Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Has MacEveril talked any more about going away?”

  “He talks of nothing else; is full of it,” answered Oliver. “His uncle says he is not to go; and old Paul stopped him at the first half-word, saying he could not be spared from the office. Dick says he shall start all the same, leave or no leave.”

  “Dick will be very silly to go just now, when we are about to be so gay,” remarked Jane, “There’s the picnic coming off; and the dance at Mrs. Jacob Chandler’s; and no end of tea-parties.”

  For just now the neighbourhood was putting on a spurt of gaiety, induced to it perhaps by the lovely summer sunshine. Oliver’s face wore a look of gloom, and he made no answer to Jane’s remark. Several matters, cross and contrary, were trying Oliver Preen; not the least of them that he seemed to make no way whatever with Miss Emma.

  When we left school for the midsummer holidays that year, Mr. and Mrs. Todhetley were staying at Crabb Cot. We got there on Friday, the eleventh of June.

  On the following Monday morning the Squire went to his own small sitting-room after breakfast to busy himself with his accounts and papers. Presently I heard him call me.

  “Have you a mind for a walk, Johnny?”

  “Yes, sir; I should be glad of one.” Tod had gone to the Whitneys for a couple of days, and without him I felt like a fish out of water.

  “Well, I want you to go as far as Massock’s. He is a regular cheat; that man, Johnny, needs looking after —— What is it, Thomas?”

  For old Thomas had come in, a card between his fingers. “It’s Mr. Gervais Preen, sir,” he said, in answer, putting the card on the Squire’s table. “Can you see him?”

  “Oh, yes, I can see him; show him in. Wait a bit, though, Thomas,” broke off the Squire. “Johnny, I expect Preen has come about that pony. I suppose we may as well keep him?”

  “Tod said on Saturday, sir, that we should not do better,” I answered. “He tried him well, and thinks he is worth the price.”

  “Ay; ten pounds, wasn’t it? We’ll keep him, then. Mr. Preen can come in, Thomas.”

  Some few days before this the Squire had happened to say in Preen’s hearing that he wanted a pony for the two children to ride, Hugh and Lena. Preen caught up the words, saying he had one for sale — a very nice pony, sound and quiet. So the pony had been sent to Crabb Cot upon trial, and we all liked him. His name was Taffy.

  Mr. Preen came into the room, his small face cool and dark as usual; he had driven from Duck Brook. “A fine morning,” he remarked, as he sat down; but it would be fiery hot by-and-by, too hot for the middle of June, and we should probably pay for it later. The Squire asked if he would take anything, but he declined.

  “What of the pony — Taffy — Squire?” went on Mr. Preen. “Do you like him?”

  “Yes, we like him very well,” said the Squire, heartily, “and we mean to keep him, Preen.”

  “All right,” said Mr. Preen. “You will not repent it.”

  Then they fell to talking of horses in general, and of other topics. I stayed on, sitting by the window, not having received the message for Massock. Mr. Preen stayed also, making no move to go away; when it suddenly occurred to the Squire — he mentioned it later — that perhaps Preen might be waiting for the money.

  “Ten pounds, I think, was the price agreed upon,” observed the Squire with ready carelessness. “Would you like to be paid now?”

  “If it does not inconvenience you.”

  The Squire unlocked his shabby old bureau, which stood against the wall, fingered his stock of money, and brought forth a ten-pound bank-note. This he handed to Preen, together with a sheet of paper, that he might give a receipt.

  When the receipt was written, Mr. Preen took up the note, looked at it for a moment or two, and then passed it back again.

  “Would you mind writing your name on this note, Squire?”

  The Squire laughed gently. “Not at all,” he answered; “but why should I? Do you think it is a bad one? No fear, Preen; I had it from the Old Bank at Worcester.”

  “No, I do not fear that,” said Preen, speaking quietly. “But since a disagreeable trouble which happened to me some years ago, I have always liked, when receiving a bank-note, to get, if possible, the donor’s name upon it in his own handwriting.”

  “What was the trouble?”

