Mr. Poskitt's Nightcaps. Stories of a Yorkshire Farmer

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.