sneer. "Is it—well, now, what is it? 'Cause, of course, his isn't what mine is. Mine is my father's—mine's Weere."

"No, sir—it's Oldfield. His mother's name—'cause, of course, he were born out of wedlock. Your father and mother wedded later on."

In the silence that followed Miriam heard the beating of Michael's heart. He rose slowly, staring about him from one to the other.

"It's not—true?" he said questioningly. "It's——"

Miriam rose at his side and laid both hands on his arm.

"It's true, Michael," she said. "It's true. Your father told me ten minutes before he died."

Michael looked down at her, and suddenly put his arm round her and kissed her.

"Come away, Miriam," he said, as if the others were shadows. "Come away. Let's go home—the child'll be wanting us."

CHAPTER IV

LITTLE MISS PARTRIDGE

Next to the church and the King George—with possibly the exception of the blacksmith's shop, where most of the idlers gathered to gossip of an afternoon, especially in winter—Miss Partridge's general store was the chief institution in Orchardcroft. To begin with, it was the only house of a mercantile character in the place, and it would have fared ill with any one rash enough to have set up an opposition business to it; to end with, its proprietor was so good-natured that she made no objection to the good wives of the village if they lingered over their purchases to chat with each other or with her. Life in Orchardcroft was leisurely, and an hour could easily be spent in fetching a stone of flour or a quarter of a pound of tea from Miss Partridge's emporium. And, as Miss Partridge often remarked, the women were better employed in exchanging views at her counter than the men were in arguing at the tap of the King George.

It was a queer little place, this general store—a compendium of grocery, drapery, confectionery, and half-a-dozen other trades. There were all sorts of things in the window, from rolls of cheap dress goods to home-made toffee; inside the shop itself, which was neither more nor less than the front room of a thatched cottage, there was a display of articles which was somewhat confusing to eyes not accustomed to such sights. It was said of a celebrated London tradesman that he could supply anything from a white elephant to a pin—Miss Partridge could hardly boast so much, but it was certain that she kept everything which the four hundred-odd souls of Orchardcroft required for their bodies—butcher's meat excepted. What was more, she knew where everything was, and could lay her hands on it at a moment's notice; what was still more, she was as polite in selling a little boy a new ready-made suit as in serving a ploughman with his Saturday ounce of shag or nail-rod tobacco. For that reason everybody liked her and brought their joys and sorrows to her.

On a bright spring afternoon, when the blackbirds and thrushes were piping gaily in her holly-hedged garden, Miss Partridge sat behind her counter knitting. She was then a woman of close upon sixty—a rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed woman, small in stature, grey of hair, out of whose face something of a benediction seemed always to shine upon everybody. She wore a plain black dress—nobody in Orchardcroft could remember Miss Partridge in anything but black for more than thirty years—over which was draped a real silk white shawl, fastened at the neck with a massive brooch of Whitby jet, and on her head was a smart cap in which were displayed several varieties of artificial flowers. Shawl and cap denoted that Miss Partridge was dressed for the day; in the morning less showy insignia were displayed.

"We're very quiet this afternoon, Martha Mary," observed Miss Partridge to her general factotum, who, having finished the housework, was now dusting the upper shelves. "There's been nobody in since old Isaac came for his tobacco."

"No, m'm," said Martha Mary, "but there's Jane Pockett coming up the garden just now."

"Then we shall hear something or other," said Miss Partridge, who knew Mrs. Pockett's characteristics; "Jane has always some news."

Mrs. Pockett, a tall, flabby lady, who acted a great part in the village drama of life, seeing that she saw all its new-comers into the world and all its out-goers leave its stage for ever, came heavily into the shop and dropped still more heavily into a chair by the counter. And without ceremony she turned a boiled-gooseberry eye on the little shopkeeper.

"Hev' yer heerd the noos?" she said.

"What news, Jane?" asked Miss Partridge.

Mrs. Pockett selected a mint humbug from a bottle on the counter and began to suck it.

"Well, of course, yer remember Robert Dicki'son, t' miller, at Stapleby yonder?" she said. "Him as died last year, leavin' a widder and two childer, a boy an' a girl?"

Miss Partridge's head bent over her knitting.

"Yes," she said.

