CHAPTER VIBREAD CAST UPON THE WATERSIt was close upon sunset when the derelict walked into the first village which he had encountered for several miles, and he was as tired as he was hungry. On the outskirts he stopped, looked about him, and sat down on a heap of stones. The village lay beneath him; a typical English village, good to look upon in the summer eventide. There in the centre, embowered amongst tall elm-trees and fringed about with yew, rose the tower and roof of the old church, grey as the memories of the far-off age in which pious hands had built it. Farther away, also tree-embowered, rose the turrets and gables of the great house, manor and hall. Here and there, rising from thick orchards, stood the farmhouses, with their red roofs and drab walls; between them were tiny cottages, nests of comfort. There were pale blue wisps of smoke curling up from the chimneys of the houses and cottages—they made the weary man think of a home and a hearthstone. And from the green in the centre of the village came the sound of the voices of boys at play—they, too, made him think of times when the world was something more than a desert.He rose at last and went forward, walking after the fashion of a tired man. He was not such a very bad-looking derelict, after all; he had evidently made an attempt to keep his poor clothes patched, and had not forgotten to wash himself whenever he had an opportunity. But his eyes had the look of the not-wanted; there was a hopelessness in them which would have spoken volumes to an acute observer. And as he went clown the hill into the village he looked about him from one side to the other as if he scarcely dared to expect anything from men or their habitations.He came to a large, prosperous-looking farmstead; a rosy-cheeked, well-fed, contented-faced man, massive of build, was leaning over the low wall of the garden smoking a cigar. He eyed the derelict with obvious dislike and distrust. His eyes grew slightly angry and he frowned. Human wreckage was not to his taste.But the man on the road was hungry and tired; he was like a drowning thing that will clutch at any straw. He stepped up on the neatly-trimmed turf which lay beneath the garden wall, touching his cap."Have you a job of work that you could give a man, sir?" he asked.The rosy-faced farmer scowled."No," he said.The man in the road hesitated."I'm hard pressed, sir," he said. "I'd do a hard day's work to-morrow in return for a night's lodging and a bit of something to eat.""Aye, I dare say you would," said the farmer, scornfully. "I've heard that tale before. Be off—the road's your place."The derelict sighed, turned away, half-turned again. He looked at the well-fed countenance above him with a species of appealing sorrow."I haven't had a bite to eat since yesterday morning," he said, and turned again.As he turned he heard a child's piping voice, and, looking round, saw the upper half of a small head, sunny and curly, pop up over the garden wall."Daddy, shall I give the poor man my money-box? 'Cause it isn't nice to be hungry. Shall I, daddy?"But the farmer's face did not relax, and the derelict sighed again and turned away. He had got into the road, and was going off when the big, masterful voice arrested him."Here, you!"The derelict looked round, with new hope springing in his heart. The man was beckoning him; the child, on tiptoe, was staring at him out of blue, inquisitive eyes."Come here," said the farmer.The derelict went back, hoping. The man at the wall, however, looked sterner than ever. His keen eyes seemed to bore holes in the other's starved body."If I give you your supper, and a night's lodging in the barn, will you promise not to smoke?" he said. "I want no fire."The derelict smiled in spite of his hunger and weariness."I've neither pipe nor tobacco, sir," he said. "I wish I had. But if I had I'd keep my word to you."The farmer stared at him fixedly for a moment; then he pointed to the gate."Come through that," he said. He strode off across the garden when the derelict entered, and led the way round the house to the kitchen, where a stout maid was sewing at the open door. She looked up at the sound of their feet and stared."Give this man as much as he can eat, Rachel," said the farmer, "and draw him a pint of ale. Sit you down," he added, turning to the derelict. "And make a good supper."Then he picked up the child, who had clung to his coat, and lifting her on to his shoulder, went back to the garden.The derelict ate and drank and thanked God. A new sense of manhood came into him with the good meat and drink; he began to see possibilities. When at last he stood up he felt like a new man, and some of the weary stoop had gone out of his shoulders.The farmer came in with a clay pipe filled with tobacco."Here," he said, "you can sit in the yard and smoke that. And then I'll show you where you can sleep."So that night the derelict went to rest full of food and contented, and slept a dreamless sleep amongst the hay. Next morning the farmer, according to his custom, was up early, but his guest had been up a good two hours when he came down to the big kitchen."He's no idler, yon man, master," said Rachel. "He's chopped enough firewood to last me for a week, and drawn all the water, and he's fetched the cows up, and now he's sweeping up the yard.""Give him a good breakfast, then," said the farmer.When his own breakfast was over he went to look for the derelict, and found him chopping wood again. He saluted his host respectfully, but with a certain anxiety."Now if you want a job for a day or so," said the farmer, with the curtness which was characteristic of him, "I'll give you one. Get a bucket out of the out-house there, and come with me."He led the way to a small field at the rear of the farmstead, the surface of which appeared to be very liberally ornamented with stones."I want this field clearing," said the farmer. "Make the stones into piles about twenty yards apart. When you hear the church clock strike twelve, stop work, and go to the house for your dinner. Start again at one, and knock off again at six."Whatever might have been his occupation before the derelict worked that day like a nigger. It was back-aching work, that gathering and piling of stones, and the July sun was hot and burning, but he kept manfully at his task, strengthened by the hearty meal set before him at noon. And just before six o'clock the farmer, with the child on his shoulder, came into the field and looked around him and stared."You're no idler!" he said, repeating the maid's words. "I'll give you a better job than that to-morrow."And that night he gave the derelict some clothes and boots, and next morning set him to a pleasanter job, and promised him work for the harvest, and the derelict felt that however curt and gruff the farmer might seem his bark was much worse than his bite. And he never forgot that he had saved him from starvation. But the derelict's times were not all good. Country folk have an inborn dislike of strangers, and the regular workers on the farm resented the intrusion of this man, who came from nowhere in particular and had certainly been a tramp. They kept themselves apart from him in the harvest fields, and made open allusion to his antecedents. And the derelict, now promoted to a small room in the house, and earning wages as well as board, heard and said nothing.Nor did the farmer go free of gibe and jest."So ye've taken to hiring tramp-labour, I hear," said his great rival in the village. "Get it dirt cheap, I expect?""You can expect what you like," said the derelict's employer. "The man you mean is as good a worker as any you've got, or I've got, either. Do you think I care for you and your opinion?"In fact, the farmer cared little for anything except his child. He had lost his wife when the child was born, and the child was all he had except his land. Wherever he went the child was with him; they were inseparable. He had never left it once during the six years of its life, and it was with great misgivings that in the autumn following the arrival of the derelict he was obliged to leave it for a day and a night. Before he went he called the derelict to him."I've come to trust you fully," he said. "Look after the child till to-morrow."If the farmer had wanted a proof of the derelict's gratitude he would have found it in the sudden flush of pride which flamed into the man's face. But he was in a hurry to be gone, and was troubled because of leaving the child; nevertheless, he felt sure that he was leaving the child in good hands."It's queer how I've taken to that fellow," he said to himself as he drove off to the station six miles away. "I wouldn't have trusted the child to anybody but him."The man left in charge did nothing that day but look after the child. He developed amazing powers, which astonished Rachel as much as they interested the young mind and eyes. He could sing songs, he could tell tales, he could do tricks, he could play at bears and lions, and imitate every animal and bird under the sun."Lawk-a-massy!" said Rachel. "Why, you must ha' had bairns of your own!""A long time ago," answered the man. "A very long time ago."He never left his charge until the charge was fast asleep—sung to sleep by himself. Then he went off to his little room in the far-away wing of the house. And in an hour or two he wished devoutly that he had stretched himself at the charge's door. For the farmstead was on fire, and when he woke to realize it there was a raging sea of flame between him and the child, and folk in the yard and garden were shrieking and moaning—in their helplessness.But the man got there in time—in time for the child, but not for himself. They talk in all that countryside to this day of how he fought his way through the flames, how he dropped the child into outstretched arms beneath, safe, and then fell back to death.Upon what they found left of him the farmer gazed with eyes which were wet for the first time since he had last shed tears for his dead wife. And he said something to the poor body which doubtless the soul heard far off."You were a Man!" he said. "You were a real Man!"And then he suddenly remembered that he had never known the Man's name.CHAPTER VIIWILLIAM HENRY AND THE DAIRYMAIDThe trouble at Five Oaks Farm really began when Matthew Dennison built and started a model dairy, and found it necessary to engage the services of a qualified dairymaid. A good many people in the neighbourhood wondered what possessed Matthew to embark on such an enterprise, and said so. Matthew cared nothing for comment; he had in his pocket, he said (as he was very fond of saying), something that made him independent of whatever anybody might think or say. It was his whim to build the model dairy, just as it is the whim of some men to grow roses or to breed prize sheep at great cost, and he built it. It was all very spick and span when it was finished, and the countryside admired its many beauties and modern appliances without understanding much about them. And then came the question of finding a thoroughly expert dairymaid.Somebody—probably the vicar—advised Matthew to advertise in one of the farming papers, and he and his wife and their only son, William Henry, accordingly spent an entire evening in drafting a suitable announcement of their wishes, which they forwarded next day to several journals of a likely nature. During the next fortnight answers began to come in, and the family sat in committee every evening after high tea considering them gravely. It was not until somewhere about fifty or sixty of these applications had been received, however, that one of a really promising nature turned up. This was from one Rosina Durrant, who wrote from somewhere in Dorsetshire. She described herself as being twenty-five years of age, thoroughly qualified to take entire charge of a model dairy, and anxious to have some experience in the North of England. She gave particulars of her past experience, set forth particulars of the terms she expected, and enclosed a splendid testimonial from her present employer, who turned out to be a well-known countess.Matthew rubbed his hands."Now this is the very young woman we want!" he said. "I've always said from the very beginning that I'd have naught but what was first-class. I shall send this here young person my references, agree to her terms, and tell her to start out as soon as she can.""I'm afraid she's rather expensive, love," murmured Mrs. Dennison."I'm not to a few pounds one way or another," answered Matthew. "I'm one of them that believe in doing a thing right when you do do it. Last two years with a countess—what? What'd suit a countess 'll suit me. William Henry, you can get out the writing-desk, and we'll draw up a letter to this young woman at once."William Henry, who had little or no interest in the model dairy, and regarded it as no more and no less than a harmless fad of his father's, complied with this request, and spent half-an-hour in writing an elegant epistle after the fashion of those which he had been taught to compose at the boarding-school where he had received his education. After that he gave no more thought to the dairymaid, being much more concerned in managing the farm, and in an occasional day's hunting and shooting, than in matters outside his sphere. But about a week later his father opened a letter at the breakfast-table, and uttered a gratified exclamation."Now, the young woman's coming to-day," he announced. "She'll be at Marltree station at precisely four-thirty. Of course