 Chapter 49 The Air of the Fairfields At dead of night Alice was very ill, and Tom was called up to ride across Kressley Common for the Wickford Doctor. Worse and worse she grew, in this unknown danger, without support of her husband's love or consolation, the pains of hell get hold of her, and the fear of death was upon her. Glad was she in her lonely terrors to hear the friendly voice of Dr. Willett, as he came up the stairs with a heavy, booted step in hurried conversation with old Dolcibella Crane, who had gone down to meet him on hearing the sound of his arrival. In lower tones the Doctor put his questions when he had arrived in his patient's room, and his manner became stern and his measures prompt, and it was plain that he was very much alarmed. Alice Fairfield was in danger, in so great danger that he would have called in the Hathedon Doctor or any other to share his responsibility if the horse which Tom drove had not had as much as he could to do that night in the long trot, and partly can to Wickford and back again to the Grange. Alice's danger increased, and her state became so alarming that the Doctor was afraid to leave his patient and stayed that night at the Grange. In the morning he sent Tom to Hathedon with a summons for his brother physician, and now this quaint household grew thoroughly alarmed. The lady was past the effort of speaking, almost of thinking, and lay like a white image in her bed. Old Dolcibella happily had charged the money, not much, which Alice had for present use, so the Doctors had their fees and were gone, and Dr. Willet of Wickford was to come again in the evening, leaving his patient, as he said, quieter, but still in a very precarious state. When the Wickford Doctor returned he found her again too ill to think of leaving her. At midnight Tom was obliged to mount and ride away to Hathedon for the other Doctor. Before the Hathedon Doctor had reached the Grange, however a tiny voice was crying there. A little spirit had come, a sign of the Fairfield race. Mrs. Tarnley wrote to Harry Fairfield to wyven to announce the event, which he did thus. Sir? Master Harry, it has come a surprise. Mrs. is this morning give birth to a boy and heir, baby's well, but Mrs. Fairfield low and dangerous. Your servant, Mildred Tarnley. Dolcy Beller, without consulting Mildred any more than Mildred did her, wrote also a letter, gentler and more gracious, but certainly no better spelled, when these reached wyven Harry was from home. It was not till four days had passed that Harry Fairfield arrived in the afternoon. He had thrown his horse's bridle to Tom in the stable-yard, and appeared suddenly before Mildred Tarnley in the kitchen-door. Well, how's the lady in the straw? inquired Harry, looking uncomfortable, but smiling as best. How is Miss Alice? Mrs. Fairfield's very bad, and the Doctor hand-munched hopes of her. She lies at God's mercy, sir. She'll be better, you'll find. She'll be all right soon. When was it? You put no date on your note. On Friday, I think. We're so put about here, I scarce know one day from Tother. She'll be better. Is any one here with her? A nurse from Hatherton. No one else? I thought Lady Windale might've come. I was going to send over there, but Doctor Willet said no. Did he? Why? Not yet a bit. He says she'd be in his way in no use, and maybe work her into her fever. Very likely, said Harry. Isn't it a boy? By yes, sir, a fine-thumping baby, and like to do well. I will prove be like a true open-handed Fairfield, and a brave squire of Wyvern. Well, that is as maybe. I'll not trouble him. I have more than enough to my share as it is, and there's some things that's better never than late, and I'll live and die a bachelor. I have more years than my teeth shows. Harry smiled, and showed his fine teeth. There's Fairfield's took a wife later than you, said she, eyeing him darkly. Two wives, old girl. You'll not catch me at that work. Wives is like Flanders' mares, as the squire says. Fairest afar off. Hey! snarled old Mildred, with a prolonged note. No less I don't want, no how, to be squire of Wyvern. There's more pains than gains in it. Always one thing or tether wrong, one begs and tether robs, and ten cusses to unblessen. I don't want folks to say a me, as they does of some. Harry's a huck, and does no good till he dies. Folk do like an estate, though, said Mildred, with another shrewd look. I, if all straight and clear, but I don't like debts and bother, and I have seen how the old boys worried that way till he's fit to drown himself in the pond. I can do something, buying or selling, and little and often, you know, fills the purse. Mildred was silent. They do say, I mean, I know's it for certain, there is a screw loose, and if you know where, I think. But how can I help that? The Dutch woman, I know, can prove her marriage to poor Charlie. But never you blab, no more will I. There was no child of that marriage, neither chick nor child. So being as she is, it is little to her how that sow's handled. It would be a pity poor Charlie's son should lose his own, and you may tell Alice, I'm glad there's a boy, and that she'll have no trouble from me, but all the help I can, and that's a fact, and that's