A Drake by George!

"Very well, Mrs. Dyer," said George. "When you make up my bill for lodgings and bread puddings, just remember that you owe me a pound."

"You wouldn't think of such a thing. You'm too much of a gentleman," cried Mrs. Dyer.

"The missus fancies you meant it, sir. She ain't very humorous," explained the baker.

George had a trick of nodding after supper, and that evening he did not wake until it was nearly time to sleep more seriously. Remembering that Bessie would be sitting up to surrender the keys, he hurried out; but when he entered Windward House modestly by the back door – hoping to overhear some scraps of conversation – the house appeared deserted, until he pushed open the kitchen door, to discover the Wallower in Wealth sipping a cup of something hot beside the fire.

"Where are the Mudges?" cried George.

"Where's my musical box?" retorted the man in possession.

George had made a rule never to use bad language; by an exception then he proved the rule's existence. Some men are frightened when sworn at because they never know what may come next; and the Wallower in Wealth belonged to that class. He sat silent and sulky, while George repeated his question with one more exception.

"Gone vor their holiday," came the answer. "I looked in to wish 'em gude-luck, and Mrs. Mudge asked me to bide till you come. Keys be in the doors, I was to tell ye."

"Their train doesn't go till seven o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Postman told 'em there's an excursion up to London at eleven, so they reckoned they'd go part of the way in that, and get there quicker."

"The fools!" cried George. "That train will take them in the very opposite direction."

"They was a bit mazed. Robert had begun to enjoy his holiday, and Bessie wur trying to catch up wi' 'en. Now they'll ha' to wait all night outside the station."

"What are you drinking?" asked George, sniffing at the fumes.

"Mrs. Mudge said 'twur coffee, but it tastes more like hot whisky and water. I'll give ye thirty shillings vor the musical box."

"I'm not going to talk business at this time of night. It's my bedtime and yours too," said George, making a motion towards the door.

"There's a drop o' this wonderful nice coffee in the jug."

"Take it with you."

"I won't take it in the jug, lest I forget to bring it back. Your very good health, Mr. Drake – and I'll give anyone thirty-five shillings for that musical box."

George hurried into the town next morning, and ascertained from a porter who had relations in Highfield, that the muddled Mudges had started upon their journey in the right direction shortly after midnight, by obtaining an introduction to the guard of a goods train and travelling – contrary to all regulations – in his van. The porter mentioned that the guard had possibly been influenced by the fact that Bessie was carrying a basket of delicacies, while the neck of a bottle protruded from the pocket of Robert's overcoat.

Satisfied on this point, George visited a certain place of business, and interviewed the manager who promised to send up to Highfield, very early on the following morning, two furniture vans, with sufficient men to do the packing in one day. The simplicity of working out a plot caused George to laugh aloud; also to treat himself to a luncheon from which bread and margarine pudding was rigorously excluded.

On the way home he sighted, in the dip of the road, a pair of strolling youngsters, boy and girl, who looked back often as if expecting somebody; the back of the one, and the beauty of the other, seemed familiar. Suddenly the girl took to her heels and raced round the bend, while the boy allowed George to draw up to him.

"Why does the little girl run so fast?" asked George in a paternal fashion.

"She's full of beans," replied Sidney.

"Taking a holiday?" George continued.

"I fancied a friend might be coming by the three o'clock train; but I've had the walk vor nothing."

"Another young lady, I suppose?"

"That's right," said the laughing profligate.

"Well, I'm confounded! It seems to me you are collecting girls," George muttered.

"There's plenty. I'll leave ye a few to choose from," said Sidney.

"I've done my choosing and I'm going to settle down after this month. I suppose you know we are all clearing out of Highfield? Miss Blisland has gone already, and you'll never see her again. You tried to catch Nellie," said George, who frequently lost by his silly conversation all he had gained by his cunning. "But she saw through your nasty little ways, my lad. She didn't fancy your harem. Nellie is one of the most sensible girls I have ever met, and she's got the makings of a good woman in her."

"I reckon," said Sidney, like an oaf.