somebody'll have to drive over and meet her, and that somebody can't be me, because I've a meeting of the Guardians at Cornborough at that very hour. William Henry, you must drive the dog-cart over."William Henry was not too pleased with the idea, for he had meant to go fishing. But he remembered that he could go fishing every afternoon if it pleased him, and he acquiesced."I've been wondering, Matthew," said Mrs. Dennison, who was perusing the letter through her spectacles; "I've been wondering where to put this young person. You can see from her writing that she's of a better sort—there's no common persons as writes and expresses themselves in that style. I'm sure she'll not want to have her meals with the men and the gels in the kitchen, and of course we can't bring her among ourselves, as it were."Matthew scratched his head."Deng my buttons!" he said. "I never thought o' that there! Of course she'll be what they call a sort of upper servant, such as the quality have. Aye, for sure! Well, let's see now—I'll tell ye what to do, missis. Let her have the little parlour—we scarce ever use it—for her own sitting-room, and she can eat there. That's the sensiblest arrangement that I can think on. Then we shall all preserve our various ranks. What do ye say, William Henry?"William Henry said that he was agreeable to anything, and proceeded to make his usual hearty breakfast. He thought no more of his afternoon expedition until the time for setting out came, and then he had the brown mare harnessed to a smart dog-cart, and set off along the roads for Marltree, five miles away. It was a pleasant afternoon in early April, and the land had the springtide's new warmth on it. And William Henry thought how happy he would have been with his fishing-rod.Marltree is a junction where several lines converge, and when the train from the south came in several passengers alighted from it to change on to other routes. Amongst this crowd William Henry could not detect anything that looked like the new dairymaid. He scrutinized everybody as he sat on a seat opposite the train, and summed them up. There was a clergyman and his wife; there was a sailor; there were three or four commercial travellers; there were some nondescripts. Then his attention became riveted on a handsome young lady who left a carriage with an armful of books and papers and hurried off to the luggage-van—she was so handsome, so well dressed, and had such a good figure that William Henry's eyes followed her with admiration. Then he remembered what he had come there for, and looked again for the dairymaid. But he saw nothing that suggested her.The people drifted away, the platform cleared, and presently nobody but the handsome young lady and William Henry remained. She stood by a trunk looking expectantly about her; he rose, intending to go. A porter appeared; she spoke to him—the porter turned to William Henry."Here's a lady inquiring for you, sir," he said.The lady came forward with a smile and held out her hand."Are you Mr. Dennison?" she said. "I am Miss Durrant."William Henry's first instinct was to open his mouth cavernously—his second to remove his hat."How do you do?" he said, falteringly. "I—I was looking about for you.""But of course you wouldn't know me," she said. "I was looking for you.""I've got a dog-cart outside," said William Henry. "Here, Jenkinson, bring this lady's things to my trap."He escorted Miss Durrant, who had already sized him up as a simple-natured but very good-looking young man, to the dog-cart, saw her luggage safely stowed away at the back, helped her in, tucked her up in a thick rug, got in himself, and drove away."I'm quite looking forward to seeing your dairy, Mr. Dennison," said Miss Durrant. "It must be quite a model from your description."William Henry turned and stared at her. She was a very handsome young woman, he decided, a brunette, with rich colouring, dark eyes, a ripe mouth, and a flashing smile, and her voice was as pleasing as her face."Lord bless you!" he said. "It isn't my dairy—I know nothing about dairying. It's father's."Miss Durrant laughed merrily."Oh, I see!" she said. "You are Mr. Dennison's son. What shall I call you, then?""My name is William Henry Dennison," he replied."And what do you do, Mr. William?" she asked."Look after the farm," replied William Henry. "Father doesn't do much that way now—he's sort of retired. Do you know anything about farming?""I love anything about a farm," she answered."Do you care for pigs?" he asked, eagerly. "I've been going in a lot for pig-breeding this last year or two, and I've got some of the finest pigs in England. I got a first prize at the Smithfield Show last year; I'll show it you when we get home. There's some interest, now, in breeding prize pigs."With such pleasant conversation they whiled the time away until they came in sight of Five Oaks Farm, on beholding which Miss Durrant was immediately lost in admiration, saying that it was the finest old house she had ever seen, and that it would be a delight to live in it."Some of it's over five hundred years old," said William Henry. "And our family built it. We don't rent our land, you know—it's our own. Six hundred acres there are, and uncommon good land too."With that he handed over Miss Durrant to his mother, who was obviously as surprised at her appearance as he had been, and then drove round to the stables, still wondering how a lady came to be a dairymaid."And I'm sure I don't know, Matthew," said Mrs. Dennison to her husband that night in the privacy of their own chamber, "I really don't know how Miss Durrant ought to be treated. You can see for yourself what her manners are—quite the lady. Of course we all know now-a-days that shop-girls and such-like give themselves the airs of duchesses and ape their manners, but Miss Durrant's the real thing, or I'm no judge. Very like her people's come down in the world, and she has to earn her own living, poor thing!""Well, never you mind, Jane Ann," said Matthew. "Lady or no lady, she's my dairy-maid, and all that I ask of her is that she does her work to my satisfaction. If she's a lady, you'll see that she'll always bear in mind that her present position is that of a dairymaid, and she'll behave according. We'll see what the morrow brings forth."What the morrow brought forth was the spectacle of the dairymaid, duly attired in professional garments of spotless hue, busily engaged in the performance of her duties. Matthew spent all the morning with her in the dairy, and came in to dinner beaming with satisfaction."She's a regular clinker, is that lass!" he exclaimed to his wife and son. "I've found a perfect treasure."The perfect treasure settled down into her new life with remarkable readiness. She accepted the arrangements which Mrs. Dennison had made without demur. Mrs. Dennison, with a woman's keen observation, noted that she was never idle. She was in and about the dairy all day long; at night she worked or read in her own room. She had brought a quantity of books with her; magazines and newspapers were constantly arriving for her. As days went on, Mrs. Dennison decided that Miss Durrant's people had most certainly come down in the world, and that she had had to go out into it to earn her own living."Just look how well she's dressed when she goes to church on a Sunday!" she said to Matthew. "None of your gaudy, flaunting dressings-up, but all of the best and quietest, just like the Squire's lady. Eh, dear, there's nobody knows what that poor young woman mayn't have known. Very likely they kept their horses and carriages in better days.""Doesn't seem to be very much cast down," said Matthew. "The lass is light-hearted enough. But ye women always are fanciful."While Mrs. Dennison indulged herself in speculations as to what the dairymaid had been, in the course of which she formed various theories, inclining most to one that her father had been a member of Parliament who had lost all his money on the Stock Exchange, and while Matthew contented himself by regarding Miss Durrant solely in her professional capacity, William Henry was journeying along quite another path. He was, in fact, falling head over heels in love. He received a first impression when he saw Miss Durrant at Marltree station; he received a second, and much stronger one, next morning when he saw her in the spotless linen of the professional dairymaid. He began haunting the dairy until the fact was noticed by his mother."Why, I thought you cared naught about dairying, William Henry," she said, one day at dinner. "I'm sure you never went near it when your father was laying it out.""What's the use of seeing anything till it's finished and in full working order?" said William Henry. "Now that it is in go, one might as well learn all about it.""Well, ye couldn't have a better instructress," said Matthew. "She can show you something you never saw before, can Miss Durrant."Miss Durrant was certainly showing William Henry Dennison something he had never seen before. He had always been apathetic towards young women, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he could be got to attend tea-parties, or dances, or social gatherings, at all of which he invariably behaved like a bear who has got into a cage full of animals whom it does not like and cannot exterminate. But it became plain that he was beginning to cultivate the society of Miss Durrant. He haunted the dairy of an afternoon, when Matthew invariably went to sleep; he made excuses to bring Miss Durrant into the family circle of an evening; he waylaid her on her daily constitutional, and at last one Sunday he deliberately asked her to walk to church with him at a neighbouring village. And at that his mother's eyes were opened."Matthew," she said, when William Henry and Miss Durrant had departed, "that boy's smitten with Miss Durrant. He's making up to her."Matthew, who was disposed to a peaceful nap, snorted incredulity."Ye women take such fancies into your heads," he said. "I've seen naught.""You men are so blind," retorted Mrs. Dennison. "He's always going into the dairy—he's been walks with her—he's always getting me to ask her in here to play the piano——""And uncommon well she plays it, too!" grunted Matthew."—and now he's taken her off to church!" concluded Mrs. Dennison. "He's smitten, Matthew, he's smitten!"Matthew stirred uneasily in his chair."Well, well, my lass!" he said. "Ye know what young folks are—they like each other's company. What d'ye think I sought your company for? Not to sit and stare at you, as if you were a strange image, I know!""Well, it all went on and ended in the proper way," said his wife, sharply. "But how do you know where this'll end?""I didn't know that aught had begun," said Matthew.Mrs. Dennison, who was reading what she called a Sunday book, took off her spectacles and closed the book with a snap."Matthew!" she said. "You know that it's always been a settled thing since they were children that William Henry should marry his cousin Polly, your only brother John's one child, so that the property of the two families should be united when the time comes for us old ones to go. And it's got to be carried out, has that arrangement, Matthew, and we can't let no dairymaids, ladies as has come down or not, interfere with it!"Matthew, who was half asleep, bethought himself vaguely of something that had been said long ago, when Polly was born, or at her christening—when the right time came, she and William Henry, then six years old, were to wed. John, Matthew's younger brother, had gone in for trade, and was now a very well-to-do merchant in Clothford, of which city he had been mayor. Matthew woke up a little, made a rapid calculation, and realized that Polly must now be nineteen years of age."Aye, aye, my lass," he said, "but you've got to remember that whatever fathers and mothers says, children don't always agree to. William Henry and Polly mightn't hit it off. Polly'll be a fine young lady now, what with all them French governesses and boarding-schools in London and Paris, and such-like.""Our William Henry," said Mrs. Dennison, with heat and emphasis, "is good enough for any young woman of his own class. And a man as owns six hundred acres of land is as good as any Clothford worsted merchant, even if he has been mayor! And now you listen to me, Matthew Dennison. I had a letter yesterday from Mrs. John saying that she believed it would do Polly good to go into the country, as she'd been looking a bit poorlyish since she came back from Paris, and asking if we could do with her for a few weeks. So to-morrow morning I shall go over to Clothford and bring her back with me—I've already written to say I should. We haven't seen her for five years—she was a pretty gel then, and must be a beauty by now, and we'll hope that her and William Henry'll come together. And if you take my advice, Matthew, you'll get rid of the dairymaid."Matthew slowly rose from his chair."Then I'm denged if I do aught of the sort!" he said. "Ye can fetch Polly and welcome, missis, and naught'll please me better than if her and William Henry does hit it off, though I don't approve of the marriage of cousins as a rule. But I'm not going to get rid of my dairymaid for no Pollies, nor yet no William Henrys, nor for naught, so there!"Then Mrs. Dennison put on her spectacles again and re-opened her Sunday book, and Mr. Dennison mixed himself a drink at the sideboard and lighted a cigar, and for a long time no sound was heard but the purring of the cat on the hearth