God's truth. Well, well, that is queer. I never heard a man speak as you speak. There was a cynical incredulity in Mildred Tarn this tone. Listen now, here we be alone, eh? said he, looking around. You may say so, said she, with a discontented emphasis. I tell you a thing in a minute, old Tarnly, only they say old vessels must leak. Will you be staunch? Will you hold your tongue on't, if I tell you a thing? I, said Mildred, because one barking dog sets all the street to barking, you know, he added. You know me well, Master Harry. I could hold my tongue always when there is a need. And that's the reason I'm going to talk to you, said Harry. And no one knows it, mind, but yourself, and if it gets out, I'll know who to blame. Don't get out from me, said Mildred, looking hard at him. One devil drubs another, they say, and if the young squire upstairs has a foot in the mud, I've one in the mire, said Harry. If his hat has a hole, my shoe has another. It is a bad bargain where both are losers. Well, I can't see it, know how. I don't know what you're driving at, but I think you're no fool, Master Harry. You never was that, and it's a cunning part, I've heared, to play the fool well. And Harry did look very cunning, as she cited this sore, and for a moment also a little put out, but he quickly resumed, and staring in her face, surly, said he. Well, I am cunning, I hope I am, and you're a little bit that way, you're self-old Mildred, no fool anyway, that I ever could see. Crafty I may be, I have lived years, and seen folk enough to make me, but my heart weren't set never on pelf. A thousand pounds, and a battle of hay, is all one at doomsday. So it is, said he, but there's a good many days, twix this, and doomsday yet, and money'll do more than my lord's letter any place, and I'll not deny I'd like Wyvern well enough, if my hand were free to lay on it, but I had thought it well over, and it wouldn't fit me know how I can't. You're the first fairfield I ever heared say that Wyvern wouldn't fit in, said she. Is that beer in the jug, he asked, nodding towards a brown jug that stood on the dresser. Yes, sir, would you like a drink? I, if it bane stale. Fresh true, just as you was coming in, sir, said she, setting it down on the table. I'll fetch you a glass. Never mind a glass, a ranting dog like me can drink out of a well bucket, much less a brown jug, and clutching it carelessly by the handle. He quaffed as long and deeper draught, as his ancestor namesake might, after his exhausting flight from Worcester a couple of hundred years before. You're puzzled, old girl, and don't know whether I'd be ingest or earnest, but good or bad, wives must be had, you know, and you never heard of a fairfield man yet that was lucky in a wife, or hadn't a screw loose, some time about they sought a gattle. And you're an old servant, Mildred, and though you'd be a bit testy, you're true, and I may tell you things I wouldn't tell no one, not the governor, not my little finger, I'd burn my shirt if it knew, and you won't tell no one upon your soul, and as he hoped to be saved. I can keep counsel, I'm good at that, said Mildred. Well, I need not say no more than this. There's them that's quiet enough now, and will be, that if they thought I was squire or wyvern, I'd make the world too hot to hold me. I'd rather be Harry Fairfield at fair and market, then Archbishop of Hell, I can tell you, having no like in for fine titles and glory, with a tethered leg and a sore heart, better to go your own gate, and eat your mouthful where you find it, than go in gold with a broken back, that's all, and that's truth. If, towards otherwise, I'd be down in the mouth, I can tell you, about the young gentleman upstairs, and I had a liked his birthday no better than a shepherd loves a bright candle-mass. But, as it is, no matter, it is better to me than a pot of gold, and I drank the little chap's health, and I wish she had a sip full of them, and that's God's truth as I stand here, and Harry back the declaration with an oath. Well, I believe you, Harry, said Mildred. And I'm glad, Ott, if she added after a pause. I'm very glad, there's been ill blood over much in the family, she resumed. It's time there should be peace and brotherhood. God knows, I'm glad to hear you speak like that, sir. And so, saying, she extended her dark, hard palm to him, and he took it, and laughed. Every man knows where his own shoe pinches, said he. It is a shrush world, old girl, and there's warts and chill-blanes where no one guesses, but things won't be forever. It is a long lane, you know, there's no turning, and the burr won't stick always. I, I, Master Harry, as I've heard the old folks say, be the day never so long at last cometh even song. And how is the lady herself? said he. As bad as can be, a most, answered Mildred. Who says so, he asked. The doctor, he has no opinion of her. I'm a fair poor little thing. The doctor, does he? But is he any good? It's Doctor Willet of Wickford. He's thought a deal of by most folk down here. I don't know, I'm sure, but he seems very nice about her. I think, and kind, and looks after the baby too. That's right, I'm glad of that. I'd pay something myself rather than it should