CHAPTER XVI

GEORGE TAKES CONTROL

Miss Yard shuffled contentedly downstairs, nicely dressed for her evening meal, which usually consisted of thin soup, a milk pudding, and boiling water; peeped into the parlour, drew a deep breath and peeped again, uttered a few exclamations, then shuffled back to the stairs, called Nellie, and announced:

"There's a great big man in the house!"

"It's only old George," whispered the irreverent girl.

"I don't know anybody of that name; but there used to be several King Georges, and they were followed by William, and then came our dear good Victoria, who was taken in the prime of life just when she seemed to have settled down, and after that I don't remember anything," said Miss Yard.

"George is the name of our present King--and of about ninety per cent, of his loyal subjects," said Nellie.

"What's he doing here? This isn't Windsor Castle," stammered Miss Yard. "Has he called for a subscription? Gentlemen who come here always want subscriptions. Does he want to hide? I do hope there's not a revolution. Go and show him into a cupboard, Nellie, and tell him how loyal we are."

"My dear lady," laughed Nellie, "you are clean muddled, confoozled, and astern of the times. This gentleman is your much respected relative, George Drake."

"Why couldn't you say so at once, without talking a lot of wicked rubbish about a revolution and the Royal Family hiding on Dartmoor?" demanded Miss Yard snappishly.

"Of all the injustice!" sighed Nellie; but the old lady had left her. Toddling at full speed into the parlour, she embraced George, and said how well she remembered him, though twenty years had passed since they had met. "I knew you at once, directly I looked into the room I recognised your stooping shoulders and your bald head," she added, looking at a portrait on the wall and describing that accurately.

"Nellie couldn't make you out at all," she continued, "but then she was a baby when you went away. Nellie, dear, where are you? Come and be kissed by your uncle. I told you he would come back some day."

"The soup is on the table," cried Nellie as she fled.

The mind of Miss Yard roamed in a free and happy state about the nineteenth century, enabling her, during the progress of a meal, to pass through a number of different periods. While taking her soup and sipping her boiling water, she informed the others that the first railway had recently been constructed, and it ran between Highfield and Drivelford, and for her part she was very glad of it, as she thought it was quite time the coaches were done away with, and she fully intended travelling by the railway if Mr. Stephenson would let her.

"Whoever is Stephenson?" inquired George, who ought to have known better.

"It's wonderful what things she does remember," replied Nellie. "She would forget me if I left her tomorrow; yet she can remember the man who invented railways."

"I think you had better go tomorrow," said George, taking the cue.

"Yes, I should like to be one of the first," Miss Yard admitted.

"Why have you put that idea into her head? It may stick, and then she'll drive me crazy," scolded Nellie; it being perfectly safe to speak openly before the old lady.

"Send her off with Kezia at once," urged George.

"I must go with her."

"Then take Kezia too. If she stays she will split to Bessie. Even if she tries her hardest not to, she won't be able to help herself. You can't keep anything a secret for long in a place like this. You clear off, and I'll go into lodgings--and read more novels."

"Won't that look queer?"

"It would if Kezia stayed: it won't if she goes. I can't put up here with nobody to look after me."

"And you will undertake to move the furniture?"

"I will," he promised.

"Very well," she murmured after a pause. "We can't possibly get away tomorrow, as it will take me a day to pack; but we will go the day after."

"Oh, well, it's no good bothering now," said Miss Yard in a voice of bitter resignation, pushing back her plate and kicking at her footstool. "They've started without us."

George occupied his old bedroom, positively for the last time, and in the morning went out to wrestle with his difficulties. His reception by the villagers was colder than ever because, during his absence, the Dismal Gibcat had made a speech directed mainly against the man who had dared to interfere with local progress. The Dismal Gibcat preferred to be in a minority of one, but such was his gift of eloquence that a single speech sometimes swung the majority over to his side; which was an embarrassing position only to be escaped from by repudiating his former opinions. This speech had done its work, as George was presently to discover when the Dumpy Philosopher and the Wallower in Wealth approached him with questions concerning the Dartmoor Railway Company.

"That scheme is done for. It was one of my uncle's bubbles, but I have pricked it," he replied, groping his way back to popularity.

"Us wur told a lot of American gentlemen wanted to build the railway wi' something they called a syndicate," said the Wallower in Wealth.

"I told 'em the country is hardly flat enough," said George.

"It wur flat enough vor Captain Drake, and it wur flat enough vor you when you fetched that millionaire down along to look at it," said the Dumpy Philosopher.