"Well," continued Mrs. Pockett, "it were thowt 'at he died middlin' weel off, but now it turns out 'at he didn't. In fact, he's left nowt, and t' mill were mortgaged, as they term it, and now they're barn to sell 'em up, lock, stock, and barril. It's a pity, 'cos t' lad's a nice young feller, and they say 'at if nobbut they could pay t' money he could work up a good trade. It's a thousand pounds 'at they want to settle matters. See yer, I hev' a bill o' t' sale i' my pocket—t' billposter gev' me it this mornin'. Ye'll notice 'at there's a nicish bit o' furniture to dispose on. But what will t' widder and t' two childer do, turned out i' that way?"

"It's very sad," said Miss Partridge; "very sad."

She laid the bill aside and began to talk of something else. But when Jane Pockett had purchased three yards of flannel and departed, she read the bill through and noted that the sale was to take place on the next day but one. And taking off her spectacles she laid them and the knitting down on the counter, and bidding Martha Mary mind the shop, she went up to her own room and, closing the door, began to walk up and down, thinking.

Forty years slipped away from Miss Partridge, and she was once more a girl of nineteen and engaged to Robert Dickinson. She remembered it all vividly—their walks, their talks, their embraces. She opened an old desk and took from it a faded photograph of a handsome lad, some equally faded ribbons, a tarnished locket—all that was left of the long-dead dream of youth. She put them back, and thought of how they had parted in anger because of a lover's quarrel. He had accused her of flirting, and she had been too proud to defend herself, and he had flung away and gone to a far-off colony, and she had remained behind—to be true to his memory all her life. And twenty years later he had come back, bringing a young wife with him, and had taken Stapleby Mill—but he and she had never met, never spoken. And now he was dead, and his widow and children were to be outcasts, beggars.

Customers who came to the little shop that evening remarked to each other on its mistress's unusually quiet mood, and hoped Miss Partridge was not going to be ill. But Miss Partridge was quite well when she came down to breakfast next morning, dressed in her best and wearing her bonnet, and she looked very determined about something.

"You'll have to mind the shop this morning, Martha Mary, for I'm going to Cornchester," she said. "Get Eliza Grimes to come and do the housework."

Once in Cornchester Miss Partridge entered the local bank—an institution which she regarded with great awe—and had a whispered consultation with the cashier, which resulted in that gentleman handing over to her ten banknotes of a hundred pounds each—the savings of a lifetime.

"Going to invest it, Miss Partridge?" said the cashier, smiling.

"Y-yes," answered Miss Partridge. "Y-yes, sir—to invest it."

She put the thousand pounds in her old-fashioned reticule and went off to a legal gentleman whom she had once or twice had occasion to consult. To him she made a communication which caused him to stare.

"My dear madam," he exclaimed. "This is giving away all you possess."

"No," interrupted Miss Partridge. "I have the shop."

"Well, at any rate, take the place as security," began the solicitor; "and——"

"No," said Miss Partridge, firmly. "No, sir! No one is to know; no one is ever to know—except you—where the money came from. It's my money, and I've a right to do what I please with it."

"Oh, very well," said the solicitor. "Very well. I'll settle the matter at once. And you may be sure the poor things will be very grateful to their unknown benefactor."

Miss Partridge walked home by way of Stapleby churchyard. She turned into its quietude and sought out Robert Dickinson's grave. There were daisies growing on the green turf that covered it, and she gathered a little bunch of them and carried them home to put away with the ribbons and the locket. And that done she took off her best things and dropped once more into the old way of life.

CHAPTER V

THE MARRIAGE OF MR. JARVIS

When the lift-boy came down to the ground-floor again and threw open the door of the cage in which he spent so many mechanical hours every day, he became aware that the entrance hall was just then given up to a solitary female who was anxiously scanning the various names which appeared on the boards set up on either side. He gathered a general impression of rusticity, but, sharp as he was, would have found himself hard put to it to define it—the lady's bonnet was not appreciably different from the bonnets worn by respectable, middle-class, town ladies; the lady's umbrella was not carried at an awkward angle. Nevertheless he was quite certain that if the lady was going aloft to anywhere between there and the sixth floor she was about to step into an elevator for the first time.

He stood waiting, knowing very well that the stranger would presently address him. It was gloomy in the entrance hall, and he saw that she could not see the names on the top-half of the board at which she was gazing. She turned, glanced hastily at the opposite board, then looked half-doubtfully at him.