"It's a bit of a change to me to marry any one, but I don't mind sacrificing myself," George rambled on. "There's no secret about it. We've taken a house at a place called Drivelford, and we're going to let Miss Yard live with us. You won't get the chance to congratulate Nellie, and I shouldn't permit it in any case, as I don't think you are the sort of young fellow she ought to speak to; but I do hope you are feeling a bit sorry for yourself. I'm not perfect, but I do think a man ought to be honest and truthful, and be satisfied with one wife, so long as she does what he tells her."

"That's right enough," said Sidney.

"You see what a callous young fellow you are already. You pretended to be in love with the future Mrs. Drake; but, now that you have lost her, you don't care a hang."

"Not that much," said Sidney, snapping his fingers.

"That's your character," said George bitterly. "Why should you care? There are plenty of Dollies, and Teenies, and painted ladies, cheap for cash as the advertisements say."

"Here, you mind what you're saying. You're going a bit too far!" cried Sidney, rounding angrily upon his oppressor.

"I'm not insulting you," George explained. "But I do want to give you a little good advice before we part. I can quite understand that you don't want to hear the truth about your young women, and they wouldn't like to hear it either. That little girl ran away just now because she couldn't face a decent gentleman."

"She ran because she wouldn't be introduced to you."

"That shows she can't be altogether bad," said George approvingly. "Now I must leave you, as I'm going to take the short cut across the fields. I do hope you will remember what I've said. When this new young woman arrives, try to show yourself a lad of courage. Send her home again or, if you don't like to do that, send her to me."

For some inscrutable reason Sidney could not restrain his laughter.

"Ah, you think I should want to make love to her," said George angrily. "I know your nasty mind. You and your grandfather had better be careful. You haven't got a friend in the parish."

"Except the vicar," Sidney reminded him.

"And, if he goes on visiting you, he won't have a friend in the parish either. Do you know what they call you in the village?"

"Do you know what they call you?" Sidney retorted joyously.

"They call you the Mormon."

"And they call you Ananias!"

"Well, that beats everything," gasped George, as he dropped clumsily over the stile. "I never tell lies except in the way of business. I always speak the truth in private life."

Days were shortening, so that by the time George had finished his tea, which included a propitiatory offering of doughnuts, the boom of beetles sounded in the street. As life was dull in the bakery, he decided to spend a tranquil evening in his own house, surrounded by the furniture he had been brought up with. He went and settled himself in an easy chair with one of the copies, still unburnt, of his uncle's monumental work, "A History of Highfield Parish." But reading grew tedious, and the doughnuts he had consumed so recklessly began to trouble, and the buzzing of flies and wasps became tempestuous.

Yet these sounds recalled pleasant memories of the past; he had not done much with his life, still he had managed to win distinction as an insect killer. He had eased his uncle's labours by crushing the wasp, and averted his aunt's displeasure by obliterating the blowfly. He rose and went into the kitchen to search for a cork.

The lighted candle cast weird shadows as he blundered through the pantry to the larder; discovering at last a cork which smelt of alcohol. That at least would give the wasps a pleasant death. But, while hurrying back to the insect-haunted parlour, he heard a new disturbance: no sleepy buzzing, but the fall of active footsteps. Then a handbag was flung recklessly through the open window; banging upon a chair, rolling to the floor. The footsteps died away, and the gate of the garden slammed.

With horrible dread of a possible explosion, George crept towards the missile, and touched it gingerly. It was a neat brown bag, ridiculously small to hold a wardrobe, and it bore the initials N.B.

"That's what they put in books, when they want to draw your attention to something," he muttered.

CHAPTER XIX

REAPING THE HARVEST

It would have been extraordinary, after Teenie's visit, had Nellie not received a letter from Sidney, begging her to give him an opportunity of clearing up the mystery which had so long surrounded Black Anchor Farm. The style and spelling of this epistle moved her to the discovery that it would be necessary to leave Miss Yard in the hands of Kezia, and return to Highfield, for one night only, in order that she might superintend the packing of the furniture; in place of George, who might quite possibly prove untrustworthy.