"That's all a mistake. Mr. Jenkins came here to buy a pair of vases," said George, speaking the truth with disastrous results; for the two elders were not quite such fools as to believe a gentleman would travel from London to Highfield for the sake of purchasing a shilling's worth of crockery.

"They'm out o' cloam in London, I fancy," remarked the Wallower in Wealth.

"And in America," added the Dumpy Philosopher.

"Mr. Jenkins is a collector of vases," explained George.

"He never come to look at mine. There's a proper lot o' cloam in Highfield, and he didn't crave to see it. Us ha' heard he come to build the railway, and you stopped him from adoing it."

"Well, perhaps I did," replied George, trying to score a point by lying. "I know you are all against the scheme."

"Us wur agin it very strong, because it had never been properly explained," said the Wallower in Wealth. "Us hadn't been told they meant to put a terminus in Highfield. I ha' been to terminuses. 'Tis places where trains start from."

"And where 'em pulls up," added the Dumpy Philosopher.

"Where they starts from and where they pulls up again. It don't make no difference. I ha' started from terminuses, and I ha' stopped in 'em, so I knows what I'm telling about. A terminus brings a lot of money into a place. When they makes a terminus a town is soon built all round it. There's one or two in Highfield who ha' seen Waterloo, and that's a terminus. And they ses 'tis wonderful what a big town ha' been built all round it. A hundred years ago it wur just a ploughed field, where that tremenjus big battle was fought what made us all free volk vor ever; and now 'tis all terminus as far as you can see. That American gentleman come here wi' his syndicate...."

"'Tis something vor levelling the ground, I fancy," said the Dumpy Philosopher, when his colleague paused.

"He would ha' levelled the ground as flat as your hand, and made the terminus; and we would ha' sold our land vor what us like to ask. Now you've ruined us, sir. You ha' stopped the terminus--and you stole my musical box," said the Wallower in Wealth, combining his grievances in one brief indictment.

"You're talking like a child. How can I steal my own property?" cried George angrily.

"Mrs. Drake left all your furniture to Kezia," shouted the Wallower in Wealth.

"And the rest of it to Bessie," added the Dumpy Philosopher.

"They ha' got paper to prove it, Robert ses."

"Why did you offer me money for the musical box, then?" asked George.

"To try your honesty," replied the Wallower in Wealth. "And you warn't honest. You wouldn't take my money because it warn't big enough. Then you go and steal the musical box, wi' a lot of other things, from Kezia."

"And from Bessie Mudge," added the Dumpy Philosopher.

"And if you don't get sent to prison--"

"It won't be for the same reason that you aren't put away in a lunatic asylum," George finished; wondering, as he went on to engage a lodging, how it was his uncle had succeeded in ruling this community of wranglers.

A devout widow let religious rooms opposite the churchyard: they were religious because tables were piled with theological tomes, and walls were covered by black and white memorial cards, comforting texts, and discomposing pictures of Biblical tragedies in yellow and scarlet which helped to warm the house in chilly weather. Towards this dwelling George made his way, knowing the importance of being respectable, although he could not help feeling he had done nothing to deserve those pictures. But presently he swung round, and went off in the opposite direction. An idea had come to him: he remembered the Art Dyers.

That name described a married couple; not a business of giving a new colour to old garments; but the vocation of bread baking, cake making, and specialising in doughnuts. Arthur Dyer was the stingiest man in Highfield; he gave away no crumbs of any kind; had any one asked a stone of him, he would have refused it, but would assuredly have put that stone into his oven and baked it, hoping to see some gold run out. He went to church once a week, no entrance fee being demanded, and always put two fingers into the offertory bag, but whether he put anything else was doubtful. He was also Robert's employer. Mrs. Dyer had learnt in the school of her husband until she was able to give him lectures in economy; and in times past she had implored George, out of his charity, to drive the wolf from their door by finding her a lodger.

"She will ask a stiff price, and I shall get nothing to eat except bread puddings," he muttered, "but the game will be worth starvation."

George might also have remarked with poetic melancholy he had lived to receive his warmest welcome in a lodging house, when Mrs. Dyer had taken him in, showed him a bed, certain to be well aired as it stood above the oven, and promised to be much more than an ordinary mother in her attentions. The rooms appeared somewhat barren, but the air was excellent, being impregnated with an odour of hot fat which was a dinner in itself, and might very possibly be charged as one.