be neglected. But what does he say, oh the boy? Doing very well, nothing against him. But, you know, it is only a few days, and all soon to judge yet a bit. I wonder, could she see me for a minute? Hootman, how come that into your head? Why the room's dark, she never speaks above a whisper, and not five words then. And only maybe thrice in a day, you don't know what way she is. It is just the turn of a hipney, whether she'll lift her mornin'. That's bad, I didn't think she could be that bad, said he. She is then. To do her no harm to know that there's some rent, about thirty pounds, due from Riddle's Wake, I'll give Tom a bit of a note to farm a Y-Craft, and he'll pay it. It's settled to her for her life, I know that, and she'll be wanting money, and see you that the child wants nothing. I have lots of reasons why that child should do well. This ain't bad beer, I could tell you, and not the mug of it wouldn't hurt me. And if you can make me out of mouthful of anything, I'm beastly hungry. A bit of cold corned beef, some cheese, and a loaf Mildred Tarnley produced, and Harry made a hearty meal in the kitchen, not disturbing that engrossing business by conversation, while old Mildred went to and fro into the scullery and back again, and busied herself about her saucepans and dishes. Now get me a pen and ink and a bit of paper, there's no one in the house will be worse of a little money, and I'll write that note. And so he did, and handed it to Mildred, with the air of a prince who was bestowing a gift. There, that will make the mare go for a while longer, and looky, where's old Dorsey Bella Crain? I'd like to shake hands with her before I go. Upstairs, with her mistress. Tell her to come down and see me for a minute, and mind, old Tarnley, you must write to me often, to-morrow, and the next day, and where's my hat? On my head, by Jove, and so on, for if anything should happen, if little Alice should found her, you know, there should be someone, when she's off the hooks, to look after things a bit, and the governor won't do nothing. Put that out of your head, and till all fall on my shoulders, and send her down to me, old Dorsey Bella Crain, I mean, for I'm going, and unless I'm wanted, I mayn't see you here for many a day. Thus charged, Mildred Tarnley went away, and in a few minutes, old Dorsey Bella appeared. From her, after he had examined her, as to the state of the lady upstairs, and of her baby, he exacted the same promise as that which Mildred had made him, a promise right often to Wyvern. He did not mind making her the same odd confidence which he had made to Mildred. There was no need, he thought, for Dorsey Bella was soft-hearted, and somewhat soft-headed too, by no means given to suspicion, and as she had not the evil that attends shrewdness, neither had she the reliability, and she was too much given to talking, and a secret would then become more public than he cared to make it. And tell the mistress I wish her joy, do you mind, and I'd like to stand Godfather to the boy, whenever the christening is, and to put me to any work she thinks I'm fit for, and tell her I wrote about a handful of rent that's coming to her, and goodbye, and take care of yourself, and who's nursing the baby? We feed it with goat's milk, and sitch like by direction the doctor. Wouldn't you like to see it? Not this time I'm off, but who's taking charge of him? Amongst us the perlittle darling is, but mostly me. Well, that's right, and look after it well, and I'll give you a bit of money when it's on a little, and don't forget to write, and you needn't say no toward Mildred, for she's going to write, too, and might take half if she knew that you was writing also, do you see? Yes, Master Harry, Charlene Unchonneau, and I'm thinking ye would like to see it, and it would be nothing the worse, you'll find, and it is such a darling, and it's so like it's poor Papa that's gone, eh? But I haven't no time, dear, this bout, and you may give his worship my kind regards, and tell him the more he thrives, the better I'm pleased, and old chimneys won't stand for ever, and he won't be long kept out of his own, and I'll keep them aloof that would make or meddle or mar, and goodbye, old does he, Crane, and mind what I said. And clapping her on the shoulder, with his strong hand, he smiled after his fashion, and wagged his head, and strode into the yard, mounted his horse, and was soon far away on the road from Carwell Grange. End of Chapter 39 Chapter 50 of The Wyvern Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Adrian Stevens. The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan LeFannou Chapter 50 Bertha Veldecaust Harry Fairfield, when crossing Cressley Common, he reached the road that diverges eastward, took that turn and rode towards Hatherton. Surely enough, he looked when he slackened his pace to a walk at the foot of the long, low hill that interposes between the Common and that town. He had a short pipe in his pocket, with a big bowl, and a metal cover to it, into which he stuffed some pinches of tobacco. A shilling went a good way. A shilling went a good way in that sort of smoking, and Harry was economical. And soon his pipe was in full play. This