and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.Miss Mary Dennison duly arrived the next evening, under convoy of her aunt, and received a cordial and boisterous welcome at the hands and lips of her uncle and cousin. She was an extremely pretty and vivacious girl of nineteen, golden-haired and violet-eyed, who would have been about as much in place in managing a farmstead as in presiding over a court of law. But Mrs. Dennison decided that she was just the wife for William Henry, and she did all that she could to throw them together. In that, however, no effort was needed. William Henry and his cousin seemed to become fast friends at once. On the day following Polly's arrival he took her out for a long walk in the fields; when they returned, late for tea, there seemed to be a very excellent understanding between them. After that they were almost inseparable—there was little doing on the farm just then, and there was a capable foreman to see after what was being done, so William Henry, much to his mother's delight, began taking Polly for long drives into the surrounding country. They used to go off early in the morning and return late in the afternoon, each in high spirits. And Mrs. Dennison's hopes rose high, and her spirits were as high as theirs.But there were two things Mrs. Dennison could not understand. The first was that Miss Durrant was as light-hearted as ever, and as arduous in her labours, in spite of the fact that William Henry no longer went walks with her nor took her to church. The second was that when he and Polly were not driving they spent a considerable amount of time in the model dairy of an afternoon with Miss Durrant, and that unmistakable sounds of great hilarity issued therefrom. But she regarded this with indulgence under the circumstances."When they're together," she said, "young folks is inclined to make merry. Of course I must have been mistaken about William Henry being smitten with the dairymaid, considering how he's now devoted to his cousin. He was no doubt lonelyish—young men does get like that, though I must say that William Henry never did show himself partial to young ladies."However partial William Henry may or may not have been to young ladies in the past, it was quite certain that he was making up for it at that stage of his existence. The long drives with Polly continued, and Polly came back from each in higher spirits than ever. Mrs. Dennison expected every day to hear that her dearest hopes were to be fulfilled.And then came the climax. One evening, following one of the day-long drives, William Henry announced to the family circle that he was going to Clothford next morning, and should require breakfast somewhat earlier than usual. By nine o'clock next day he was gone, and Mrs. Dennison, not without a smirking satisfaction, noticed that Polly was uneasy and thoughtful, and developed a restlessness which got worse and worse. She tried to interest the girl in one way or another, but Polly slipped off to the dairy, and spent the entire day, except for meal-times, with Miss Durrant. When evening and high tea came she could scarcely eat or drink, and her eyes perpetually turned to the grandfather clock."If William Henry has missed the five-thirty, my dear," said Mrs. Dennison, "he's certain to catch the six-forty-five. He were never a one for gallivanting about at Clothford of an evening, and——"And at that moment the parlour door opened and William Henry walked in.The girl stood up, and Matthew and his wife, watching keenly, saw her turn white to the lips. And William Henry saw it, too, and he made one stride and caught her by the hands."It's all right, Polly," he said. "It's all right! See!"He drew a letter from his pocket, tore the envelope open, and handed his cousin the enclosure. She glanced its contents over as if she were dazed, and then, with a wild cry of joy, threw her arms round William Henry and fairly hugged him. And then she threw herself into the nearest chair and began to cry obviously from pure happiness."Mercy upon us, William Henry Dennison, what's the meaning of this?" exclaimed William Henry's mother. "What does it mean?"William Henry picked up the letter."It means this, mother," he said. "That's a letter from Uncle John to Polly, giving his full consent to her marriage with a young gentleman who loves her and whom she loves—I've been taking her to meet him for the past month (that's why we went for those long drives), and a real good 'un he is, and so says Uncle John, now that at last he's met him. You see, Polly told me all about it the first day she was here—and, why, of course——"With that William Henry went out of the room in a meaning silence."Of course," said Matthew; "of course, if my brother John approves of the young man, it's as good as putting the hall-mark on gold or silver."Polly jumped up and kissed him. Then she kissed Mrs. Dennison."But, oh, Polly, Polly!" said Mrs. Dennison. "I meant you to marry William Henry!""But I don't love William Henry—in that way, aunt," replied Polly. "And besides, William Henry loves——"And just then William Henry made a second dramatic appearance, holding himself very stiffly and straight, and leading in Miss Durrant."Father and mother," he said, "this lady's going to be your daughter."So the trouble at Five Oaks Farm came to a good ending. For everybody was satisfied that the best had happened, and therefore was happy.CHAPTER VIIITHE SPOILS TO THE VICTORThe man of law, bland, courtly, old-world mannered, tilted back his chair, put the tips of his fingers together and smiled at the grey-haired, hard-featured man who sat, grim and silent, on the other side of his desk."My dear Mr. Nelthorp!" he said, in the tone of one pronouncing a final judgment. "It doesn't matter a yard of that tape what either Sutton or his solicitors say. We know—know, mind!—that it is utterly impossible for him to take up the mortgages. He is at your mercy."Martin Nelthorp stared hard at Mr. Postlethwaite's smiling face—somewhere far back in his mental consciousness he was wondering why Postlethwaite always smiled in that bland, suave manner when he dispensed advice from his elbow-chair. It was a smile that seemed to be always on hand when wanted, and it was never so sweet as when disagreeable things were to be dealt with. It seemed to Martin Nelthorp that there was nothing to smile at in the matter they were discussing—certainly there was no humour or pleasure in the situation for the immediate subject of discussion, Richard Sutton. But Mr. Postlethwaite continued to smile and to hold his head a little on one side, watching his client from between half-closed eyelids."At your mercy," he repeated softly. "Ab-so-lute-ly at your mercy."Martin Nelthorp shook his great frame a little—as a mastiff might if suddenly stirred into activity. He was a big man, and his burly figure seemed to fill the office; his voice, when he spoke, was very deep and strong."What you mean," he said, fixing his keen grey eyes on the solicitor, "what you mean is that if I like I can ruin him?"Mr. Postlethwaite smiled and bowed."You apprehend my meaning exactly, my dear sir," he said blandly. "Ruin is the word.""It's not a very nice word to hear or to use in connection with any man," said Martin Nelthorp.Mr. Postlethwaite coughed. But the smile remained round his clean-shaven lips."The ruin of most men, my dear friend," he said oracularly, "is brought about by themselves.""Just so," said Martin Nelthorp. "All the same, the finishing touch is generally put to things by somebody else. You're sure Sutton's as badly off as what you make out?"Mr. Postlethwaite fingered his papers and turned to some memoranda. He scribbled certain figures on a scrap of paper and faced his client."The position, my dear Mr. Nelthorp," he said, "is exactly this. You hold a first and second mortgage on Sutton's flour mill and on his house and land—in fact, on his entire property, and the sum you have advanced represents every penny of the full value. You are now wanting, principal and interest, exactly nine thousand, seven hundred and fifty-three pounds, ten shillings, and fourpence. He cannot pay this money—indeed, I question if he could by any chance find one-fourth of it, and you are in a position to foreclose at once.""You mean that I can sell him up?" said Martin Nelthorp bluntly."Lock, stock, and barrel!" replied Mr. Postlethwaite.Martin Nelthorp rubbed his chin."It's no very nice thing to ruin a man—and his family with him," he remarked.Mr. Postlethwaite again coughed. He took off his gold-rimmed glasses and affected to exercise great care in polishing them."Is there any particular reason why you should consider Sutton before considering yourself?" he said softly.Martin Nelthorp's face darkened, and a hard, almost vindictive look came into his eyes. The hand which held his ash-plant stick tightened about it."No!" he said. "That there isn't! On the contrary——""Aye, just so, just so!" said the solicitor. "Of course, that's an old tale now, but old wounds will rankle, my dear sir, old wounds will rankle!"Martin Nelthorp stared hard at Mr. Postlethwaite from beneath his bushy grey eyebrows. He got up slowly, and buttoned his great driving-coat and put on his broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, still staring at the man of law."Well, I'll bid you good day," he said "It's time I was getting home, and I've still to meet a man at the George and Dragon. Do no more in that matter till you see me again—of course, Sutton doesn't know that I bought up the two mortgages?""He hasn't an idea of it, my dear sir," answered the solicitor.Martin Nelthorp hesitated a moment, then nodded as if to emphasize what he had just said, and again exchanging farewells with Mr. Postlethwaite, went out into the market-place of the little country town, now relapsing into somnolence at the end of an October day. He stood at the foot of Mr. Postlethwaite's steps for a moment, apparently lost in thought, and then moved slowly off in the direction of the George and Dragon. The man whom he expected to meet there had not yet arrived; he sat down in the parlour, empty of any presence but his own, and gave himself up to reflection. At his mercy—at last!—after nearly thirty years of waiting, at his mercy! The only enemy he had ever known, the only man he had ever had cause to hate with a bitter, undying hatred, was now by the decrees of destiny, by the whirling of fortune's wheel, brought within his power. If he pleased, he, Martin Nelthorp, could ruin Richard Sutton, could turn him out of the old place in which the Suttons had lived for generations, could sell every yard of land, every stick of furniture that he possessed, could leave him and his—beggars.And as he sat there in the gloomy parlour, staring with brooding eyes into the fire, he said to himself—Why not? After all, it had been said in a long distant age—An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth! Again he said to himself—Why not, now that the hour and the opportunity had come?Nelthorp let his mind go back. He was now nearly sixty, a hale, hearty man, the biggest and cleverest farmer in those parts, rich, respected, made much of by the great folk, looked up to by the little; a man of influence and power. He was going down into the valley of life under a fine sunset and soft evening airs, and there were few who did not envy him a prosperous career and the prospect of a green old age. But Martin Nelthorp had always carried a trouble, a rankling sorrow in his breast, and he was thinking of it as he sat staring with sombre eyes at the dull red glare of the sullen cinders in the grate. It was the worst sort of sorrow that could befall a man of his type of character, for he was both sensitive and proud, quick to feel an injury or a slight, slow to let the memory of either pass from him. It is said of a Yorkshireman that he will carry a stone in his pocket for ten years in expectation of meeting an enemy, and turn it at the end of that time if the enemy has not chanced along. Martin Nelthorp might have turned his stone twice, but he would have done so with no feeling of vindictiveness. There was nothing vindictive about him, but he had a stern, Israelitish belief in justice and in retribution.The incidents—mean, ignoble—of his wrong came up before him as he sat there waiting, and their colours were as fresh as ever. Five-and-twenty years before he had been on the verge of marriage with Lavinia Deane, celebrated all the countryside over for her beauty and her vivacity. Everything was arranged; the wedding-day was fixed; the guests invited; the bride's finery sent home. Suddenly came news that made women weep and men smile. Almost on the eve of the wedding Lavinia ran away with Richard Sutton, and was married to him in a distant town. It was a bad business, said everybody, for Richard Sutton had been Martin Nelthorp's bosom friend from childhood, and was to have been his best man at the wedding. Nobody could conceive how the thing had come about; the girl had always seemed to be in love with Martin, and had never been seen in company with Sutton. But there the facts were—they were married, and Martin Nelthorp was a bitterly disappointed and wronged man. The man who broke the ill news to him would never speak of how he received that news, of what passed between them, or of what he said on hearing of the falseness of his sweetheart and the treachery of his friend, but it was commonly rumoured that he swore some dreadful oath of vengeance on the man and woman who had wrecked his life. And