A slight difficulty arose regarding terms, owing to a sudden increase in the price of commodities and a shortage of domestic labour. Everything had got so dear Mrs. Dyer could not understand how people lived: it seemed almost wicked of them to make the attempt, but then a funeral had got to be such a luxury it was perhaps cheaper to struggle on. That was what she and her husband were doing from day to day, with everything going up except their income. Luckily they were still able to sell a few doughnuts: people insisted upon them for their tea. The local doctor spoke highly of them, and most of the babies in the parish were brought up on their doughnuts, with a little beer occasionally--the doctor said it helped. After sleeping in that atmosphere Mr. Drake would find one good meal a day--a chop followed by bread-and-butter pudding--would be almost more than he could manage. She did not want to make a profit, but if he could pay five shillings a day, she thought with careful management she might not lose much.

This matter arranged, George returned to Windward House, where the packers were as busy as a hen with one chicken. Miss Yard, feeling she must be doing something, was pinning sheets of newspaper round the mummy. Bessie was hindering Kezia from filling all manner of cases with various ornaments and photographs, which it was the custom to take away for the annual outing, although they were never removed from the boxes. Bessie felt uncomfortable, as it appeared to her Kezia was dismantling the place.

"You don't want to take all them pictures," she said at last.

"I'd feel lonely without 'em," explained Kezia.

"You never took 'em last time you went to the seaside. You'm not going to be away more than two weeks."

"Miss Sophy might fancy to be away a bit longer. I do like to have my little bits o' things round me, wherever I be."

"What's the name of the place you'm going to?"

"Miss Nellie will tell ye. 'Tis worry enough vor me to get ready without bothering where we'm going," replied the harassed Kezia.

"Miss Sophy ses 'tis Drivelford."

"'Tis something like that, I fancy," admitted Kezia, beginning to break down under cross-examination.

"That's where Miss Sophy come from. It ain't seaside."

"A river ain't far off," Kezia muttered.

George had arrived and, hearing these voices, he tramped upstairs to save the situation.

"They are going to Drivelmouth," he said.

"I fancied Miss Nellie said Drivelford," remarked the futile Kezia.

"I know she did, and that's where Miss Sophy come from. Why does she want to go back there again?" Bessie inquired warmly.

"You ought to know by this time it's no use attending to what Miss Yard says. Drivelford is quite a different place from Drivelmouth, which happens to be on the sea just where that beautiful river, the Drivel, runs into it. There's a splendid sandy beach--and it's quite a new place they've just discovered," explained George.

"Seems funny, if 'twas there, they never found it avore," said the suspicious Bessie.

"It has just become popular. It was a little fishing village, and now they are making roads and building houses because doctors have discovered there's something in the air," George continued.

"That's what Miss Nellie told me. There's an amazing big cemetery, and 'tis a wonderful healthy place," said Kezia.

"You see, doctors recommend the place so highly that old people go there and die. That accounts for the cemetery, which is not really a local affair, for Drivelmouth is the healthiest place in England," said George.

"Miss Nellie ses there be a thousand volks, and seven be took, and one gets paralytics," commented Kezia.

"Drivelmouth is a great place for general paralysis. The paralytics are wheeled up and down the front all day. People go there just to see them," said George recklessly.

"Wish I wur going," Bessie murmured.

"Surely you are not going to take all those things!" George exclaimed, indicating a teaset, dinner service, and a quantity of art pottery.

"That's what I tells her. She don't want all them things away with her," cried Bessie.

"I don't like leaving them behind--wi' thieves breaking into the house to steal. I ha' lost enough already," said Kezia plaintively.

This was a fortunate remark, as it disconcerted Bessie and put a stop to questions, while at the same time it removed her suspicions. It was not surprising that Kezia should wish to take away as much treasure as possible. She would have done the same herself. Still, she did not like to see that dinner service go out of the house. Robert had been about to move that.

"How long be 'em going away for, Mr. George?" she asked presently, when Kezia had gone to gather up more of her possessions.

"That depends on the weather," came the diplomatic answer.

Packing continued steadily: boxes, crates, and hampers were piled up in the hall awaiting transport; Kezia had been prevented from leaking; Miss Yard continually inquired whether the railway was quite finished.

The calm of exhaustion prevailed, when there came a defiant knock upon the front door, and the bell rang like a fire alarm.

"It must be a telegram," said George gravely.

"I hope nothing has happened to Mr. and Mrs. Taverner," said Nellie.

"Why shouldn't something happen to them?" George muttered.