narcotic helped his cogitative powers, and he had a good deal to think about. He was going to see his old friend Bertha Veldecaust in her new situation, and he was considering how best to approach her. From such ruminations to vague and irregular to be reduced to logical sequence and arrangement, there arise, nevertheless, conclusions by no means unimportant and quite distinct enough. By this time he had smoked his pipe out, and looked down from the summit of this rising ground upon the pretty town spreading among the trees, with its old tower and steeple, its courthouse, its parsonage, and that high-walled stronghold on the right in which the object of his visit was at present secluded. When, having complied with all the formalities, he obtained an entrance, and obtained permission to visit that person, it was her pleasure to keep him waiting for some time for his audience. Harry grew cross and impatient. The more so is he heard that she had a friend with her, drinking tea, and reading the newspaper to her. As Harry Fairfield was one of those persons who are reversed to sacrificing themselves without a good consideration, the reader will conclude that his object was not altogether to serve the old soldier. If it had been only that, I think he would have left the town of Hatherton ray-infector. As it was, he waited, and at last was admitted. This lady, Bertha Veldecaust, chose to be known among her neighbours in Misfortune as Madame Bertha Fairfield of Wyvern, which style and title she preferred to that by which she had been committed to the safekeeping of the jailer. When Harry Fairfield stepped into her small apartment, he found her dressed, and bedisoned in a way that a little surprised him. She had on a sky-blue satin dress, caught up at one side with a bunch of artificial flowers. She had a lace scarf and a lace coiffure lying flat across her head, with a miniature coronet of Roman pearl in the centre. And lappets, depending at each side. She had a double necklace of enormous Roman pearls about her throat, and a pair of pink velvet slippers, embroidered with beads and bugles, and this taudry figure set on the side of her truckle-bed to receive him, with the air of the princess in a pantomime. She accumulated her finery in this way, I think, for the purpose of impressing the people about the prison with a due sense of her position and importance. It may not have been quite without its effect. Hello, madam. I came to tell you some news, said he, as soon as the door was closed. But, by the makings, you most took my breath away at first sight of you. Pity to have so nice a man breathless! Deplorable bitty! Suppose you go away. I did not ask you to come and get your breath again in the air of my place. What place may that be? Not Hoxton Old Town, hey? Not at all, Wyvern, dear child, she said, in a quiet sneer. Oh, thank ye, yes, I will. I'll take a mouthful there, as you are so good. As he concluded this speech, Master Harry put out his tongue at the blind lady with a grimace that was outrageous. I'll hide my name no longer, she said. I'm Mrs. Fairfield of Wyvern. That is, as may be, he answered, serenely. I say, I'm Mrs. Fairfield of Wyvern, repeated, she. Boo! answered Harry. Beast, by that noise, what do you mean? I'll tell ye by and by. Come, ye mustn't be cross, it wastes time. More time than we know what to do within this house, she sneered. Well, that's true for some, I'll not deny. But there's some as is pretty well worked I hear. And so long as we may endure the leisure, for as bad as that is business here, I'm told is a deal worse, and Harry laughed. Pleasant was my Harry always, again sneered the lady. And ye heard a poor charlie, of course, he asked. Yes, of course, everyone is not like you. I did hear, I don't thank you. She answered tartly and turned her pale malignant face towards him. But, dear girl, I could not. There were difficulties, eyes are watching on all hands, and ears cocked, and I knew you could not be long without knowing. So ye heard, but may have you haven't heard this. There was a child born of that marriage. Marriage? And with an oath, the big Dutch woman burst into a discordant laugh. For a moment Harry was alarmed, but the laugh was not hysterical, purely emotional, and an escape for pent-up scorn and fury. Well, anyhow, there's a child, a boy, and a fine, hailed little chap, with a big bald head, and a bawling mouth, as ever a mother hugged the darlin. Well, let the brat lie on the dung-heap. You'll not lift him, said the lady. I'll not meddle or make. I'm not over-hot about wyvern. I'd rather have a pocket full of money, than a house full of debts any day. But anyhow, there he is, and four bones that's to walk off with my share out. I should have got morning, said Bertha Veldecaust, speaking from some hidden train of thought. Baa! No one to see you here, said Harry. If I had money or credit, I'd have got it, she said. That's very affectionate of you, said Harry. But why do you dress like that? Why do you dress like the lady with the glass slipper? Cinderella at the King's Ball, in the storybook. I should dress you think like Cinderella over the coal-scuttle? Well, I wouldn't set the focal laughing, when I