the neighbours and the people of the district watched eagerly to see what would happen.But years went on and nothing happened. Richard Sutton and his wife stayed away from the village for some time; there was no necessity for their immediate return, for Sutton had a fine business as a corn-miller and could afford to appoint a capable manager in his absence. But they came back at last, and as Martin Nelthorp's farm was within a mile of the mill, the busybodies wondered how things would go when the two men met. Somehow they never did meet—at least, no one ever heard of their meeting. Nelthorp kept himself to his farm; Sutton to his mill. Years went by, and things resolved themselves into a state of quiescence or indifferentism: the men passed each other in the market-place or on the highroad and took no heed. But keen-eyed observers used to note that when they passed in this way Sutton used to go by with averted head and downcast eye, while Nelthorp strode or rode on with his head in the air and his eye fixed straight before him.Whether there had been a curse put upon them or not, Sutton and his wife did not thrive. Almost from the time of their marriage the business went down. In his grandfather's and father's days there had been little competition; the opening up of the countryside by railways made a great difference to Sutton's trade. His machinery became out of date, and he neglected to replace it with new until much of his business had slipped away from him. One way and another things went from bad to worse; he had to borrow, and to borrow again, always hoping for a turn in the tide which never came. And eventually, through the instrumentality of Mr. Postlethwaite, everything that he had was mortgaged to Martin Nelthorp.Martin, during these years, had prospered exceedingly. He had been fortunate in everything in his life, except his love affair. He had money to begin with—plenty and to spare of it—and he knew how to lay it out to the best advantage. He was one of the first to see the importance of labour-saving machinery and to introduce it on his land in good time. Again, there was nothing to distract his attention from his land. He put all thought of marriage out of his head when Lavinia proved false to him; indeed, he was never afterwards known to speak to a woman except on business. For some years he lived alone in the old farmhouse in which he had been born. Then his only sister lost her husband, and came to live with Martin, bringing with her her one child, a boy, who had been named after his uncle. Very soon she, too, died, and the boy henceforward formed Martin's one human interest. He devoted himself to him; educated him; taught him all that he himself knew of farming, and let it be known that when his time came his nephew would step into his shoes. The two were inseparable; now, when the boy had come to man's age and the man had grown grey, they were known for many a mile round as Old Martin and Young Martin.Old Martin knew, as he sat by the parlour fire, that the old feeling of hatred against Richard Sutton was by no means dead within him. He had robbed him of the woman he loved, the only woman he ever could love, and, as the solicitor had said, the old wound still rankled. Well, it was in his power now to take his revenge—his enemy was at his feet. But—the woman? She, too, would be ruined, she would be a beggar, an outcast. It would be turning her out on the road. Well—his face grew stern and his eyes hard as he thought of it—had she not once turned him out on a road, longer, harder to tread than that?An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth....It never occurred to him to ask himself if there were any children who might be affected.The man who presently came in to keep his appointment with Martin remarked afterwards that he had never known Mr. Nelthorp so hard and determined in bargaining as he was that evening.When the bargaining was done Martin Nelthorp got on his horse and rode home to his comfortable fireside. It was always a pleasure to him to get under his own roof-tree after a long day on the land or an afternoon at market or auction. There was the evening meal in company with his nephew; the easy-chair and the newspaper afterwards; the pipe of tobacco and the glass of toddy before going to bed. And Old Martin and Young Martin, as most folk thereabouts were well aware, were more like companions than uncle and nephew; they had many tastes in common—hunting, shooting, sport in general, and the younger man was as keen a farmer as the elder. There was therefore no lack of company nor of conversation round the parlour fire at the Manor Farm.But on this particular night, for the first time since either of them could remember, there was an unusual silence and restraint round the supper-table. Both men as a rule were good trenchermen—a life in the open air helped them to hearty and never-failing appetite. This night neither ate much, and neither seemed disposed to talk much. Old Martin knew why he himself was silent, and why he was not inclined to food—he was too full of the Sutton affair. But he wondered what made his nephew so quiet, and why he did not replenish his plate after his usual fashion. As for Young Martin he had his own thoughts to occupy him, but he, too, wondered what made the elder so obviously thoughtful.Old Martin remained quiet and meditative all the evening. He held the newspaper in his hands, but he was not always reading it. He had his favourite pipe between his lips, but he let it go out more than once. Young Martin was similarly preoccupied. He affected to read theMark Lane Express, but he was more often staring at the ceiling than at the printed page. It was not until after nine o'clock, at which hour they generally began to think of bed, that any conversation arose between them. Young Martin started it, and with obvious confusion and diffidence."There's a matter I wanted to mention to you to-night, Uncle Martin," he said. "Of course, I won't speak of it if you've aught serious to be thinking of, but you know I never keep aught back from you, and——""What is it, my lad?" asked the elder man. "Speak out—I was only just studying about a business matter—it's naught."Young Martin's diffidence increased. He shuffled his feet, became very red, and opened and shut his mouth several times before he could speak."It's like this," he said at last. "If you've no objection I should like to get married."Old Martin started as if he had been shot. He stared at his nephew as though he had said that he was going to fly."Married!" he exclaimed. "Why, my lad—goodness be on us, you're naught but a youngster yet!""I'm twenty-six, uncle," said Young Martin."Twenty-six! Nay, nay—God bless my soul, well, I suppose you are. Time goes on so fast. Twenty-six! Aye, of course," said Old Martin. "Aye, you must be, my lad. Well, but who's the girl?"Young Martin became more diffident than ever. It seemed an age to him before he could find his tongue. But at last he blurted the name out, all in a jerk."Lavinia Sutton!"Martin Nelthorp dropped his pipe and his paper. He clutched the back of his elbow-chair and stared at his nephew as he might have stared at a ghost. When he spoke his own voice seemed to him to be a long, long way off."Lavinia Sutton?" he said hoarsely. "What—Sutton of the mill?""Yes," answered Young Martin. Then he added in a firm voice: "She's a good girl, Uncle Martin, and we love each other true."Old Martin made no immediate answer. He was more taken aback, more acutely distressed, than his nephew knew. To cover his confusion he got up from his chair and busied himself in mixing a glass of toddy. A minute or two passed before he spoke; when he did speak his voice was not as steady as usual."He's a poor man, is Sutton, my lad," he said."I know that," said Young Martin stoutly. "But it's Lavinia I want—not aught from him.""He's in a very bad way indeed," remarked the elder man. "Very bad."Young Martin made no reply. Old Martin took a long pull at the contents of his glass and sat down."I didn't know Sutton had children," he said absently."There's only Lavinia," said his nephew.Lavinia! The reiteration of the name cut him like a knife: the sound of it sent him back nearly thirty years. Lavinia! And no doubt the girl would be like her mother."You're no doubt aware, my lad," he said, after another period of silence, during which his nephew sat watching him, "you're no doubt aware that me and the Suttons is anything but friends. They—the man and his wife—wronged me. Never mind how. They wronged me—cruel!"Young Martin knew all about it, but he was not going to say that he did."That was not Lavinia's fault, uncle," he said softly. "Lavinia—she wouldn't wrong anybody."Old Martin thought of the time when he had—faith in women. He sighed, and drinking off his toddy, rose heavily, as if some weight had been put on him."Well, my lad," he said, "this is one of those things in which a man has to choose for himself. I shouldn't like to have it on my conscience that I ever came between a man and a woman that cared for each other. But we'll talk about it to-morrow. I'm tired, and I've got to look round yet."Then he went out to fulfil his nightly task, never neglected, never devolved to any one else, of looking round the farmstead before retiring to rest. His nephew noticed that he walked wearily.Outside, in the fold around which horses and cattle were resting or asleep in stall or byre, Martin Nelthorp stood and stared at the stars glittering high above him in a sky made clear by October frost. He was wondering what it was that had brought this thing upon him—that the one thing he cared for in the world should seek alliance with the enemies of his life who now, by the ordinance of God, lay in his power. He had given Young Martin all the love that had been crushed down and crushed out; he was as proud of him as if the lad had been his own son by the woman he cared for; he meant to leave him all that he had; he was ambitious for him, and knowing that he would be a rich man he had some dreams of his nephew's figuring in the doings of the county, as councillor or magistrate—honours which he himself had persistently refused. And it had never once come within his scheme of things that the boy should fix his affections on the daughter of the enemy—it had been a surprise to him to find out that he even knew her.Martin Nelthorp walked up and down his fold and his stackyard for some time, staring persistently at the stars. Though he did not say so to himself, he knew that that astute old attorney, Postlethwaite, was right when he said that old wounds rankle. He knew, too, that however much a man may strive to put away the thought from himself, there is still enough of the primitive savage left in all of us to make revenge sweet. And he had suffered through these people—suffered as he had never thought to suffer. He looked back and remembered what life had been to him up to the day when the news of a man's treachery and a woman's weakness had been brought to him, and he clenched his fists and set his teeth, and all the old black hatred came welling up in his heart."He shan't have her!" he said. "He shan't have her! A good girl!—what good could come of stock like that?"Then he went indoors and up to his chamber, and Young Martin heard him walking up and down half the night. When he himself got down next morning his uncle had gone out: the housekeeper, greatly upset by the fact, seeing that such a thing had never happened within her fifteen years' experience of him, said that the master had had no more breakfast than a glass of milk and a crust of bread, and she hoped he was not sickening for an illness.At that moment Martin Nelthorp was riding along the russet lanes towards the market-town. There had been a strong frost in the night, and the sky above him was clear as only an autumn sky can be. All about him were patches of red and yellow and purple, for the foliage was changing fast, and in the hedgerows there were delicate webs of gossamer. Usually, as a great lover of Nature, he would have seen these things—on this morning he rode straight on, grim and determined.He was so early at Mr. Postlethwaite's office that he had to wait nearly half-an-hour for the arrival of that gentleman. But when Mr. Postlethwaite came his client lost no time in going straight to his point."I want all papers of mine relating to that Sutton affair," he said. "Before I settle what I shall do I must read through 'em myself. Give me the lot."Mr. Postlethwaite made some would-be facetious remark as to legal phraseology, but Martin Nelthorp paid no attention to it. He carried the papers away with him in a big envelope, and riding straight home at a smart pace, took them into the little room which he used as an office, and went carefully through them merely to see that they were all there. That done, he tore certain of them in half, and enclosing everything in another cover, he addressed it to Richard Sutton.Then Old Martin went into the parlour and found Young Martin there, cleaning a gun. He clapped him on the shoulder, and the young man, looking up, saw that something had gone out of his elder's eyes and face."Now, my lad!" said Old Martin cheerily. "You can marry the girl—and you can go and make the arrangements this morning. And while you're there you can give this packet to Richard Sutton—he'll understand what it is."Then, before his nephew could find his tongue, Martin Nelthorp strode over to the kitchen door and called lustily for his breakfast.