  “I was playing cards at the house of a man of fashion, who was brother to an earl, and lived in a fashionable square at the West End of London, and I had a ten-pound note paid me, for I won, by a man who, I understood, had recently retired with honours from the army, a Major D —— . I will not give you his name. The next day, or next but one, I paid this note away to a tradesman, and it was found to be forged; cleverly forged,” repeated Preen, with emphasis.

  “What did you do?” asked the Squire.

  “I got Major D.’s address from the house where we had played, carried the note to him, and inquired what it meant and whence he got it. Will you believe, Mr. Todhetley,” added the speaker, with slight agitation, “that the man utterly repudiated the note, saying — —”

  “But how could he repudiate it?” interrupted the Squire, interested in the tale.

  “He said it was not the note he had paid me; he stood it out in the most impudent manner. I told him, and it was the pure truth, that it was impossible there could be any mistake. I was a poor man, down on my luck just then, and it was the only note I had had about me for some time past. All in vain. He held to it that it was not the note, and there the matter ended. I could not prove that it was the note except by my bare word. It was my word against his, you see, and naturally I went to the wall.”

  The Squire nodded. “Who was at the loss of the money?”

  “I was. Besides that, I had the cold shoulder turned upon me. Major D. was believed; I was doubted; some people went so far as to say I must have trumped up the tale. For some time after that I would not take a bank-note from any man unless he put his signature to it, and it has grown into a habit with me. So, if you don’t mind, Squire — —”

  The Squire smiled goodnaturedly, drew the bank-note to him, and wrote upon the back in a corner, “J. Todhetley.”

  “There, Preen,” said he, returning it, “I won’t repudiate that. Couldn’t if I would.”

  Mr. Preen put the note into his pocket-book, and rose to leave. We strolled with him across the front garden to the gate, where his gig was waiting.

  “I have to go as far as Norton; and possibly after that on to Stoulton,” he remarked, as he took the reins in his hand and got in.

  “You will have a hot drive of it,” said the Squire.

  “Yes; but if one undertakes business it must be attended to,” said Preen, as he drove off.

  II. — IN THE BUTTERY

  I

  The windows of the room, called the Buttery, which Mr. Preen used as an office in his house at Duck Brook, were thrown open to the warm, pure air. It was about the hottest part of the afternoon. Oliver Preen sat back in his chair before the large table covered with papers, waiting in idleness and inward rebellion — rebellion against the untoward fate which had latterly condemned him to this dreary and monotonous life. Taking out his pocket-handkerchief with a fling, he passed it over his fair, mild face, which was very hot just now.

  To-day, of all days, Oliver had wanted to be at liberty, whereas he was being kept a prisoner longer than usual, and for nothing. When Mr. Preen rode out after breakfast in the morning he had left Oliver a couple of letters to copy as a beginning, remarking that there was a great deal to do that day, double work, and he should be back in half-an-hour. The double work arose from the fact that none had been done the day before, as Mr. Preen was out. For that day, Monday — this was Tuesday — was the day Mr. Preen had paid us a visit at Crabb Cott, to be paid for Taffy, the pony, and had then gone to Norton, and afterwards to Stoulton, and it had taken him the best part of the day. So the double work was waiting. But the half hours and the hours had passed on, and Mr. Preen had not yet ret
urned. It was now three o’clock in the afternoon, and they had dined without him.

  Oliver, who did not dare to absent himself without permission, and perhaps was too conscientious to do so, left his chair for the window. The old garden was quite a wilderness of blossom and colour, with all kinds of homely flowers crowded into it. The young man stretched forth his hand and plucked a spray or two of jessamine, which grew against the wall. Idly smelling it, he lost himself in a vision of the days gone by; his careless, happy life at Tours, in his aunt’s luxurious home, when he had no fear of a dark future, had only to dress well and ride or drive out, and idly enjoy himself.

  Suddenly he was brought back to reality. The sound of hoofs clattering into the fold-yard behind the house struck upon his ear, and he knew his father had come home.