was in no laughing humour myself. Not it makes much odds, and I do suppose it don't matter, not it. It does matter something, perhaps, and perhaps nothing, but I know who I am, and I won't let myself down, said she. I don't want to lose my temper, I'm too high to put my foot in the mud. Too high to put your foot in the mud. Too high I'll put your foot on the pavement, said Harry mischievously, with his eyes on this impulsive lady, and hitching his chair off a little to secure a fair start. You'll be too high, I'm thinking, to get your foot to ground at all, one of these days, if you don't look sharp. It's too high a flight, I'm thinking, to get your foot to ground at all, one of these days, if you don't look sharp. It's too high a flight, I'm told, to touch terra firma, with the top of your toe, the gallows, I mean, and that's what you're coming to quick, I'm afraid. As Harry concluded, he stood up, intending to get out, if possible, without the indignity of coming to hand-grips with a woman. The Herculean lady in sky-blue satin and Roman pearls, leaned forward with sharpened features, but neither extended her arm nor attempted to rise. Then she sighed deeply and leaned with her shoulders to the wall. Off in a coach for this bout, thought Harry. Thank you, kind lad, always the same, she sneered quietly. You wish it no doubt, but no, you don't think it, I know better. Why the devil should I wish you hang, Bertha? Don't be a fool, you're not in my way, and never can be. There's that boy, and, for reasons of my own, I'm glad he is, I'm glad he's where he is, and Wyvern will be for him, and not for me, never. Harry, dear, you know quite well, she drawled softly with a titter. You'll poison that boy, if you can. You lie, said Harry, turning scarlet, and then a suddenly pale. You lie, and so that's answered. Here followed a silence. The woman was not angry, but she titted again and nodded her head. Wyvern's out of my head, I never cared about it. I had my own reasons, I never did. He swore furiously, striking his hand on the table. And I won't see that boy ruined, my flesh and blood, my own nephew. No, no Bertha, that would never do, the boy must have his own. I'll see you made comfortable. But that lay won't do, you'll find it won't pay, know how. Speak out then, what do you mean? said Bertha. Come, come, come Bertha, you're no fool, weadled he. There isn't a sound ahead from this to London. And though you'd be a bit hot-headed, you're not as bad as you'd have us believe. Taint the worst always, that has an over-hasty hand. Why, bless thee, girl, I'd be sorry you were hurt, and I'd hope to get you out of this, without scathe or scorn, if you'll let me. Well, come, what's in your mind, Harry Fairfield? she asked. I'll tell you what it is. Can you do no good, know how, being hard on that boy? I know, and you know, you were never married to poor Charlie. You lie! cried the lady bitterly. So there were quits on the point of honour. Now Bertha, lass, come now, reason, reason. Don't you be in a hurry, and just listen to reason, and I'll make it better to you than fifty marriages. Don't you think I have no advice? I've engaged Mr. Wynell, the best attorney in Hatherton, and I know what I'm about. The better you know it, the better I'm pleased. But the lawyer folk likes a little bit of a row. They seldom cries kiss and be friends, until their hands be well greased, and their clients has a belly full of law. Therefore it's better that friends should put their heads together, and agree before it comes to that sort of milling. And I tell you, you shall be cared for. I'll see to it, if you don't be kicking up no rouse about nothing. She laughed a quiet scornful laugh. Oh, oh, Master Harry, poor little fellow. He's frightened, is he? You're damnably mistaken, said he. Frightened indeed. I'll see who's frightened. I know there was no marriage. I know it. And it won't be trying it on me. You'll just get yourself in the wrong box. Where's the use of running your head into a cotton bag? Cotton bag? Your own head. Who's to do it? I'll be clumsy fingers that can't tie that, not glass. Come. You're a clever girl. You're not to be talking. Not like a fool. I know everything about it. If you try that on, it will turn out bad. It ain't easy to green Harry Fairfield. I don't think he was ever yet fooled, by alas, but where he chose to be fooled, and it's pretty well allowed, there's no use trying to bully him. I ought to like you, if all that is so, said she. For you are so very like my own self. I'm not trying to bully you, girl. Not a sully, neither. You were always a bit rash, and too ready with your hand. But them's not the worst folk going. We Fairfields has a touch of it, and we shouldn't be all hard on quick-tempered folk like that. There was no last that I ever met, gentle or simple, that could match you for good looks and pleasant talk, and you dress so beautiful, and if you had but your eyes this minute, you'd have who ye liked at your feet. And Harry Fairfield repeated this view of her charms with an oath. If ifs and ands were pots and pans, repeated the lady with a sigh of gratification, and with that foreign accent and peculiar drawl which made the homely