"Young man," she said, "can you tell me if Mr. Watkin Vavasower's office is anywhere about here?"

"Mr. Vavasore, mum?—third floor, mum—just gone up, has Mr. Vavasore," replied the lift-boy.

He stood aside from the door of his cage with an implied invitation to enter. But the lady, whom in the clearer light of the inner hall he now perceived to be middle-aged and of stern countenance, looked doubtfully at the stairs.

"I suppose I shall see the name on the door if I go up-stairs, young man?" she said. "It's that dark in these London places——"

"Step inside, mum," said the lift-boy.

The lady started and looked inside the cage as she might have looked inside one of her own hen-coops if she had suspected the presence of a fox therein. She turned a suspicious eye on the boy.

"Is it safe?" she said.

Then, instinctively obeying the authoritative wave of the official hand, she stepped inside and heard the gate bang. She gave a little gasp as the world fell from under her feet; another when the elevator suddenly stopped and she found herself ejected on a higher plane.

"Well, I'm sure——" she began.

"Second door on the left, mum," said the boy, and sank from view.

The lady paused for a second or two, glanced down the shaft as if she expected to hear a shriek of agony from the bottom, and then slowly moved in the direction which the boy had indicated. A few steps along the corridor and she stood before a door on which was inscribed in heavy brass letters, highly polished, the name "Mr. Watkin Vavasour."

She hesitated a moment before knocking; when she did so, her knock was timid and gentle. But it was heard within, for a girl's voice, sharp and business-like, bade her enter. She turned the handle and walked into a comfortably furnished room wherein sat a very smart young lady who was busily engaged with a typewriter and who looked up from her work with questioning eyes.

"Is Mr. Watkin Vavasower in?" inquired the caller.

The smart young lady rose from her desk with an air of condescending patience.

"What name, madam?" she asked.

The caller hesitated.

"Well, if it's agreeable," she said, "I'd rather not give my name to anybody but the gentleman himself, though of course if——"

"Take a chair, please," said the smart young lady. She vanished through an inner door marked "Private," leaving the visitor to examine an imitation Turkey carpet, a roll-top American desk, two office chairs, and a reproduction of the late Lord Leighton'sMarried, which hung over the fire-place. She was speculating as to the nationality of the two persons concerned in this picture when the smart young lady returned with an invitation to enter Mr. Vavasour's presence. Mr. Vavasour, a somewhat more than middle-aged, stoutish gentleman, whose name would more fittingly have been Isaacs, Cohen, or Abraham, and who evidently set much store by fine linen and purple and the wearing of gold and diamonds, rose from behind an elegant rosewood writing-table and waved his visitor to the easiest of chairs with much grace. His highly polished bald head bowed itself benevolently towards her.

"And what can I have the pleasure of doing for you, my dear madam?" Mr. Vavasour inquired blandly.

The visitor, who had examined Mr. Vavasour with a sharp glance as she made a formal bow to him, gave a little prefatory cough, and gazed at Mr. Vavasour's cheery fire.

"Of course," she said, "I am addressing Mr. Watkin Vavasower, the matrimonial agent? The Mr. Vavasower as advertises in the newspapers?"

"Just so, madam, just so," replied Mr. Vavasour in soothing tones. "I am that individual. And whom have I the pleasure of receiving?"

"Well, Mr. Vavasower, my name is Mrs. Rebecca Pringle," said the visitor. "Of course, you'll not know the name, but you're familiar with the name of the place I come from—the Old Farm, Windleby?"

Mr. Vavasour swept a jewelled hand over his high forehead.

"The Old Farm, Windleby?" he said. "The name seems familiar. Ah, yes, of course—the address of a respected client, Mr.—yes, Mr. Stephen Jarvis. Dear me—yes, of course. A very worthy gentleman!"

"Well, Mr. Vavasower," said Mrs. Pringle, smoothing her gown, which the agent's sharp eyes noticed to be of good substantial silk, "there's many a worthy gentleman as can make a fool of himself! I've nothing to say against Stephen, especially as I've kept house for him for fifteen years, which is to say ever since Pringle died. But I'm not blind to his faults, Mr. Vavasower, and of course I can't see him rush to his destruction, as it were, without putting out a finger to stop his headlong flight."