"What do they say? Is there any hope?" cried Miss Yard.

"We don't know anything yet," replied Nellie.

"The railway has gone wrong. I was afraid it would--they were so venturesome. You were reading about letters coming without wires."

"Telegrams," corrected Nellie, listening to the voices outside.

"Yes, the postmen are very wonderful. You said they were using the stuff we eat in puddings, tapioca--or was it macaroni?"

"You mean Marconi wireless messages, Aunt," said George.

"I always mean what I say," replied the lady curtly.

In the meantime Kezia and Bessie had advanced together, preparing themselves to face the police inspector, but hoping it would be nothing worse than the tax collector. Bessie opened the door, while Kezia sidled behind her. The next moment they both groaned with horror.

"Is Miss Blisland in?" asked a pert young voice.

"She might be," replied Bessie hoarsely.

"Ask her please if she'll come out and speak to me."

"Oh, my dear, shut the door and bolt it!" Kezia whispered.

This was done, and they presented themselves in the parlour with woeful faces.

"It's her!" Bessie announced. "She wants to see you. She's standing on our doorstep!"

"Who?" cried Nellie.

"The last of 'em--the one that come yesterday. She didn't tell us her name."

"She's ashamed of it," said Kezia.

"Perhaps Mr. George'll go and send her off," suggested Bessie.

"Who are you talking about?" asked Nellie impatiently.

"The wench from Black Anchor. She ain't no more than a child, but the way her stared on us wur awful."

"Sent a shiver through me--so bold and daring!" Kezia added.

"Miss Teenie, is it?" George muttered. "Sit down, Nellie; I'll go and talk to her."

"I can do my own business, thanks," said Nellie, going towards the door.

"I'll come with you anyhow," he said.

"You will do nothing of the kind," replied the young lady coldly.

Out she went, while Miss Yard stood trembling on the hearthrug, and Bessie listened at the keyhole, and Kezia sniffed beside the window. George was trying to persuade himself that no young woman would venture to trifle with his noble nature.

"Is it very bad?" asked Miss Yard.

"Yes, miss," replied Bessie. "She's brought her in--she's taken her into the dining room--she's shut the door. Oh, Miss, they're laughing!"

"I never did think Miss Nellie would go like this," Kezia lamented.

"She was here just now," said Miss Yard simply.

"Yes, miss, but she's gone now--gone to the bad."

"What's it all about?" asked the old lady, appealing to George who seemed to be the only comforter.

"I am sorry to say Nellie has got into bad company--into the very worst company--and we shall have to be very stern with her."

"Yes, indeed we must, or she will lose all her money. I know what these companies are. I get a lot of circulars, and I always tell Nellie she is to burn them," said Miss Yard in sore distress.

"Just listen to 'em talking!" cried Bessie.

"I can't abear much more," Kezia wailed.

The next minute Miss Yard was struggling towards the door, rejecting the advice of George, pushing aside the arms of Bessie; declaring that nobody should prevent her from dragging Nellie out of the pit of financial ruin. She stumbled across the hall, banged at the door of the dining room until it was opened to her; and then came silence, but presently the old lady's queer voice could be heard distinctly, and after that her bursts of merry laughter. Miss Yard had fallen into this very worst company herself. Kezia and Bessie crept silently toward the kitchen. The whole house was polluted. George searched for flies to kill.

"Oh, I say, what tons of luggage!" cried a childish voice.

"Yes, we are off first thing in the morning," said Nellie; and then followed some whispering, with a few words breaking out here and there:

"Miss Yard wants to be among her old friends again ... a great secret, you know" ... "of course I shan't tell anyone, but Sidney will be" ... "I'm so sorry, but it can't be helped" ... "there's such a thing as the post" ... "good-bye! I'm so glad you came."

The door shut, George jumped out of the window in time to see the young girl racing down the lane; then he returned to the house and asked sternly, "What's the meaning of this?"

"Really and truly I don't know," replied Nellie. "But I am at least satisfied that Highfield needs a missionary."

"Now you are shuffling. You invited that miserable little creature into my house, you encouraged her to cross my doorstep, I heard you laughing and talking as if you were enjoying yourself. You actually gave away the secret about Drivelford. Come outside!" said George, as if he meant to fight.

"I mean you can't believe a word that Highfield says," she explained, following obediently. "That little girl's as good as gold."

"To begin with, who is she?" George demanded, scowling like the Dismal Gibcat.

"That is more than I can tell you. She told me her name was Christina--sometimes Chrissie--but those who love her generally call her Teenie."