proverb sound particularly odd. I forgot the end, but there would be no use in tinkers, I think. Well said Bertha, there's an unlike ye, not one, this minute so handsome exclaims he. Not that chit down at Coward Grange, I daresay, eh? Alice, not fit to stand behind your chair. If ye could but see her, and just look in the glass, ye'd answer the question yourself, he replied. There it is again, if I could look in the glass. It is fourteen years since I did that, if I could see that fool of a girl, if if if, she said, with an irrepressible simper. The old proverb again, ifs and ands were pots and pans. It was old Mistress Tarnley who used to say that, a damned old witch she always was, she broke out parenthetically, and should be broke alive on the wheel. Bang away with the devil's brimstick, and break her to smash for me, said Harry, but I'd sooner talk of yourself, hang me if you ever look better, there's no such figure, and by the law it's looking up, it is better and better every day. I like a tall lass, but ye beat them all by the law, and ye shows off dress so grandly. Now don't think foolish thing, I like compliments, in at one ear and out the other, she said, with the same smirk, shaking her great head. Hoot lass, compliments indeed, why should I? Only this, that knowing you so long, I just blurt out everything that comes uppermost, and it's a pity you shouldn't have money to dress as you should. I never had that, said the lady. Never, I know that well, and if you won't be said by me, you'll have less. I don't think you know much about it, said Bertha Serenie. Now Bertha child, you mustn't keep contradicting me, I do know a great deal about it, everything. There was no marriage, never. As long as Charlie lived, you never said that, you always begged me. I'm not going to tell lies for no one, said he, sulkily. Not going? Why, you have been lying all your life, you'd lie for a shilling any day, all lies, you mean miserly liar. Come Bertha, draw it mild, won't she? Did you never hear say o' the fairfields, that they were a quick tempered folk? And it's an old saying, don't knock a mad horse over the head. It's true, all I said, she laughed, and that's why it stings. And did you never hear that true jests breed bad blood, he laughed? But no matter, I'm not a bit riled, and I won't. I like you better for speaking out. I hate that mealy-mouthed talk with that fine-spoken folk goes on we. I like's a bit of a rub now and then. If you were too civil, I couldn't speak my own mind neither, and that would never do. Get along with ye. Have you any more to say? Shall I say it out, plain and short? Will you hear it through? he asked. Aye, well here it is. If you don't sign that, I think you'll be hanged. No you don't, she said more quietly. I do buy, and he swore. No you don't, she repeated in the same tone. Who is to do it? Charlie's gone, and vile as he used me, he never would have done that, and Alice won't, she told you so. I'm better informed, I believe, than you fancied. So don't you suppose I am at all anxious? I want to take you off on a coach, and you won't let me, said he. Thanks, simple hairy, she sneered. And I'm coming this day, week, and then it will be within 10 days or the sizes, and I'll be discharged, and I'll bring separate actions against every soul that had a hand in putting me here. Ask my attorney, said the lady, with a pale, angry, simper. And Judge Risk is coming down, and you better ask your attorney, as you talk of him, whether he's a hang judge or no. Cunning Beast, or won't do, she said sarcastically. Well Bertha, this day week I'll be here, and this day week will be your last chance, for things will begin that day, and no one can stop them. Lord have mercy on us, she wind, with an ugly mockery, and an up-turning of her sightless eyes. You may be saying something like that in the press room yet, if you won't take the trouble to think in earnest before it's too late. Now listen once for all, for it's the last words I'll say. That's all true, you say. Charlie's gone, and if he was here instead of in Kingdom come, twid a bean all one, for he would never have moved a hand in the matter, nor have suffered it. And as for Alice, she won't neither. But if you don't sign that paper by this day week, and make no bones about it, here he swore a hard oath. Blind as you be, I'll open your eyes, and I'll prosecute the indictment myself. Goodbye ma'am, and think between this and then. Harry Fairfield strode from the room, and was still full of the grim emotion which had animated the close of his interview, when he reached the little inn at which, but a few weeks before, his brother Charles had stabled his horse, when making his last visit to Hatherton. End of Chapter 50 Chapter 51 of The Wyvern Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Adrian Stevens. The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan Lefenou Chapter 51 Sergeant Major Archdale Harry Fairfield was a captain in his county Militia. It was right that the house of Fairfield should be represented in that core. Charlie, who was of an easy compliant temper, would have taken the commission and the light duties, if that dignity had been put upon him. But Harry chose