Mr. Vavasour made a lugubrious face, shook his head, and looked further inquiries.

"'It's come to my knowledge, Mr. Vavasower," continued Mrs. Pringle, "that Stephen Jarvis, as is my first cousin, has been having correspondence with you on the matter of finding a wife. A pretty thing for a man of his years to do—five-and-fifty he is, and no less—when he's kept off the ladies all this time! And I must tell you, Mr. Vavasower, that his family does not approve of it, and that's why I have come to see you."

Mr. Vavasour spread out fat hands.

"My dear madam!" he said, deprecatingly. "My dear Mrs. Pringle! It is a strict rule of mine never to discuss a client's affairs, or to——"

Mrs. Pringle favoured him with a knowing look.

"Of course, it would be made worth Mr. Vavasower's while," she said, tapping a small reticule which she carried. "The family doesn't expect Mr. Vavasower to assist it for nothing."

Mr. Vavasour hesitated. He called up the Jarvis case in his mind, and remembered that Mr. Stephen Jarvis did not want a moneyed wife, and that, therefore, there would be no commission in that particular connection.

"Who are the members of the family, ma'am?" he inquired.

Mrs. Pringle looked him squarely in the face.

"The members of the family, Mr. Vavasower," she replied, "is me and my only son, John William, as has always been led to look upon himself as Stephen Jarvis's heir. And, of course, if so be as Stephen Jarvis was to marry a young woman, well, there'd no doubt be children, and then——"

"To be sure, ma'am, to be sure!" said Mr. Vavasour comprehendingly. "Of course, you and your son have means that would justify——"

"My son, John William, Mr. Vavasower, is in a very nice way of business in the grocery line," answered Mrs. Pringle. "But of course I don't intend to see him ousted out of his proper place because Stephen Jarvis takes it into his head to marry at his time of life! Stephen must be put off it, and there's an end of the matter."

"But, my dear madam!" exclaimed Mr. Vavasour. "How can I prevent it? My client has asked me for introductions; he is somewhat particular, or I could have suited him some weeks ago. He desires a young and pretty wife, and——"

"Old fool!" exclaimed Mrs. Pringle. "Well, he's not to have one, Mr. Vavasower—as I say, it's not agreeable to me and John William that he should. And as to how you can prevent it, well, Mr. Vavasower, I've a plan in which you must join—me and John William will make it worth your while to do so—that will put Stephen Jarvis out of conceit with matrimony. The fact of the case is, Mr. Vavasower, Stephen is a very close-fisted man. He's the sort that looks twice at a sixpence before he spends it—and then, like as not, he puts it back in his pocket."

Mr. Vavasour inclined his head. He was interested.

"Now, Mr. Vavasower," continued Mrs. Pringle, "Stephen is as innocent of the ways of young women as what a pagan negro is. He's never had aught to do with them; he doesn't know how expensive they are. If he knew how the young woman of now-a-days flings money about, he'd faint with terror at the prospect of wedding one. Now, you must know a deal of clever young women, Mr. Vavasower, your profession being what it is—actresses and such-like, no doubt, as could play a part for a slight consideration. If you could get such a one as would come down to the Old Farm as my guest for a fortnight or so, and would obey orders as to showing Stephen Jarvis what modern young women really is—well, we should hear no more of this ridiculous marrying idea. Of course, I could pass the young woman off as a distant relation of my poor husband's, just come from America or somewhere foreign. I would like her to show expensive tastes and to let Stephen see what a deal it would cost to keep a young wife. And of course she'd have to be a bit what they call fascinating—-but you'll understand my meaning, Mr. Vavasower. And I can assure you that although Stephen Jarvis is such a well-to-do man, he's that near and mean that you'll do better to deal with me and John William than with him."

Mr. Vavasour, who had been thinking hard, rubbed his hands.

"And the terms, my clear madam?" he said. "Let us consider the terms on which we shall conduct this little matter. Now——"

Then Mrs. Pringle and Mr. Vavasour talked very confidentially, and eventually certain crisp bank-notes passed from the lady to the agent, and a document was signed by the former, and at last they parted with a very good understanding of each other.