  Ten minutes yet, or more, and then Mr. Preen came into the room, his little dark face looking darker and more cross than usual. He had been snatching some light refreshment, and sat down at once in his place at the table, facing the windows; Oliver sat opposite to him.

  “What have you done?” asked he.

  “I have only copied those two letters; there was nothing else to do,” replied Oliver.

  “Could you not have looked over the pile of letters which came this morning, to see whether there were any you could answer?” growled Mr. Preen.

  “Why, no, father,” replied Oliver in slight surprise; “I did not know I might look at them. And if I had looked I should not have known what to reply.”

  Mr. Preen began reading the letters over at railroad speed, dictating answers for Oliver to write, writing some himself. This took time. He had been unexpectedly detained at the other end of Captain Falkner’s land by some business which had vexed him. Most of these letters were from farmers and others, about the new patent agricultural implements for which Mr. Preen had taken the agency. He wished to push the sale of them, as it gave him a good percentage.

  The answers, addressed and stamped for the post, at length lay ready on the table. Mr. Preen then took out his pocket-book and extracted from it that ten-pound bank-note given him the previous morning by Mr. Todhetley for the children’s pony, the note he had got the Squire to indorse, as I have already told. Letting the bank-note lie open before him, Mr. Preen penned a few lines, as follows, Oliver looking on: —

  “Dear Sir, — I enclose you the ten pounds. Have not been able to send it before. Truly yours, G. Preen.”

  Mr. Preen folded the sheet on which he had written this, put the bank-note within it, and enclosed all in a good-sized business envelope, which he fastened securely down. He then addressed it to John Paul, Esquire, Islip, and put on a postage stamp.

  “I shall seal this, Oliver,” he remarked; “it’s safer. Get the candle and the wax. Here, you can seal it,” he added, taking the signet ring from his finger, on which was engraved the crest of the Preen family.

  Oliver lighted a candle kept on a stand at the back for such purposes, brought it to the table, and sealed the letter with a large, imposing red seal. As he passed the ring and letter back to his father, he spoke.

  “If you are particularly anxious that the letter should reach Mr. Paul safely, father, and of course you are so, as it contains money, why did you not send it by hand? I would have taken it to him.”

  “There’s nothing safer than the post,” returned Mr. Preen, “and I want him to have it to-morrow morning.”

  Oliver laughed. “I could have taken it this evening, father. I can do so still, if you like.”

  “No, it shall go by post. You want to be off to MacEveril, I suppose.”

  “No, I do not,” replied Oliver. “Had I been able to finish here this morning I might have gone over this afternoon; it is too late now.”

  “You had nothing to do all day yesterday,” growled his father.

  “Oh, yes, I know. I am not grumbling.”

  Mr. Preen put the letter into his pocket, gathered up the pile of other letters, handed half of them to his son, for it was a pretty good heap, and they started for the post, about three minutes’ walk.

  The small shop containing the post-office at Duck Brook was kept by Mrs. Sym, who sold sweetstuff, also tapes and cottons. Young Sym, her son, a growing youth, delivered the letters, which were brought in by a mail-cart. She was a clean, tidy woman of middle age, never seen out of a muslin cap with a wide border and a black bow, a handkerchief crossed over her shoulders, and a checked apron.

  Oliver, of lighter step than his father, reached the post-office first and tumbled his portion of the letters into the box placed in the window to receive them. The next moment Mr. Preen put his in also, together with the letter addressed to Mr. Paul.

  “We are too late,” observed Oliver. “I thought we should be.”

  “Eh?” exclaimed Mr. Preen, in surprise, as he turned round. “Too late! Why how can the afternoon have gone on?” he continued, his eyes falling on the clock of the little grey church which stood beyond the triangle of houses, the hands of which were pointing to a quarter past five.

  “If you knew it was so late why did you not say so?” he asked sharply of his son.

  “I was not sure until I saw the clock; I only thought it must be late by the time we had been at work,” replied Oliver.

  “I might have sent you over with that letter as you suggested, had I known it would not go to-night. I wonder whether Dame Sym would give it back to me.”