CHAPTER VI
BREAD CAST UPON THE WATERS
It was close upon sunset when the derelict walked into the first village which he had encountered for several miles, and he was as tired as he was hungry. On the outskirts he stopped, looked about him, and sat down on a heap of stones. The village lay beneath him; a typical English village, good to look upon in the summer eventide. There in the centre, embowered amongst tall elm-trees and fringed about with yew, rose the tower and roof of the old church, grey as the memories of the far-off age in which pious hands had built it. Farther away, also tree-embowered, rose the turrets and gables of the great house, manor and hall. Here and there, rising from thick orchards, stood the farmhouses, with their red roofs and drab walls; between them were tiny cottages, nests of comfort. There were pale blue wisps of smoke curling up from the chimneys of the houses and cottages—they made the weary man think of a home and a hearthstone. And from the green in the centre of the village came the sound of the voices of boys at play—they, too, made him think of times when the world was something more than a desert.
He rose at last and went forward, walking after the fashion of a tired man. He was not such a very bad-looking derelict, after all; he had evidently made an attempt to keep his poor clothes patched, and had not forgotten to wash himself whenever he had an opportunity. But his eyes had the look of the not-wanted; there was a hopelessness in them which would have spoken volumes to an acute observer. And as he went clown the hill into the village he looked about him from one side to the other as if he scarcely dared to expect anything from men or their habitations.
He came to a large, prosperous-looking farmstead; a rosy-cheeked, well-fed, contented-faced man, massive of build, was leaning over the low wall of the garden smoking a cigar. He eyed the derelict with obvious dislike and distrust. His eyes grew slightly angry and he frowned. Human wreckage was not to his taste.
But the man on the road was hungry and tired; he was like a drowning thing that will clutch at any straw. He stepped up on the neatly-trimmed turf which lay beneath the garden wall, touching his cap.
"Have you a job of work that you could give a man, sir?" he asked.
The rosy-faced farmer scowled.
"No," he said.
The man in the road hesitated.
"I'm hard pressed, sir," he said. "I'd do a hard day's work to-morrow in return for a night's lodging and a bit of something to eat."
"Aye, I dare say you would," said the farmer, scornfully. "I've heard that tale before. Be off—the road's your place."
The derelict sighed, turned away, half-turned again. He looked at the well-fed countenance above him with a species of appealing sorrow.
"I haven't had a bite to eat since yesterday morning," he said, and turned again.
As he turned he heard a child's piping voice, and, looking round, saw the upper half of a small head, sunny and curly, pop up over the garden wall.
"Daddy, shall I give the poor man my money-box? 'Cause it isn't nice to be hungry. Shall I, daddy?"
But the farmer's face did not relax, and the derelict sighed again and turned away. He had got into the road, and was going off when the big, masterful voice arrested him.
"Here, you!"
The derelict looked round, with new hope springing in his heart. The man was beckoning him; the child, on tiptoe, was staring at him out of blue, inquisitive eyes.
"Come here," said the farmer.
The derelict went back, hoping. The man at the wall, however, looked sterner than ever. His keen eyes seemed to bore holes in the other's starved body.
"If I give you your supper, and a night's lodging in the barn, will you promise not to smoke?" he said. "I want no fire."
The derelict smiled in spite of his hunger and weariness.
"I've neither pipe nor tobacco, sir," he said. "I wish I had. But if I had I'd keep my word to you."
The farmer stared at him fixedly for a moment; then he pointed to the gate.
"Come through that," he said. He strode off across the garden when the derelict entered, and led the way round the house to the kitchen, where a stout maid was sewing at the open door. She looked up at the sound of their feet and stared.
"Give this man as much as he can eat, Rachel," said the farmer, "and draw him a pint of ale. Sit you down," he added, turning to the derelict. "And make a good supper."
Then he picked up the child, who had clung to his coat, and lifting her on to his shoulder, went back to the garden.
The derelict ate and drank and thanked God. A new sense of manhood came into him with the good meat and drink; he began to see possibilities. When at last he stood up he felt like a new man, and some of the weary stoop had gone out of his shoulders.
The farmer came in with a clay pipe filled with tobacco.
"Here," he said, "you can sit in the yard and smoke that. And then I'll show you where you can sleep."
So that night the derelict went to rest full of food and contented, and slept a dreamless sleep amongst the hay. Next morning the farmer, according to his custom, was up early, but his guest had been up a good two hours when he came down to the big kitchen.
"He's no idler, yon man, master," said Rachel. "He's chopped enough firewood to last me for a week, and drawn all the water, and he's fetched the cows up, and now he's sweeping up the yard."
"Give him a good breakfast, then," said the farmer.
When his own breakfast was over he went to look for the derelict, and found him chopping wood again. He saluted his host respectfully, but with a certain anxiety.
"Now if you want a job for a day or so," said the farmer, with the curtness which was characteristic of him, "I'll give you one. Get a bucket out of the out-house there, and come with me."
He led the way to a small field at the rear of the farmstead, the surface of which appeared to be very liberally ornamented with stones.
"I want this field clearing," said the farmer. "Make the stones into piles about twenty yards apart. When you hear the church clock strike twelve, stop work, and go to the house for your dinner. Start again at one, and knock off again at six."
Whatever might have been his occupation before the derelict worked that day like a nigger. It was back-aching work, that gathering and piling of stones, and the July sun was hot and burning, but he kept manfully at his task, strengthened by the hearty meal set before him at noon. And just before six o'clock the farmer, with the child on his shoulder, came into the field and looked around him and stared.
"You're no idler!" he said, repeating the maid's words. "I'll give you a better job than that to-morrow."
And that night he gave the derelict some clothes and boots, and next morning set him to a pleasanter job, and promised him work for the harvest, and the derelict felt that however curt and gruff the farmer might seem his bark was much worse than his bite. And he never forgot that he had saved him from starvation. But the derelict's times were not all good. Country folk have an inborn dislike of strangers, and the regular workers on the farm resented the intrusion of this man, who came from nowhere in particular and had certainly been a tramp. They kept themselves apart from him in the harvest fields, and made open allusion to his antecedents. And the derelict, now promoted to a small room in the house, and earning wages as well as board, heard and said nothing.
Nor did the farmer go free of gibe and jest.
"So ye've taken to hiring tramp-labour, I hear," said his great rival in the village. "Get it dirt cheap, I expect?"
"You can expect what you like," said the derelict's employer. "The man you mean is as good a worker as any you've got, or I've got, either. Do you think I care for you and your opinion?"
In fact, the farmer cared little for anything except his child. He had lost his wife when the child was born, and the child was all he had except his land. Wherever he went the child was with him; they were inseparable. He had never left it once during the six years of its life, and it was with great misgivings that in the autumn following the arrival of the derelict he was obliged to leave it for a day and a night. Before he went he called the derelict to him.
"I've come to trust you fully," he said. "Look after the child till to-morrow."
If the farmer had wanted a proof of the derelict's gratitude he would have found it in the sudden flush of pride which flamed into the man's face. But he was in a hurry to be gone, and was troubled because of leaving the child; nevertheless, he felt sure that he was leaving the child in good hands.
"It's queer how I've taken to that fellow," he said to himself as he drove off to the station six miles away. "I wouldn't have trusted the child to anybody but him."
The man left in charge did nothing that day but look after the child. He developed amazing powers, which astonished Rachel as much as they interested the young mind and eyes. He could sing songs, he could tell tales, he could do tricks, he could play at bears and lions, and imitate every animal and bird under the sun.
"Lawk-a-massy!" said Rachel. "Why, you must ha' had bairns of your own!"
"A long time ago," answered the man. "A very long time ago."
He never left his charge until the charge was fast asleep—sung to sleep by himself. Then he went off to his little room in the far-away wing of the house. And in an hour or two he wished devoutly that he had stretched himself at the charge's door. For the farmstead was on fire, and when he woke to realize it there was a raging sea of flame between him and the child, and folk in the yard and garden were shrieking and moaning—in their helplessness.
But the man got there in time—in time for the child, but not for himself. They talk in all that countryside to this day of how he fought his way through the flames, how he dropped the child into outstretched arms beneath, safe, and then fell back to death.
Upon what they found left of him the farmer gazed with eyes which were wet for the first time since he had last shed tears for his dead wife. And he said something to the poor body which doubtless the soul heard far off.
"You were a Man!" he said. "You were a real Man!"
And then he suddenly remembered that he had never known the Man's name.
CHAPTER VII
WILLIAM HENRY AND THE DAIRYMAID
The trouble at Five Oaks Farm really began when Matthew Dennison built and started a model dairy, and found it necessary to engage the services of a qualified dairymaid. A good many people in the neighbourhood wondered what possessed Matthew to embark on such an enterprise, and said so. Matthew cared nothing for comment; he had in his pocket, he said (as he was very fond of saying), something that made him independent of whatever anybody might think or say. It was his whim to build the model dairy, just as it is the whim of some men to grow roses or to breed prize sheep at great cost, and he built it. It was all very spick and span when it was finished, and the countryside admired its many beauties and modern appliances without understanding much about them. And then came the question of finding a thoroughly expert dairymaid.
Somebody—probably the vicar—advised Matthew to advertise in one of the farming papers, and he and his wife and their only son, William Henry, accordingly spent an entire evening in drafting a suitable announcement of their wishes, which they forwarded next day to several journals of a likely nature. During the next fortnight answers began to come in, and the family sat in committee every evening after high tea considering them gravely. It was not until somewhere about fifty or sixty of these applications had been received, however, that one of a really promising nature turned up. This was from one Rosina Durrant, who wrote from somewhere in Dorsetshire. She described herself as being twenty-five years of age, thoroughly qualified to take entire charge of a model dairy, and anxious to have some experience in the North of England. She gave particulars of her past experience, set forth particulars of the terms she expected, and enclosed a splendid testimonial from her present employer, who turned out to be a well-known countess.
Matthew rubbed his hands.
"Now this is the very young woman we want!" he said. "I've always said from the very beginning that I'd have naught but what was first-class. I shall send this here young person my references, agree to her terms, and tell her to start out as soon as she can."
"I'm afraid she's rather expensive, love," murmured Mrs. Dennison.
"I'm not to a few pounds one way or another," answered Matthew. "I'm one of them that believe in doing a thing right when you do do it. Last two years with a countess—what? What'd suit a countess 'll suit me. William Henry, you can get out the writing-desk, and we'll draw up a letter to this young woman at once."
William Henry, who had little or no interest in the model dairy, and regarded it as no more and no less than a harmless fad of his father's, complied with this request, and spent half-an-hour in writing an elegant epistle after the fashion of those which he had been taught to compose at the boarding-school where he had received his education. After that he gave no more thought to the dairymaid, being much more concerned in managing the farm, and in an occasional day's hunting and shooting, than in matters outside his sphere. But about a week later his father opened a letter at the breakfast-table, and uttered a gratified exclamation.
"Now, the young woman's coming to-day," he announced. "She'll be at Marltree station at precisely four-thirty. Of course somebody'll have to drive over and meet her, and that somebody can't be me, because I've a meeting of the Guardians at Cornborough at that very hour. William Henry, you must drive the dog-cart over."
William Henry was not too pleased with the idea, for he had meant to go fishing. But he remembered that he could go fishing every afternoon if it pleased him, and he acquiesced.
"I've been wondering, Matthew," said Mrs. Dennison, who was perusing the letter through her spectacles; "I've been wondering where to put this young person. You can see from her writing that she's of a better sort—there's no common persons as writes and expresses themselves in that style. I'm sure she'll not want to have her meals with the men and the gels in the kitchen, and of course we can't bring her among ourselves, as it were."