it. It extended his acquaintance, added to his opportunities of selling his horses, and opened some houses small and great to him, in a neighbourly fashion, when making his circuits to fair and market. He knew something of games, too, and was shrewd at western draughts and held a sure cue at billiards. On the whole, his commission turned him in something in the course of a year. It was upon some regimental business that Sergeant Major Archdale was awaiting his return at Wyvern. Harry Fairfield, as it happened, was thinking of the sergeant as he rode into the yard in gloomy rumination. Well, Archdale, what's the news, said he, as he dismounted. The news was not a great deal. After he had heard it, Harry paused for a while, and said he, quite well, Archdale, I hope. Well, sir, I thank you. Again Harry paused. How did you come, Archdale? Walked, sir. Walked? Oh, very well. There was another pause. Archdale, you must go in. Here, Clinton, get some luncheon for Sergeant Major Archdale. A drink of beer and a mouthful won't do you no harm. And, Archdale, before you go, let me know. I may have a word, and I'll say it walking down the avenue. Get, Mr. Archdale, some luncheon, Clinton, and some sherry. I thank you, sir, said the Sergeant Major. It is more like supper for me. I've had my dinner, sir, some time. And with a stiff military step, the sergeant followed Clinton into the house. The sergeant Major was above the middle size and stout a body which made him look shorter. His hair was closely cut, and of a pale blue iron gray. His face was rather pale and smooth as marble, full and long, with a blue chin and a sort of light upon his fixed lineaments. Not exactly a smile, but a light that was treacherous and cruel. For the rest his military coat, which was of the old-fashioned cut, and his sheko, with all the brasses belonging to them, and his Wellington boots were natty and brilliant, and altogether unexceptionable. And a more perfectly respectable-looking man you could not have found in his rank of life in the country. Without a word, with a creak in his boots, he marched slowly in, with inflexible countenance after Clinton. The squire met Harry in the hall. Hello, it's a week or most since I set my eyes on you. You'll look out for some other place for that mad filly you brought of Jim Hardress. She's broke a boy's arm this morning in the stable. I'll not look after him. I promise you, it is your affair mind, and you'd better look sharp and delay my costume money. You're over-clever. The devil owes you a cake this many a day, and he's a busy bishop, and he'll pay you a loaf yet. I promise you, she shan't be kicking my men, and she bites the manager beside. Get her away, mind. Or, by my soul, I'll sell her for the damage. So old squire Harry stalked on, and the last scion of his stock grinned after him, soccoli, and snod something between his teeth so soon as he was quite out of hearing. Whose arm broke, Dick? Or is it all a damned lie of the governor's, and quite Harry of a servant who happened to be passing at that moment? Well, yes, sir. James Slade's arm was broken the stable. It was a kick, sir. Or kicked him. The new horse that came in on Thursday, sir. Mayor, you mean? Why, that thing's a regular lamb. She never kicked no one. Her child might play with her. More liked was the governor kicked him. And what did he do with his arm? The doctor down in the town sat it, and bound it up with splints, sir. Well, I didn't tell him. Mind that. I wasn't here, you know. Good nature to the doctor. I'll not deny. But he shan't be sending in no bills to me. And how's Jim since? Getting nicely, I'll swear. I don't know, sir. I didn't see him since. Hoot. That's all right. I warrant you. And you can tell old Slade if he likes it. I'll get him a bit of a writing to the hospital for Jim. But it won't be nothing, not a bit. And with this economical arrangement, Harry dismissed the subject for the present, and took his stand upon the hall door steps, and smoked his pipe, awaiting the close of Sergeant Major Archdale's repast. The long shadows and lights of golden suns had faded before the guest appeared, and twilight and the moths were abroad. Almost as the servant informed Harry Fairfield that Mr. Archdale was coming round to the hall door to receive his commands, the Sergeant Major appeared in front of the house, and Harry Fairfield stepped down to the court, and was received by the militia man with a military salute. I'll walk a bit with you, Archdale. I want a word about another matter, not regimental business. We'll walk down towards the gate. Stiffly and silently, the Sergeant Major marched beside the smoking gentleman, who, having got a little way from the house, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and dropped it into his pocket. That militia soldiering is beggarly pay for a man like you, Archdale, and I want a clever fellow by and by for when the squire goes off the hooks, and that can't be a long way off, I'll have a deal of trouble looking after things, for there's a young chap to succeed, and a plaguey long minority to obey, and one way or another, the trouble will fall to my share, being uncle, you see, to the little fellow. Am I