She replied, not altogether to that effect, without one thought for the ridiculous nature of her expeditionary programme; she could not arrive at Highfield until late in the afternoon, she would be compelled to leave early the following morning, while the packers could not reasonably be invited to work from dusk to sunrise. Sidney could meet her at the station if he liked: in fact she thought that might be the best plan, "As poor old George does not possess a sense of humour." Sidney thought so too; but Nellie in her hurry missed the train. She was able to agree with Miss Yard, who could not travel without the observation, "They ought to do away with railway junctions."

There was no good reason for losing all sense of method upon her arrival at Windward House. As a methodist, she would have walked calmly indoors, announced to Bessie – who was presumably in charge – that she had returned to spend one more night in her old bedroom entirely out of sentiment; and then have gone for a walk, in the opposite direction to Black Anchor, among the moths and beetles, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new moon. But the sight of that open window, the garish lamplight, the cold apparition of George with a murderous cork in his hand, made her hopelessly unmethodical. Her mind became so entirely disorganised that everything escaped it, except that stupid necessity of going for a walk immediately. She flung her bag through the window and fled.

On the way to Black Anchor Nellie succeeded in persuading herself that she was, if not exactly discreet, at least as sensible as any other young woman in revolt from the severity of everyday life towards a more picturesque and imaginative style of existence. She actually made a plan. As it was night, and sufficiently dark for spying, she would approach the farm among the bogs, flit around it like a will-o'-the-wisp, play watchful fairy at the window, act recording angel at the keyhole, until part at least of the mystery might be revealed. She had no particular wish to discover the secret of Sidney's fascination, which attracted to him young ladies of superior birth and education, but she desired very much to learn something about these prepossessing damsels; who they were and why they came; and above all it was her business to ascertain why Sidney spoke like a farmer's boy, but looked like a farmer's landlord, and wrote like the descendant of a poet laureate.

"How dark it is down here!" she murmured. "Lucky I know the geography. I wish I knew my history half as well."

Then it seemed to her that all kinds of light-footed people were leaping over the bogs and jumping the furze bushes; while the moor on each side twinkled with teasing eyes of local inhabitants sent out to watch the movements of the spy.

Nellie saw the farm, and knew by the stream of light that all the doors and windows stood wide open. The trackway beyond was dangerous because one window threw a searchlight right across it; but she walked on, having never been taught the art of scouting, and came presently to a colossal figure, carved apparently out of granite, or beaten into human shape by wind and weather, rising from an unhewn boulder halfway to the sky. This was a wonder of the moor never previously discovered, thought Nellie; but a moment later she felt certain ghosts were abroad, and this colossus was being worshipped by the local inhabitants, dancing invisibly all over the peat and tussocks: she could detect the smell of incense, see the smoke rising; any moment she might be compelled to witness a human sacrifice. There was a glow of fire undoubtedly. Again she fled, while the colossus shook from side to side although there was no wind.

"How silly of me!" gasped Nellie. "It was old Mr. Brock, sitting on a rock – bother the rhyme! – smoking a cigar."

Obsessed by the idea of finding out something concerning this enchanted region, she went on towards the farmhouse, forced to walk along the lighted trackway because it skirted the edges of a bog, where in full swing was the season of grand opera and, from a cool green dais, the bullfrog conductor constrained an enormous amount of energy out of his orchestra – it sounded like Tanhäuser but was more melodious – although the night-jars and owls did their best to mar the performance out of professional rivalry, while the beetles with their trombones were hopelessly discordant. But soon there were other sounds, far pleasanter; a scuffling in the furze-clad regions beyond; an approach, a trepidation, a capture, and a scream:

"You beast, Sidney! I did think I had hidden myself that time."

"I saw the white ribbon in your hair. You looked out just at the wrong moment."

"It's my turn to seek now."

"I'm going up to Highfield."

"I don't believe she's coming."

"I'll go and find out anyhow."

"Shall I come?"

"No, you stop at home."

"I won't spoil sport. If you see her, I'll cut off full lick."

"Listen! that was grandfather whistling."

Nellie stood upon the trackway shivering. Behind her old Mr. Brock closed the pass; in front Sidney was approaching; on the right side spread the bogs; on the left a jagged wilderness of boulders. From a strategical point of view she was done for. And she had come there to spy! She could only halt in vexation squeezed against a rock until captured, or advance with what little dignity remained to make an unconditional surrender.