Matthew scratched his head.
"Deng my buttons!" he said. "I never thought o' that there! Of course she'll be what they call a sort of upper servant, such as the quality have. Aye, for sure! Well, let's see now—I'll tell ye what to do, missis. Let her have the little parlour—we scarce ever use it—for her own sitting-room, and she can eat there. That's the sensiblest arrangement that I can think on. Then we shall all preserve our various ranks. What do ye say, William Henry?"
William Henry said that he was agreeable to anything, and proceeded to make his usual hearty breakfast. He thought no more of his afternoon expedition until the time for setting out came, and then he had the brown mare harnessed to a smart dog-cart, and set off along the roads for Marltree, five miles away. It was a pleasant afternoon in early April, and the land had the springtide's new warmth on it. And William Henry thought how happy he would have been with his fishing-rod.
Marltree is a junction where several lines converge, and when the train from the south came in several passengers alighted from it to change on to other routes. Amongst this crowd William Henry could not detect anything that looked like the new dairymaid. He scrutinized everybody as he sat on a seat opposite the train, and summed them up. There was a clergyman and his wife; there was a sailor; there were three or four commercial travellers; there were some nondescripts. Then his attention became riveted on a handsome young lady who left a carriage with an armful of books and papers and hurried off to the luggage-van—she was so handsome, so well dressed, and had such a good figure that William Henry's eyes followed her with admiration. Then he remembered what he had come there for, and looked again for the dairymaid. But he saw nothing that suggested her.
The people drifted away, the platform cleared, and presently nobody but the handsome young lady and William Henry remained. She stood by a trunk looking expectantly about her; he rose, intending to go. A porter appeared; she spoke to him—the porter turned to William Henry.
"Here's a lady inquiring for you, sir," he said.
The lady came forward with a smile and held out her hand.
"Are you Mr. Dennison?" she said. "I am Miss Durrant."
William Henry's first instinct was to open his mouth cavernously—his second to remove his hat.
"How do you do?" he said, falteringly. "I—I was looking about for you."
"But of course you wouldn't know me," she said. "I was looking for you."
"I've got a dog-cart outside," said William Henry. "Here, Jenkinson, bring this lady's things to my trap."
He escorted Miss Durrant, who had already sized him up as a simple-natured but very good-looking young man, to the dog-cart, saw her luggage safely stowed away at the back, helped her in, tucked her up in a thick rug, got in himself, and drove away.
"I'm quite looking forward to seeing your dairy, Mr. Dennison," said Miss Durrant. "It must be quite a model from your description."
William Henry turned and stared at her. She was a very handsome young woman, he decided, a brunette, with rich colouring, dark eyes, a ripe mouth, and a flashing smile, and her voice was as pleasing as her face.
"Lord bless you!" he said. "It isn't my dairy—I know nothing about dairying. It's father's."
Miss Durrant laughed merrily.
"Oh, I see!" she said. "You are Mr. Dennison's son. What shall I call you, then?"
"My name is William Henry Dennison," he replied.
"And what do you do, Mr. William?" she asked.
"Look after the farm," replied William Henry. "Father doesn't do much that way now—he's sort of retired. Do you know anything about farming?"
"I love anything about a farm," she answered.
"Do you care for pigs?" he asked, eagerly. "I've been going in a lot for pig-breeding this last year or two, and I've got some of the finest pigs in England. I got a first prize at the Smithfield Show last year; I'll show it you when we get home. There's some interest, now, in breeding prize pigs."
With such pleasant conversation they whiled the time away until they came in sight of Five Oaks Farm, on beholding which Miss Durrant was immediately lost in admiration, saying that it was the finest old house she had ever seen, and that it would be a delight to live in it.
"Some of it's over five hundred years old," said William Henry. "And our family built it. We don't rent our land, you know—it's our own. Six hundred acres there are, and uncommon good land too."
With that he handed over Miss Durrant to his mother, who was obviously as surprised at her appearance as he had been, and then drove round to the stables, still wondering how a lady came to be a dairymaid.
"And I'm sure I don't know, Matthew," said Mrs. Dennison to her husband that night in the privacy of their own chamber, "I really don't know how Miss Durrant ought to be treated. You can see for yourself what her manners are—quite the lady. Of course we all know now-a-days that shop-girls and such-like give themselves the airs of duchesses and ape their manners, but Miss Durrant's the real thing, or I'm no judge. Very like her people's come down in the world, and she has to earn her own living, poor thing!"
"Well, never you mind, Jane Ann," said Matthew. "Lady or no lady, she's my dairy-maid, and all that I ask of her is that she does her work to my satisfaction. If she's a lady, you'll see that she'll always bear in mind that her present position is that of a dairymaid, and she'll behave according. We'll see what the morrow brings forth."
What the morrow brought forth was the spectacle of the dairymaid, duly attired in professional garments of spotless hue, busily engaged in the performance of her duties. Matthew spent all the morning with her in the dairy, and came in to dinner beaming with satisfaction.
"She's a regular clinker, is that lass!" he exclaimed to his wife and son. "I've found a perfect treasure."
The perfect treasure settled down into her new life with remarkable readiness. She accepted the arrangements which Mrs. Dennison had made without demur. Mrs. Dennison, with a woman's keen observation, noted that she was never idle. She was in and about the dairy all day long; at night she worked or read in her own room. She had brought a quantity of books with her; magazines and newspapers were constantly arriving for her. As days went on, Mrs. Dennison decided that Miss Durrant's people had most certainly come down in the world, and that she had had to go out into it to earn her own living.
"Just look how well she's dressed when she goes to church on a Sunday!" she said to Matthew. "None of your gaudy, flaunting dressings-up, but all of the best and quietest, just like the Squire's lady. Eh, dear, there's nobody knows what that poor young woman mayn't have known. Very likely they kept their horses and carriages in better days."
"Doesn't seem to be very much cast down," said Matthew. "The lass is light-hearted enough. But ye women always are fanciful."
While Mrs. Dennison indulged herself in speculations as to what the dairymaid had been, in the course of which she formed various theories, inclining most to one that her father had been a member of Parliament who had lost all his money on the Stock Exchange, and while Matthew contented himself by regarding Miss Durrant solely in her professional capacity, William Henry was journeying along quite another path. He was, in fact, falling head over heels in love. He received a first impression when he saw Miss Durrant at Marltree station; he received a second, and much stronger one, next morning when he saw her in the spotless linen of the professional dairymaid. He began haunting the dairy until the fact was noticed by his mother.
"Why, I thought you cared naught about dairying, William Henry," she said, one day at dinner. "I'm sure you never went near it when your father was laying it out."
"What's the use of seeing anything till it's finished and in full working order?" said William Henry. "Now that it is in go, one might as well learn all about it."
"Well, ye couldn't have a better instructress," said Matthew. "She can show you something you never saw before, can Miss Durrant."
Miss Durrant was certainly showing William Henry Dennison something he had never seen before. He had always been apathetic towards young women, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he could be got to attend tea-parties, or dances, or social gatherings, at all of which he invariably behaved like a bear who has got into a cage full of animals whom it does not like and cannot exterminate. But it became plain that he was beginning to cultivate the society of Miss Durrant. He haunted the dairy of an afternoon, when Matthew invariably went to sleep; he made excuses to bring Miss Durrant into the family circle of an evening; he waylaid her on her daily constitutional, and at last one Sunday he deliberately asked her to walk to church with him at a neighbouring village. And at that his mother's eyes were opened.
"Matthew," she said, when William Henry and Miss Durrant had departed, "that boy's smitten with Miss Durrant. He's making up to her."
Matthew, who was disposed to a peaceful nap, snorted incredulity.
"Ye women take such fancies into your heads," he said. "I've seen naught."
"You men are so blind," retorted Mrs. Dennison. "He's always going into the dairy—he's been walks with her—he's always getting me to ask her in here to play the piano——"
"And uncommon well she plays it, too!" grunted Matthew.
"—and now he's taken her off to church!" concluded Mrs. Dennison. "He's smitten, Matthew, he's smitten!"
Matthew stirred uneasily in his chair.
"Well, well, my lass!" he said. "Ye know what young folks are—they like each other's company. What d'ye think I sought your company for? Not to sit and stare at you, as if you were a strange image, I know!"
"Well, it all went on and ended in the proper way," said his wife, sharply. "But how do you know where this'll end?"
"I didn't know that aught had begun," said Matthew.
Mrs. Dennison, who was reading what she called a Sunday book, took off her spectacles and closed the book with a snap.
"Matthew!" she said. "You know that it's always been a settled thing since they were children that William Henry should marry his cousin Polly, your only brother John's one child, so that the property of the two families should be united when the time comes for us old ones to go. And it's got to be carried out, has that arrangement, Matthew, and we can't let no dairymaids, ladies as has come down or not, interfere with it!"
Matthew, who was half asleep, bethought himself vaguely of something that had been said long ago, when Polly was born, or at her christening—when the right time came, she and William Henry, then six years old, were to wed. John, Matthew's younger brother, had gone in for trade, and was now a very well-to-do merchant in Clothford, of which city he had been mayor. Matthew woke up a little, made a rapid calculation, and realized that Polly must now be nineteen years of age.
"Aye, aye, my lass," he said, "but you've got to remember that whatever fathers and mothers says, children don't always agree to. William Henry and Polly mightn't hit it off. Polly'll be a fine young lady now, what with all them French governesses and boarding-schools in London and Paris, and such-like."
"Our William Henry," said Mrs. Dennison, with heat and emphasis, "is good enough for any young woman of his own class. And a man as owns six hundred acres of land is as good as any Clothford worsted merchant, even if he has been mayor! And now you listen to me, Matthew Dennison. I had a letter yesterday from Mrs. John saying that she believed it would do Polly good to go into the country, as she'd been looking a bit poorlyish since she came back from Paris, and asking if we could do with her for a few weeks. So to-morrow morning I shall go over to Clothford and bring her back with me—I've already written to say I should. We haven't seen her for five years—she was a pretty gel then, and must be a beauty by now, and we'll hope that her and William Henry'll come together. And if you take my advice, Matthew, you'll get rid of the dairymaid."
Matthew slowly rose from his chair.
"Then I'm denged if I do aught of the sort!" he said. "Ye can fetch Polly and welcome, missis, and naught'll please me better than if her and William Henry does hit it off, though I don't approve of the marriage of cousins as a rule. But I'm not going to get rid of my dairymaid for no Pollies, nor yet no William Henrys, nor for naught, so there!"