  He dived down the two steps into the shop as he spoke, Oliver following. Dame Sym — so Duck Brook called her — stood knitting behind the little counter, an employment she took up at spare moments.

  “Mrs. Sym, I’ve just put some letters into the box, not perceiving that it was past five o’clock,” began Mr. Preen, civilly. “I suppose they’ll not go to-night?”

  “Can’t, sir,” replied the humble post-mistress. “The bag’s made up.”

  “There’s one letter that will hardly bear delay. It is for Mr. Paul of Islip. If you can return it me out of the box I will send it over by hand at once; my son will take it.”

  “But it is not possible, sir. Once a letter is put into the box I dare not give it back again,” remonstrated Mrs. Sym, gazing amiably at Mr. Preen through her spectacles, whose round glasses had a trick of glistening when at right angles with the light.

  “You might stretch a point for once, to oblige me,” returned Mr. Preen, fretfully.

  “And I’m sure I’d not need to be pressed to do it, sir, if I could,” she cried in her hearty way. “But I dare not break the rules, sir; I might lose my place. Our orders are not to open the receiving box until the time for making-up, or give a letter back on any pretence whatever.”

  Mr. Preen saw that further argument would be useless. She was a kindly, obliging old body, but upright to the last degree in all that related to her place. Anything that she believed (right or wrong) might not be done she stuck to.

  “Obstinate as the grave,” muttered he.

  Dame Sym did not hear; she had turned away to serve a child who came in for some toffee. Mr. Preen waited.

  “When will the letter go?” he asked, as the child went out.

  “By to-morrow’s day mail, sir. It will be delivered at Islip — I think you said Islip, Mr. Preen — about half-past four, or so, in the afternoon.”

  “Is the delay of much consequence, sir?” inquired Oliver, as he and his father turned out of the shop.

  “No,” said Mr. Preen. “Only I hate letters to be delayed uselessly in the post.”

  Tea was waiting when they got in. A mutton chop was served with it for Mr. Preen, as he had lost his dinner. Jane ran downstairs, drank a cup of tea in haste, and ran back again. She had been busy in her bedroom all day, smartening-up a dress. A picnic was to be held on Thursday, the next day but one; Jane and Oliver were invited to it, and Jane wanted to look as well as other girls.

  After tea Oliver sat for ever so long at the open window, reading the Worcester Journal. He then strolled out to the Inlets, sauntered besi
de the brook, and presently threw himself listlessly upon one of the benches facing it. The sun shone right upon his face there, so he tilted his straw hat over his eyes. That did not do, and he moved to another bench which the trees shaded. He often felt lonely and weary now; this evening especially so; even Jane was not with him.

  His thoughts turned to Emma Paul; and a glow, bright as the declining sun rays, shot up in his heart. As long as she filled it, he could not be all gloom.

  “If I had means to justify it I should speak to her,” mused he — as he had told himself forty times over, and forty more. “But when a fellow has no fortune, and no prospect of fortune; when it may be seen by no end of odd signs and tokens that he has not so much as a silver coin in his pocket, how can he ask a girl the one great question of life? Old Paul would send me to the right-about.”

  He leaned his head sideways for a few minutes against the trunk of a tree, gazing at the reddening sky through the green tracery of the waving boughs; and fell to musing again.

  “If she loved me as I love her, she would be glad to wait on as things are, hoping for better times. Lovers, who are truly attached to each other, do wait for years and years, and are all the happier for it. Sometimes I feel inclined to enlist in a crack regiment. The worst of it is that a fellow rarely rises from the ranks in England to position and honour, as he does in France; they manage things better over there. If old Uncle Edward would only open his purse-strings and buy me a commission, I might —— Halloa!”

  A burst of girlish laughter, and a pair of girlish arms, flung round his neck from behind, disturbed Oliver’s castles-in-the-air. Jane came round and sat down beside him. “I thought I should find you here, Oliver,” she said.

  “Frock finished, Janey?”

  “Finished! why no,” she exclaimed. “It will hardly be finished by this time to-morrow.”

  “Why, how idle you must have been!”