"Boots muddy, hair all anyhow, crushed clothes – and caught in this abominable fashion," she murmured. "In fact I'm so untidy there's just a chance he may not recognise me."

She had not the slightest cause for worry. A girl may know when she looks attractive to other girls; but she seldom realises she is most fascinating to a man when her boots are muddy and her hair is all anyhow.

There came a rabbit-like scamper up the trackway, and the stampeding Teenie screamed again:

"Oh, I say – you did make me jump! Sidney! Sidney, you ass! Here she is! Here's Miss Blisland! Oh, what a lark!" shouted the child with shameless and barbaric jubilation.

"Don't talk such beastly nonsense," cried the other voice.

"It is her!" screamed the child.

"Yes, it's me," said Nellie faintly; and all three stood together, in an atmosphere of amazement and bad grammar.

"I thought, as it was such a lovely night – I mean evening – I would stroll in this direction to tell you I'm off again first thing in the morning," explained Nellie.

"This is splendid! I was just going to start for Highfield, but this is far better, as there's no old Drake to waddle about and quack. I was hanging about the road all the afternoon. This is Teenie Stanley – my cheeky young sister."

"Your sister! And your name isn't Brock at all!" cried Nellie.

"Run away, kid, and talk to grandfather," Sidney ordered; and the little whirlwind whisked round Nellie and departed.

"I did have the idea, but thought somehow it wasn't possible," Nellie was saying. "You have humbugged everybody, but you never really deceived me; if you had, I shouldn't be here now. I saw through your Dartmoor dialect, and all the rest of it. And I suppose Dorothy is your elder sister?"

"Of course she is."

"And the much-abused Mrs. Stanley – "

"Is my mother who, in spite of local rumour, does not put on local colour."

"Why ever didn't you tell me before? What was the sense of making such a mystery of it?"

"The people in Highfield made the mystery. We didn't want them to know we were here."

"Couldn't they see you, stupid?" said Nellie, more cheerfully.

"I mean grandfather didn't want them to know who we are; but I should have let out everything that evening – when you were spiteful – if we hadn't quarrelled. You know, Nellie, you were rather too cross about mother, and – and I lost my temper because you wouldn't trust me, and I made up my mind you should."

"You are nearly as bad as George Drake," she declared.

"Nearly isn't quite."

"And who are you, please?"

"Oh, we are not of vast importance. My full name is Arthur Sidney Stanley. It was a shame to give me such names, as I can't possibly put my initials on anything. That little beast, Teenie, always calls me ass. We're not exactly paupers, as we own a big share in a number of stores all over the south. There's one at Drivelford."

"I've been in it hundreds of times, and distinctly remember seeing you behind the counter."

"Don't be horrid. I've never been to Drivelford in my life, but I'm going there tomorrow if you are."

"Who is Mr. Brock?" she asked in a great hurry.

"Really my grandfather, and the owner of Black Anchor Farm, also the patron of the living. Now you know why the vicar condescends to visit us. Brock is such a common name in this part of Devonshire that nobody could dream he is the Mr. Brock."

"And why did you come here? Why have you lived, like a couple of common people, in this ramshackle place, without housekeeper or servant? You simply made the people talk about you. How could they understand a couple of gentlemen pigging it! Your mother and sisters coming here naturally made a scandal. Even I couldn't believe they were your relations, though I was positive you were much better than you pretended to be. I shall never forgive you for talking to me in Devonshire dialect, though I'm quite willing to forget you had supper one Sunday evening in our kitchen."

"Wasn't it fun too!" Sidney chuckled. "I wanted grandfather to come, but he drew the line at that. When you know grandfather well – and that's going to be jolly soon – you will guess how enormously he has enjoyed his time here. It was his idea entirely. He loves roughing it, he has spent most of his life knocking about the world, and he's only really happy in a cottage. He declares luxury and high feeding kill more people than any disease. It's only the rustic who lives to be a hundred, he says; and, as he means to score a century himself, he takes a spell of living like a rustic occasionally. He could never get a satisfactory tenant for this place, so he told father one day he'd made up his mind to show the commoners what hard work could accomplish on a Dartmoor farm."