Then Mrs. Dennison put on her spectacles again and re-opened her Sunday book, and Mr. Dennison mixed himself a drink at the sideboard and lighted a cigar, and for a long time no sound was heard but the purring of the cat on the hearth and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Miss Mary Dennison duly arrived the next evening, under convoy of her aunt, and received a cordial and boisterous welcome at the hands and lips of her uncle and cousin. She was an extremely pretty and vivacious girl of nineteen, golden-haired and violet-eyed, who would have been about as much in place in managing a farmstead as in presiding over a court of law. But Mrs. Dennison decided that she was just the wife for William Henry, and she did all that she could to throw them together. In that, however, no effort was needed. William Henry and his cousin seemed to become fast friends at once. On the day following Polly's arrival he took her out for a long walk in the fields; when they returned, late for tea, there seemed to be a very excellent understanding between them. After that they were almost inseparable—there was little doing on the farm just then, and there was a capable foreman to see after what was being done, so William Henry, much to his mother's delight, began taking Polly for long drives into the surrounding country. They used to go off early in the morning and return late in the afternoon, each in high spirits. And Mrs. Dennison's hopes rose high, and her spirits were as high as theirs.
But there were two things Mrs. Dennison could not understand. The first was that Miss Durrant was as light-hearted as ever, and as arduous in her labours, in spite of the fact that William Henry no longer went walks with her nor took her to church. The second was that when he and Polly were not driving they spent a considerable amount of time in the model dairy of an afternoon with Miss Durrant, and that unmistakable sounds of great hilarity issued therefrom. But she regarded this with indulgence under the circumstances.
"When they're together," she said, "young folks is inclined to make merry. Of course I must have been mistaken about William Henry being smitten with the dairymaid, considering how he's now devoted to his cousin. He was no doubt lonelyish—young men does get like that, though I must say that William Henry never did show himself partial to young ladies."
However partial William Henry may or may not have been to young ladies in the past, it was quite certain that he was making up for it at that stage of his existence. The long drives with Polly continued, and Polly came back from each in higher spirits than ever. Mrs. Dennison expected every day to hear that her dearest hopes were to be fulfilled.
And then came the climax. One evening, following one of the day-long drives, William Henry announced to the family circle that he was going to Clothford next morning, and should require breakfast somewhat earlier than usual. By nine o'clock next day he was gone, and Mrs. Dennison, not without a smirking satisfaction, noticed that Polly was uneasy and thoughtful, and developed a restlessness which got worse and worse. She tried to interest the girl in one way or another, but Polly slipped off to the dairy, and spent the entire day, except for meal-times, with Miss Durrant. When evening and high tea came she could scarcely eat or drink, and her eyes perpetually turned to the grandfather clock.
"If William Henry has missed the five-thirty, my dear," said Mrs. Dennison, "he's certain to catch the six-forty-five. He were never a one for gallivanting about at Clothford of an evening, and——"
And at that moment the parlour door opened and William Henry walked in.
The girl stood up, and Matthew and his wife, watching keenly, saw her turn white to the lips. And William Henry saw it, too, and he made one stride and caught her by the hands.
"It's all right, Polly," he said. "It's all right! See!"
He drew a letter from his pocket, tore the envelope open, and handed his cousin the enclosure. She glanced its contents over as if she were dazed, and then, with a wild cry of joy, threw her arms round William Henry and fairly hugged him. And then she threw herself into the nearest chair and began to cry obviously from pure happiness.
"Mercy upon us, William Henry Dennison, what's the meaning of this?" exclaimed William Henry's mother. "What does it mean?"
William Henry picked up the letter.
"It means this, mother," he said. "That's a letter from Uncle John to Polly, giving his full consent to her marriage with a young gentleman who loves her and whom she loves—I've been taking her to meet him for the past month (that's why we went for those long drives), and a real good 'un he is, and so says Uncle John, now that at last he's met him. You see, Polly told me all about it the first day she was here—and, why, of course——"
With that William Henry went out of the room in a meaning silence.
"Of course," said Matthew; "of course, if my brother John approves of the young man, it's as good as putting the hall-mark on gold or silver."
Polly jumped up and kissed him. Then she kissed Mrs. Dennison.
"But, oh, Polly, Polly!" said Mrs. Dennison. "I meant you to marry William Henry!"
"But I don't love William Henry—in that way, aunt," replied Polly. "And besides, William Henry loves——"
And just then William Henry made a second dramatic appearance, holding himself very stiffly and straight, and leading in Miss Durrant.
"Father and mother," he said, "this lady's going to be your daughter."
So the trouble at Five Oaks Farm came to a good ending. For everybody was satisfied that the best had happened, and therefore was happy.
CHAPTER VIII
THE SPOILS TO THE VICTOR
The man of law, bland, courtly, old-world mannered, tilted back his chair, put the tips of his fingers together and smiled at the grey-haired, hard-featured man who sat, grim and silent, on the other side of his desk.
"My dear Mr. Nelthorp!" he said, in the tone of one pronouncing a final judgment. "It doesn't matter a yard of that tape what either Sutton or his solicitors say. We know—know, mind!—that it is utterly impossible for him to take up the mortgages. He is at your mercy."
Martin Nelthorp stared hard at Mr. Postlethwaite's smiling face—somewhere far back in his mental consciousness he was wondering why Postlethwaite always smiled in that bland, suave manner when he dispensed advice from his elbow-chair. It was a smile that seemed to be always on hand when wanted, and it was never so sweet as when disagreeable things were to be dealt with. It seemed to Martin Nelthorp that there was nothing to smile at in the matter they were discussing—certainly there was no humour or pleasure in the situation for the immediate subject of discussion, Richard Sutton. But Mr. Postlethwaite continued to smile and to hold his head a little on one side, watching his client from between half-closed eyelids.
"At your mercy," he repeated softly. "Ab-so-lute-ly at your mercy."
Martin Nelthorp shook his great frame a little—as a mastiff might if suddenly stirred into activity. He was a big man, and his burly figure seemed to fill the office; his voice, when he spoke, was very deep and strong.
"What you mean," he said, fixing his keen grey eyes on the solicitor, "what you mean is that if I like I can ruin him?"
Mr. Postlethwaite smiled and bowed.
"You apprehend my meaning exactly, my dear sir," he said blandly. "Ruin is the word."
"It's not a very nice word to hear or to use in connection with any man," said Martin Nelthorp.
Mr. Postlethwaite coughed. But the smile remained round his clean-shaven lips.
"The ruin of most men, my dear friend," he said oracularly, "is brought about by themselves."
"Just so," said Martin Nelthorp. "All the same, the finishing touch is generally put to things by somebody else. You're sure Sutton's as badly off as what you make out?"
Mr. Postlethwaite fingered his papers and turned to some memoranda. He scribbled certain figures on a scrap of paper and faced his client.
"The position, my dear Mr. Nelthorp," he said, "is exactly this. You hold a first and second mortgage on Sutton's flour mill and on his house and land—in fact, on his entire property, and the sum you have advanced represents every penny of the full value. You are now wanting, principal and interest, exactly nine thousand, seven hundred and fifty-three pounds, ten shillings, and fourpence. He cannot pay this money—indeed, I question if he could by any chance find one-fourth of it, and you are in a position to foreclose at once."
"You mean that I can sell him up?" said Martin Nelthorp bluntly.
"Lock, stock, and barrel!" replied Mr. Postlethwaite.
Martin Nelthorp rubbed his chin.
"It's no very nice thing to ruin a man—and his family with him," he remarked.
Mr. Postlethwaite again coughed. He took off his gold-rimmed glasses and affected to exercise great care in polishing them.
"Is there any particular reason why you should consider Sutton before considering yourself?" he said softly.
Martin Nelthorp's face darkened, and a hard, almost vindictive look came into his eyes. The hand which held his ash-plant stick tightened about it.
"No!" he said. "That there isn't! On the contrary——"
"Aye, just so, just so!" said the solicitor. "Of course, that's an old tale now, but old wounds will rankle, my dear sir, old wounds will rankle!"
Martin Nelthorp stared hard at Mr. Postlethwaite from beneath his bushy grey eyebrows. He got up slowly, and buttoned his great driving-coat and put on his broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, still staring at the man of law.
"Well, I'll bid you good day," he said "It's time I was getting home, and I've still to meet a man at the George and Dragon. Do no more in that matter till you see me again—of course, Sutton doesn't know that I bought up the two mortgages?"
"He hasn't an idea of it, my dear sir," answered the solicitor.
Martin Nelthorp hesitated a moment, then nodded as if to emphasize what he had just said, and again exchanging farewells with Mr. Postlethwaite, went out into the market-place of the little country town, now relapsing into somnolence at the end of an October day. He stood at the foot of Mr. Postlethwaite's steps for a moment, apparently lost in thought, and then moved slowly off in the direction of the George and Dragon. The man whom he expected to meet there had not yet arrived; he sat down in the parlour, empty of any presence but his own, and gave himself up to reflection. At his mercy—at last!—after nearly thirty years of waiting, at his mercy! The only enemy he had ever known, the only man he had ever had cause to hate with a bitter, undying hatred, was now by the decrees of destiny, by the whirling of fortune's wheel, brought within his power. If he pleased, he, Martin Nelthorp, could ruin Richard Sutton, could turn him out of the old place in which the Suttons had lived for generations, could sell every yard of land, every stick of furniture that he possessed, could leave him and his—beggars.
And as he sat there in the gloomy parlour, staring with brooding eyes into the fire, he said to himself—Why not? After all, it had been said in a long distant age—An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth! Again he said to himself—Why not, now that the hour and the opportunity had come?
Nelthorp let his mind go back. He was now nearly sixty, a hale, hearty man, the biggest and cleverest farmer in those parts, rich, respected, made much of by the great folk, looked up to by the little; a man of influence and power. He was going down into the valley of life under a fine sunset and soft evening airs, and there were few who did not envy him a prosperous career and the prospect of a green old age. But Martin Nelthorp had always carried a trouble, a rankling sorrow in his breast, and he was thinking of it as he sat staring with sombre eyes at the dull red glare of the sullen cinders in the grate. It was the worst sort of sorrow that could befall a man of his type of character, for he was both sensitive and proud, quick to feel an injury or a slight, slow to let the memory of either pass from him. It is said of a Yorkshireman that he will carry a stone in his pocket for ten years in expectation of meeting an enemy, and turn it at the end of that time if the enemy has not chanced along. Martin Nelthorp might have turned his stone twice, but he would have done so with no feeling of vindictiveness. There was nothing vindictive about him, but he had a stern, Israelitish belief in justice and in retribution.
The incidents—mean, ignoble—of his wrong came up before him as he sat there waiting, and their colours were as fresh as ever. Five-and-twenty years before he had been on the verge of marriage with Lavinia Deane, celebrated all the countryside over for her beauty and her vivacity. Everything was arranged; the wedding-day was fixed; the guests invited; the bride's finery sent home. Suddenly came news that made women weep and men smile. Almost on the eve of the wedding Lavinia ran away with Richard Sutton, and was married to him in a distant town. It was a bad business, said everybody, for Richard Sutton had been Martin Nelthorp's bosom friend from childhood, and was to have been his best man at the wedding. Nobody could conceive how the thing had come about; the girl had always seemed to be in love with Martin, and had never been seen in company with Sutton. But there the facts were—they were married, and Martin Nelthorp was a bitterly disappointed and wronged man. The man who broke the ill news to him would never speak of how he received that news, of what passed between them, or of what he said on hearing of the falseness of his sweetheart and the treachery of his friend, but it was commonly rumoured that he swore some dreadful oath of vengeance on the man and woman who had wrecked his life. And the neighbours and the people of the district watched eagerly to see what would happen.