"For you'll understand, Mr. Vavasower," said Mrs. Pringle, as she shook hands at the door of the private room, "that I'm not going to be particular about spending a hundred or so when it's a question of making sure of a good many thousands and a nice bit of property. And Stephen Jarvis is a hearty eater, and disposed to apoplexy, and he might be took sudden."

Then Mrs. Pringle went away and returned to the Old Farm, and for the next fortnight kept a particularly observant eye on Mr. Jarvis and on the correspondence which reached him from and through Mr. Vavasour. She noticed that he became grumpy and dissatisfied almost to moroseness—-the fact was that the agent, in order to keep his contract with Mrs. Pringle, was sending the would-be Benedick a choice of unlikely candidates, and Mr. Jarvis was getting sick of looking at photographs of ladies none of whom came up to his expectations. As for Mrs. Pringle, she conducted her correspondence with Mr. Vavasour through John William, whose grocery establishment was in a neighbouring market-town, and it was not until the end of the second week after her return home that she received a communication from him which warranted her in taking the field.

"Well, upon my honour!" she exclaimed, as she sat at breakfast with Mr. Jarvis one morning and laid down a letter which she had been reading. "Wonders never will cease, and there's an end of it. Who do you think I've heard from, Stephen?"

"Nay, I don't know," growled Mr. Jarvis, who had just received the photograph of a very homely-looking young woman from Mr. Vavasour, and was much incensed by what he considered the agent's stupidity. "Who?"

"Why, from my niece—leastways a sort of niece, seeing as she was poor George's sister Martha Margaret's daughter—Poppy Atteridge, as has just returned to England from foreign parts," answered Mrs. Pringle. "Her father was an engineer and took her over to Canada when he went to settle there after his wife died. He's dead now, it seems, and so the poor girl's come home. Dear me!—I did once see her when she was little. She writes quite affectionate and says she feels lonely. Ah, if I'd a house of my own, I'd ask her to come and see me!"

"Ask her to come and see you here, then!" said the farmer. "I'm sure there's room enough, unless she wants to sleep in six bed-chambers all at once."

"Well, I'm sure it's very kind of you," said Mrs. Pringle, "and if you really don't mind, I will ask her. I don't think you'll find her in the way very much—they were always a quiet, well-behaved sort, the Atteridges."

Mr. Jarvis remarked that a few lasses, more or less, in the house were not likely to trouble him, and having finished his breakfast, lighted a cigar, and locked up the homely-looking lady's photograph in his desk with a hearty anathematization of Mr. Vavasour for sending it, went out to look at his sheep and cattle and forgot the breakfast-table conversation. Indeed, he thought no more of it until two days later, when, on his going home from market to the Saturday evening high tea, Mrs. Pringle met him in the hall with the news that her niece had arrived, and was in the parlour.

"Oh, indeed!" said Mr. Jarvis, who was in a very benevolent mood, consequent upon his having got an uncommonly good price for his wheat and spent a convivial hour with the purchaser. "Poor thing—I doubt she'll have had a rare cold journey."

Then he walked into the parlour to offer the poor young thing a welcome to his roof and hearth, and found himself encountered by a smiling and handsome young lady who had very sparkling eyes and a vivacious manner, and whom he immediately set down as the likeliest lass he had seen for many a long day. He thought of the gallery of dowdies whom Mr. Vavasour had recently sent him by counterfeit presentment, and his spirits rose rapidly.

"Well, deary me to-day!" he said, as he began to carve the home-fed ham in delicate slices. "Deary me to-day! I'd no idea that we were to be honoured with so much youth and beauty, as the saying is. I was looking forward to seeing a little gel, Mrs. Pringle. Your aunt there didn't prepare me for such a pleasant surprise, Miss—nay, I've forgotten what the name is!"

"Atteridge," said Mrs. Pringle's supposed niece. "But call me Poppy, Mr. Jarvis—I shall feel more at home."

"Poppy!" chuckled Mr. Jarvis. "Ecod, and a rare pretty poppy an' all! Deary me—deary me!"

"The Atteridges was always a good-looking family," said Mrs. Pringle.