"Where do you come in?"

"Just here. I hadn't been very strong since leaving school – crocked myself rowing – and the doctor said I ought to work in the open air for a time before taking up anything serious. You can't persuade doctors that farming is work; they look upon it as a recreation. So grandfather suggested I should come along with him. Father was willing, but mother was horrified. I jumped at the idea of course. Grandfather is the grandest old fellow alive, and I would rather be under him than all the doctors in the world. He wouldn't have a housekeeper, as he likes doing everything for himself when he's roughing: besides, a woman would have seen his papers and letters, and found out who he was; and naturally he doesn't want the people to know that the patron of the living, and biggest landowner in the parish, is grubbing in the bogs down here."

"Didn't the scandal make him angry?"

"He has never heard a word of it."

"So that's the mystery!" cried Nellie, feeling rather ashamed of herself.

"It's jolly simple after all. We are going away before winter, when there's a flood four days a week, and a gale the other three. Grandfather owns the place has beaten him. He says a man who tries to farm on Dartmoor ought to receive a premium instead of paying a rent. If it isn't bog, it's rock, and, if it isn't rock, it's 'vuzzy trade.' And if you do put in a crop, the moles turn it out; and, if the moles don't turn it out, rabbits, sheep, mice and grubs in millions and slugs in trillions gobble it up completely. Now come and be introduced to grandfather, and then I'll take you home. He is sure to growl at you, but you must stand up to him, and then he'll love you. He likes anyone to stand up to him. The vicar got the living by contradicting him. I say, Nellie, don't hurry back to Drivelford."

"Are you aware you have not called me Miss Blisland once?" she demanded, showing no inclination to approach the terrible black grandfather.

"Quite! And are you aware you have never once called me Sidney?"

"I must go back in the morning. Miss Yard will be crazy all night without me. She will think I've been kidnapped," Nellie hurried on.

"She won't be wrong."

"I should like to start at once, though I hate the idea of facing George. I'm a dreadful coward really, and I'm afraid he will think I have treated him badly. He knows of my arrival, but I'm quite certain he is not bothering to look for me."

"A kick in the face will do him good," replied Sidney disdainfully.

"He can't take a joke, though he did try to take me, and I'm much the biggest joke he has ever run against. The truth of the matter is he has made up his mind to get back the Captain's furniture, which belongs to Miss Yard now, and he knows the only way he can get it is by marrying me."

"There's grandfather growling! He's telling Teenie to go to bed, and she's telling him to go himself. That kid never is tired. Now he's chuckling! Grandfather likes to be cheeked."

"I ought to have gone long ago. It must be getting on for midnight."

"And we've got to be up early. I'm coming with you, and you shall introduce me to Miss Yard, and then I'll take you to my people, and then we'll get married – "

"Well, of all the precociousness!" she gasped. "Do you know I'm older than you?"

"You can't blame me for that."

"And I expect to be treated with respect. And my father was never anything more than a very poor curate."

"Well, a curate is a bishop on a small scale, and we are only shopkeepers on a large scale. It's funny that poor curates should always have the nicest daughters."

"And I can't forgive you for talking to me like a farmer's boy."

"Then I won't forgive you for saying horrid things, and thinking worse about my mother and sisters."

"Of course we might forget. But then that wouldn't be enough. So I can never marry you, Sidney – at least, not until Miss Sophy dies."

"She'll have to be jolly quick about it," said the young man fiercely.

"She is very kind and considerate," Nellie murmured doubtfully; trying to work out the algebraical problem. If a Giant Tortoise is hale and hearty at five hundred, and a Yellow Leaf is trying to inveigle a Mere Bud towards the matrimonial altar at ninety-something, what is the reasonable expectation of life of an old Lady who has nothing to die for?

"All this time," said Sidney, "grandfather is peering at us, while Teenie is simply goggling. We have got to pass them, and then – thank heaven! – we shall be alone."

"If I let you come with me – " she began.

"As if you could prevent it!"

"Will you stand up to George for me? Will you play the Dragon, and not get beaten?"