"What did she want?"

"She invited me to tea at Black Anchor Farm on Sunday. She also promised to chaperon me."

"The infamous urchin!" groaned George.

"I should have gone," she said steadily.

"Then you must be altogether--absolutely wrong somewhere. Go there to tea! Sit opposite that wicked old man, beside that abandoned youth, and positively touching that shameless child who hasn't got a surname! After all that has passed between us, after all your promises to me, after all that I have done for you--all my kindness and self-sacrifice--you would drink tea out of their teapot, and let yourself be talked about as one of the young women of Black Anchor!"

"My suspicions are not quite gone. But directly I saw little Miss Christina I knew the horrible things we have heard are all lies. She's a young lady. She goes to school at Cheltenham."

"That makes it worse. You know old Brock--he's an ordinary labourer. While Sidney is a common young fellow who can't even speak English. They are not fit to lick the polish off your shoes."

"But then I don't want the polish licked off my shoes; it's enough trouble putting it on. I do not understand the Brocks, and I can't imagine why Miss Teenie wouldn't tell me her whole name. If I could have gone to Black Anchor on Sunday, I might have found out something."

"These Dollies and Teenies, and painted females, are no relations of such common chaps. And I won't have you speaking to any of them."

"Really!" she murmured with great deliberation.

"No, I won't; and they are not to write either--I heard something about the post. Just suppose you had thrown yourself away utterly, suppose you had lowered yourself so fearfully as to have got engaged to this Sidney instead of to a Christian gentleman--how awful it would have been!"

Nellie changed colour and gazed significantly at her left hand, which was unadorned by any lover's circlet.

"You would not only have lost me, which would have been bad enough, but I should have lost the furniture, all my dear uncle's precious antiquities and priceless curios--"

"Which would have been far worse," she added.

"It would have been dreadful. Now I have secured all the furniture to you--"

"I did that for myself; I got it from Mr. Taverner," she interrupted.

"But I advised Aunt Sophy to make her will. Of course I was thinking of myself--we must do that sometimes--but I was quite unselfish in the matter. I knew if the furniture was left to you, it would be the same as--as--"

"Be careful, or you'll spoil the unselfishness," she broke in gently.

"Things have come to a head now," George continued. "You are going away tomorrow, and, of course, you will never see these horrible people again. We must do something, Nellie--we must be reckless, as we are both getting on in life. This is the third of September, and I do think before the month is out we ought to--I mean something should be done. Shall we settle on the last day of the month? I have quite made up my mind to live with Aunt Sophy; it will be good for her, and cheap for us."

"This is what the Americans call a proposition," she murmured.

"Then when she dies, there will be the furniture all round us. And Kezia can go on living with us, imagining that the furniture is hers, until she too departs in peace. We can teach Aunt Sophy how to save money, and show her how to invest it for our benefit. It looks to me as if we'd got the future ready-made."

"Is there anything very serious in all this?" she asked.

"Well, it's not like a bad illness, or any great disaster. It's comfort, happiness, all that sort of thing. When we are in for a jolly good time, we don't regard that as serious."

"But what is to happen on the last day of the month?"

"It has just occurred to me we might do the right thing--obviously the right thing. Don't you think so, Nellie? What's the good of waiting, and wearing ourselves out with ceaseless labour? On the thirty-first of this month, the last of summer, let us make the plunge."

"Do you mean it?" she asked, with a queer little laugh, which was perhaps a trifle spiteful; but then the lover was so very callous.

"I have thought over it a great many times, and I've always arrived at the same conclusion."

"But what do you want me to do on the thirty-first?"

"To go to church."

"I go every Sunday."

"For a special purpose."

"I always have one."

"To hear the service read."

"Will that make any difference to me?"

"Why, of course it will."

"It will change my present B. into a lifelong D.?"

"That's a very artistic way of putting it," said George, rubbing his hands.

"On the thirty-first?"

"It will suit me nicely."

"For the sake of peace and quietness I agree. But I want you to promise one thing--don't waste money over an engagement-ring; as, if you do, I won't wear it."

"That's a splendid idea! But all the same, Nellie, I should never have thought of going to any expense."

"You are so economical. It's the one thing I like about you."

"And the one thing I like about you," said George, not to be outdone in compliments, "is your willingness to listen to good advice."

They parted, with quite a friendly handshake. George went to his bed, and was baked so soundly above the oven that, before he reached Windward House the following morning, Miss Yard and her attendants had departed.