"I should think they must ha' been," said Mr. Jarvis, handing his guest some cold fowl and ham with an admiring look. "I should think they must ha' been, ma'am, judging by the sample present. So for what we're about to receive——"

Mr. Jarvis, Mrs. Pringle, and Miss Atteridge spent a very pleasant evening. The guest, in addition to great vivacity, talked well and interestingly, and it began to dawn upon the housekeeper that she really must have been in Canada, as she knew so much about life there. In addition to Miss Atteridge's conversational powers it turned out that she played the piano, and in response to Mr. Jarvis's request for a tune or two, she sat down to an ancient instrument which had not been opened within the recollection of Mrs. Pringle, and extracted what music she could from it. Mr. Jarvis was highly delighted, and said so.

"But if you're so fond of music, Mr. Jarvis, you should buy a new piano," said Miss Atteridge airily. "I've no doubt this has been a good one, but I'm afraid it's quite done for now."

"Happen I might if I'd anybody to play on it," said Mr. Jarvis, with a sly look.

"Oh, you could find lots of people to play on it," said Miss Atteridge.

When the guest had retired Mr. Jarvis mixed his toddy, and in accordance with custom, handed a glass to Mrs. Pringle.

"She's a rare fine lass, that niece o' yours, missis," he said. "You're welcome to ask her to stop as long as she likes. It'll do her good."

Next morning Mr. Jarvis, saying that he had business in the market-town, ordered out his smart dog-cart and the bay mare, and asked Miss Atteridge to go a-driving with him. They made a good-looking pair as they drove off, for the farmer, in spite of his five-and-fifty years, was a handsome and well-set-up man, with never a grey hair in his head, and he had a spice of vanity in him which made him very particular about his personal appearance.

Mr. Jarvis and Miss Atteridge were away all the morning—when they returned to dinner at half-past one both seemed to be in very good spirits. They and Mrs. Pringle were sitting in the parlour after dinner when the housekeeper perceived a cart approaching the house, and remarked upon the fact that it contained a queer-looking packing-case and was attended by two men who wore green baize aprons.

"Aye," said Mr. Jarvis, carelessly, "it'll be the new piano that I bought this morning for the young lady here to perform upon. You'd better go out, missis, and tell 'em to set it down at the porch door. If they want help there's John and Thomas in the yard—call for 'em. And we'll have the old instrument taken out and the new one put in its place."

Mrs. Pringle went forth to obey these orders, feeling somewhat puzzled. The young lady from Mr. Vavasour's was certainly playing her part well, and had begun early. But why this extraordinary complaisance on Mr. Jarvis's part—Mr. Jarvis, who could, when he liked, say some very nasty things about the household accounts? She began to feel a little doubtful about—she was not sure what.

That night the parlour was the scene of what Mr. Jarvis called a regular slap-up concert. For it turned out that Miss Atteridge could not only play but sing, and sing well; and Mr. Jarvis was so carried away with revived musical enthusiasm, that after telling the ladies how he used to sing tenor in the church choir at one time, he volunteered to sing such pleasing ditties as "The Farmer's Boy," "The Yeoman's Wedding," and "John Peel," and growing bolder joined with Miss Atteridge in duets such as "Huntingtower," and "Oh, that we two were maying." He went to bed somewhat later than usual, declaring to himself that he had not spent such a pleasant evening since the last dinner at the Farmers' Club, and next morning he made up a parcel of all the photographs and documents which Mr. Vavasour had sent him, and returned them to that gentleman with a short intimation that he had no wish for further dealings with him, and that if he owed him anything he would be glad to know what it was.

On the following Sunday Mr. John William Pringle, a pale-eyed young gentleman who wore a frock-coat and a silk hat, and had a habit of pulling up his trousers at the knees whenever he sat down, came, according to custom, to visit his mother, and was introduced to his newly-found relative. John William, after a little observation, became somewhat sad and reflective, and in the afternoon, when Mr. Jarvis and Miss Attendee had walked out into the land to see if there was the exact number of sheep that there ought to be in a certain distant field, turned upon his parent with a stern and reproachful look.

"And a nice mess you've made of it with your contrivings and plannings!" he said witheringly. "You've done the very thing we wanted to avoid. Can't you see the old fool's head over heels in love with that girl? Yah!"

"Nothing of the sort, John William!" retorted Mrs. Pringle. "Of course, the gal's leading him on, as is her part to do, and well paid for it she is. You wait till Stephen Jarvis reckernizes what he's been spending on her—there's the piano, and a new hat, and a riding-habit so as she can go a-riding with him, and a gipsy ring as she took a fancy to that day he took her to Stowminster, all in a week and less—and you'll see what the effect will be. You're wrong, John William!"