But years went on and nothing happened. Richard Sutton and his wife stayed away from the village for some time; there was no necessity for their immediate return, for Sutton had a fine business as a corn-miller and could afford to appoint a capable manager in his absence. But they came back at last, and as Martin Nelthorp's farm was within a mile of the mill, the busybodies wondered how things would go when the two men met. Somehow they never did meet—at least, no one ever heard of their meeting. Nelthorp kept himself to his farm; Sutton to his mill. Years went by, and things resolved themselves into a state of quiescence or indifferentism: the men passed each other in the market-place or on the highroad and took no heed. But keen-eyed observers used to note that when they passed in this way Sutton used to go by with averted head and downcast eye, while Nelthorp strode or rode on with his head in the air and his eye fixed straight before him.
Whether there had been a curse put upon them or not, Sutton and his wife did not thrive. Almost from the time of their marriage the business went down. In his grandfather's and father's days there had been little competition; the opening up of the countryside by railways made a great difference to Sutton's trade. His machinery became out of date, and he neglected to replace it with new until much of his business had slipped away from him. One way and another things went from bad to worse; he had to borrow, and to borrow again, always hoping for a turn in the tide which never came. And eventually, through the instrumentality of Mr. Postlethwaite, everything that he had was mortgaged to Martin Nelthorp.
Martin, during these years, had prospered exceedingly. He had been fortunate in everything in his life, except his love affair. He had money to begin with—plenty and to spare of it—and he knew how to lay it out to the best advantage. He was one of the first to see the importance of labour-saving machinery and to introduce it on his land in good time. Again, there was nothing to distract his attention from his land. He put all thought of marriage out of his head when Lavinia proved false to him; indeed, he was never afterwards known to speak to a woman except on business. For some years he lived alone in the old farmhouse in which he had been born. Then his only sister lost her husband, and came to live with Martin, bringing with her her one child, a boy, who had been named after his uncle. Very soon she, too, died, and the boy henceforward formed Martin's one human interest. He devoted himself to him; educated him; taught him all that he himself knew of farming, and let it be known that when his time came his nephew would step into his shoes. The two were inseparable; now, when the boy had come to man's age and the man had grown grey, they were known for many a mile round as Old Martin and Young Martin.
Old Martin knew, as he sat by the parlour fire, that the old feeling of hatred against Richard Sutton was by no means dead within him. He had robbed him of the woman he loved, the only woman he ever could love, and, as the solicitor had said, the old wound still rankled. Well, it was in his power now to take his revenge—his enemy was at his feet. But—the woman? She, too, would be ruined, she would be a beggar, an outcast. It would be turning her out on the road. Well—his face grew stern and his eyes hard as he thought of it—had she not once turned him out on a road, longer, harder to tread than that?An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth....
It never occurred to him to ask himself if there were any children who might be affected.
The man who presently came in to keep his appointment with Martin remarked afterwards that he had never known Mr. Nelthorp so hard and determined in bargaining as he was that evening.
When the bargaining was done Martin Nelthorp got on his horse and rode home to his comfortable fireside. It was always a pleasure to him to get under his own roof-tree after a long day on the land or an afternoon at market or auction. There was the evening meal in company with his nephew; the easy-chair and the newspaper afterwards; the pipe of tobacco and the glass of toddy before going to bed. And Old Martin and Young Martin, as most folk thereabouts were well aware, were more like companions than uncle and nephew; they had many tastes in common—hunting, shooting, sport in general, and the younger man was as keen a farmer as the elder. There was therefore no lack of company nor of conversation round the parlour fire at the Manor Farm.
But on this particular night, for the first time since either of them could remember, there was an unusual silence and restraint round the supper-table. Both men as a rule were good trenchermen—a life in the open air helped them to hearty and never-failing appetite. This night neither ate much, and neither seemed disposed to talk much. Old Martin knew why he himself was silent, and why he was not inclined to food—he was too full of the Sutton affair. But he wondered what made his nephew so quiet, and why he did not replenish his plate after his usual fashion. As for Young Martin he had his own thoughts to occupy him, but he, too, wondered what made the elder so obviously thoughtful.
Old Martin remained quiet and meditative all the evening. He held the newspaper in his hands, but he was not always reading it. He had his favourite pipe between his lips, but he let it go out more than once. Young Martin was similarly preoccupied. He affected to read theMark Lane Express, but he was more often staring at the ceiling than at the printed page. It was not until after nine o'clock, at which hour they generally began to think of bed, that any conversation arose between them. Young Martin started it, and with obvious confusion and diffidence.
"There's a matter I wanted to mention to you to-night, Uncle Martin," he said. "Of course, I won't speak of it if you've aught serious to be thinking of, but you know I never keep aught back from you, and——"
"What is it, my lad?" asked the elder man. "Speak out—I was only just studying about a business matter—it's naught."
Young Martin's diffidence increased. He shuffled his feet, became very red, and opened and shut his mouth several times before he could speak.
"It's like this," he said at last. "If you've no objection I should like to get married."
Old Martin started as if he had been shot. He stared at his nephew as though he had said that he was going to fly.
"Married!" he exclaimed. "Why, my lad—goodness be on us, you're naught but a youngster yet!"
"I'm twenty-six, uncle," said Young Martin.
"Twenty-six! Nay, nay—God bless my soul, well, I suppose you are. Time goes on so fast. Twenty-six! Aye, of course," said Old Martin. "Aye, you must be, my lad. Well, but who's the girl?"
Young Martin became more diffident than ever. It seemed an age to him before he could find his tongue. But at last he blurted the name out, all in a jerk.
"Lavinia Sutton!"
Martin Nelthorp dropped his pipe and his paper. He clutched the back of his elbow-chair and stared at his nephew as he might have stared at a ghost. When he spoke his own voice seemed to him to be a long, long way off.
"Lavinia Sutton?" he said hoarsely. "What—Sutton of the mill?"
"Yes," answered Young Martin. Then he added in a firm voice: "She's a good girl, Uncle Martin, and we love each other true."
Old Martin made no immediate answer. He was more taken aback, more acutely distressed, than his nephew knew. To cover his confusion he got up from his chair and busied himself in mixing a glass of toddy. A minute or two passed before he spoke; when he did speak his voice was not as steady as usual.
"He's a poor man, is Sutton, my lad," he said.
"I know that," said Young Martin stoutly. "But it's Lavinia I want—not aught from him."
"He's in a very bad way indeed," remarked the elder man. "Very bad."
Young Martin made no reply. Old Martin took a long pull at the contents of his glass and sat down.
"I didn't know Sutton had children," he said absently.
"There's only Lavinia," said his nephew.
Lavinia! The reiteration of the name cut him like a knife: the sound of it sent him back nearly thirty years. Lavinia! And no doubt the girl would be like her mother.
"You're no doubt aware, my lad," he said, after another period of silence, during which his nephew sat watching him, "you're no doubt aware that me and the Suttons is anything but friends. They—the man and his wife—wronged me. Never mind how. They wronged me—cruel!"
Young Martin knew all about it, but he was not going to say that he did.
"That was not Lavinia's fault, uncle," he said softly. "Lavinia—she wouldn't wrong anybody."
Old Martin thought of the time when he had—faith in women. He sighed, and drinking off his toddy, rose heavily, as if some weight had been put on him.
"Well, my lad," he said, "this is one of those things in which a man has to choose for himself. I shouldn't like to have it on my conscience that I ever came between a man and a woman that cared for each other. But we'll talk about it to-morrow. I'm tired, and I've got to look round yet."
Then he went out to fulfil his nightly task, never neglected, never devolved to any one else, of looking round the farmstead before retiring to rest. His nephew noticed that he walked wearily.
Outside, in the fold around which horses and cattle were resting or asleep in stall or byre, Martin Nelthorp stood and stared at the stars glittering high above him in a sky made clear by October frost. He was wondering what it was that had brought this thing upon him—that the one thing he cared for in the world should seek alliance with the enemies of his life who now, by the ordinance of God, lay in his power. He had given Young Martin all the love that had been crushed down and crushed out; he was as proud of him as if the lad had been his own son by the woman he cared for; he meant to leave him all that he had; he was ambitious for him, and knowing that he would be a rich man he had some dreams of his nephew's figuring in the doings of the county, as councillor or magistrate—honours which he himself had persistently refused. And it had never once come within his scheme of things that the boy should fix his affections on the daughter of the enemy—it had been a surprise to him to find out that he even knew her.
Martin Nelthorp walked up and down his fold and his stackyard for some time, staring persistently at the stars. Though he did not say so to himself, he knew that that astute old attorney, Postlethwaite, was right when he said that old wounds rankle. He knew, too, that however much a man may strive to put away the thought from himself, there is still enough of the primitive savage left in all of us to make revenge sweet. And he had suffered through these people—suffered as he had never thought to suffer. He looked back and remembered what life had been to him up to the day when the news of a man's treachery and a woman's weakness had been brought to him, and he clenched his fists and set his teeth, and all the old black hatred came welling up in his heart.
"He shan't have her!" he said. "He shan't have her! A good girl!—what good could come of stock like that?"
Then he went indoors and up to his chamber, and Young Martin heard him walking up and down half the night. When he himself got down next morning his uncle had gone out: the housekeeper, greatly upset by the fact, seeing that such a thing had never happened within her fifteen years' experience of him, said that the master had had no more breakfast than a glass of milk and a crust of bread, and she hoped he was not sickening for an illness.
At that moment Martin Nelthorp was riding along the russet lanes towards the market-town. There had been a strong frost in the night, and the sky above him was clear as only an autumn sky can be. All about him were patches of red and yellow and purple, for the foliage was changing fast, and in the hedgerows there were delicate webs of gossamer. Usually, as a great lover of Nature, he would have seen these things—on this morning he rode straight on, grim and determined.
He was so early at Mr. Postlethwaite's office that he had to wait nearly half-an-hour for the arrival of that gentleman. But when Mr. Postlethwaite came his client lost no time in going straight to his point.
"I want all papers of mine relating to that Sutton affair," he said. "Before I settle what I shall do I must read through 'em myself. Give me the lot."
Mr. Postlethwaite made some would-be facetious remark as to legal phraseology, but Martin Nelthorp paid no attention to it. He carried the papers away with him in a big envelope, and riding straight home at a smart pace, took them into the little room which he used as an office, and went carefully through them merely to see that they were all there. That done, he tore certain of them in half, and enclosing everything in another cover, he addressed it to Richard Sutton.
Then Old Martin went into the parlour and found Young Martin there, cleaning a gun. He clapped him on the shoulder, and the young man, looking up, saw that something had gone out of his elder's eyes and face.
"Now, my lad!" said Old Martin cheerily. "You can marry the girl—and you can go and make the arrangements this morning. And while you're there you can give this packet to Richard Sutton—he'll understand what it is."
Then, before his nephew could find his tongue, Martin Nelthorp strode over to the kitchen door and called lustily for his breakfast.