"I'm dee'd if I am!" said John William, angrily. "It's you that's wrong, and so you'll find. Something's got to be done. And the only thing I can think of," he continued, stroking a badly sprouted growth on his upper lip, "is that I should cut the old ass out myself. Of course, I could throw the girl over afterwards."

With this end in view Mr. Pringle made himself extraordinarily fascinating at tea-time and during the evening, but with such poor effect that at supper he was gloomier than ever. He went home with a parting remark to his mother that if she didn't get the girl out of the house pretty quick he and she might as well go hang themselves.

As Mrs. Pringle had considerable belief in John William's acumen she was conscience-stricken as to her part in this affair, and took occasion to speak to Miss Atteridge when they retired for the night. But Miss Atteridge not only received Mrs. Pringle's remarks with chilling hauteur, but engineered her out of her room in unmistakable fashion. So Mrs. Pringle wrote to Mr. Vavasour, saying that she thought the purpose she desired had been served, and she wished Miss Atteridge to be removed. Mr. Vavasour replied that her instructions should be carried out. But Miss Atteridge stayed on. And more than once she and the housekeeper, Mr. Jarvis being out, had words.

"As if you ever was in Canada!" said Mrs. Pringle, sniffing.

Miss Atteridge looked at her calmly and coldly.

"I lived in Canada for three years," she answered.

"A gal as goes to a agent to find a husband!" said Mrs. Pringle.

"No—I went to get employment as a lady detective," said Miss Atteridge. "Mr. Vavasour, you know, is a private inquiry agent as well as a matrimonial agent."

"And what did you come here for?" demanded Mrs. Pringle.

Miss Atteridge looked at her interlocutor with a still colder glance.

"Fun!" she said.

Then she sat down at the new piano and began to play the "Moonlight Sonata," and Mrs. Pringle went into the kitchen and slammed the parlour door—after which she wondered what John William would say next Sunday. On the previous Sunday he had been nastier than ever, and had expressed his determination to be dee'd at least six times.

But when the next Sunday came Miss Atteridge had departed. All Friday she had been very quiet and thoughtful—late in the afternoon she and Mr. Jarvis had gone out for a walk, and when they returned both were much subdued and very grave. They talked little during tea, and that evening Miss Atteridge played nothing but Beethoven and Chopin and did not sing at all. And when Mrs. Pringle went to bed, after consuming her toddy in the kitchen—Mr. Jarvis being unusually solemn and greatly preoccupied—she found the guest packing her portmanteau.

"I am going away to-morrow, after breakfast," said Miss Atteridge. "As I shall not be here on Sunday please say good-bye for me to Mr. John William."

John William, coming on Sunday in time for dinner, found things as they usually were at the Old Farm in the days previous to the advent of Miss Atteridge. Mr. Jarvis was in the parlour, amusing himself with a cigar, the sherry decanter, and theMark Lane Express; Mrs. Pringle was in the front kitchen superintending the cooking of a couple of stuffed ducks. To her John William approached with questioning eyes.

"She's gone!" whispered Mrs. Pringle. "Went off yesterday. He's been grumpyish ever since—a-thinkin' over what it's cost him. Go in and make up to him, John William. Talk to him about pigs."

John William re-entered the parlour. Mr. Jarvis, who was of the sort that would show hospitality to an enemy, gave him a glass of sherry and offered him a cigar, but showed no particular desire to hear a grocer's views on swine fever. There was no conversation when Mrs. Pringle entered to lay the cloth for dinner.

"We've had no music this day or two," said Mrs. Pringle with fane cheerfulness. "Play the master a piece, John William—play the 'Battle of Prague' with variations."

John William approached the new piano.

"It's locked," he said, examining the lid of the keyboard. "Where's the key?"

Mr. Jarvis looked over the top of theMark Lane Express.

"The key," he said, "is in my pocket. And'll remain there until Miss Atteridge—which her right name is Carter—returns. But not as Carter, nor yet Atteridge, but as Mrs. Stephen Jarvis. That'll be three weeks to-day. If John William there wants to perform on t' piano he can come then and play t' 'Wedding March'!"

Then John William sat down, and his mother laid the table in silence.

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