making it plain what I mean? Quite plain, sir, said the cold voice of the Sergeant Major. Well, there's the property down at Warhampton, a devilish wide stretch of land for the rental, there's good chute in there, and two keepers, but I doubt they make away with the game, and they want looking after, and there's the old park at Warhampton. You know that part of the country? Yes, sir, well, I know you do. Well, it should turn in a good penny more than the governor gets. I can't bring it home to them, but I know what I think. Where the horse lies down, the hare will be found, and I doubt the park books doctored. I'll be a sort of steward wanted there, do you see? Do you know Nalton Farm? Yes, sir. Well, it's a nice thing, a snug house, and as many acres as you'd want to begin with. The tenant's going after harvest. You'd be the very man foot, and I'll tell them I'll do all I can to serve my nephew, but I must live myself too. I've now put my time and my wits to turn a penny by, and if I try to manage for him, I'll want the best help I can get, do you see? And you're the man I want. I've got no end of a character of you, for honesty and steadiness and the like, and you're a fella can use his eyes and hold his tongue, and you'd have the farm and the house, you know them, rent-free, and the grazing of three cows on the common, and it's none of your overstocked bare commons, but a sweet, a bit of grass as you'd find in the kingdom. I need shall out fifty pounds a year beside, and the farm's nigh forty acres, and it's worth close on a hundred more, and, if you do all we want well, and I'm sure you will, I'll never lose sight of ye, while grass grows and you and me lives. I thank ye, sir, said the cold, clear voice of Archdale, and there's a little bit of a secret. I wouldn't tell another about it myself, Archdale. I'll tell you, though, said Harry, luring his voice. Yes, sir, said Archdale, in the same cold, stern way which irritated Harry. Well, I'm not talking, mind, to Sergeant Major Archdale, if you like the other thing at Noltenbest. Noltenbest, sir. Certainly. Thank you. But to Mr. Archdale of Nolten, and Steward of Warhampton, mind ye, and till we settle next harvest. I thank ye, sir. Don't walk so quick, we're getting over the ground too fast. Well, there's a thing you'll have to keep dark for me. You'll find me confidential, sir, my superior officers did. I know that well, I know you, Archdale, and that is why I chose you out of a thousand, and it's a confidential fellow, damned confidential, I want, for the country is all one as the town for talk, and tongues will keep going like the bells on a sheep-walk, and there's many a bitter nonsense that's no great odds, when all's told, that a chap wouldn't like to have made the laugh or the talk of the countryside. Yes, sir, said the inflexible Sergeant Major. You held the same rank in the lion, Sergeant Major, didn't you? Yes, sir, said the Sergeant Major, and sleutid from habit. I thought so, and that says a deal for you, Mr. Archdale, and I remember one of your papers says you were the youngest sergeant ever made in your regiment. Yes, sir. Well, that says a lot too, and a very responsible office that is. Eagad, from all eyes I've seen, I'd say the sergeant has more to do with the state of regiment than all the other officers, commissioned or non-commission, put together. There's a good deal depends on him, sir. You keep to yourself, Archdale, that's the way to rise. I was a man of few kindances, sir, and confidential with my superior officers, and few words, but I meant him, sir, and made the men do their duty. That's the man for my money, said Harry. Will you be ready for Nolten Farm by the middle of next month? Yes, sir, I expect. I'll settle that for you, then, and the pay and the commonage. I'll settle that with my father to-morrow, and we'll get the writings drawn. I thank you, sir. And, wait a bit, I told you, said Harry, perhaps a little embarrassed, there's another little thing you must manage for me. Yes, sir. He almost wished Mr. Archdale to ask questions and raise difficulties, this icy surface beneath which he saw nothing, began to embarrass him. Every fellow's a fool once or twice in his life, you know, Archdale, and that's the way rogues make money, and honest chaps is sold. No fools at the fair, no sail for bad wear, you know? He looked for sympathy in the face of the sergeant major, but he found there neither sympathy nor ridicule, but a serene, dignified, supercilious composure. Well, I'm not married, and more's the pity, he said, affecting a kind of jocularity, uneasily. But among them, they've made me a present of a brat they calls my son, and I must just put him to nurse and provide for him. I do suppose, and keep all quiet, and ye look out some decent poor body that lives lonely and won't ask no questions, nor give no trouble, but be content, we are trifle, and I'll give it to you every quarter for her, and she'll never hear my name, mind, nor be the wiser who owns it, or where it came from. I'd rather she thought twas are poor bodies, if they think a fellow's well to do it, make some unreasonable, and that's the reason I pitched on you, Archdale, because you're a man of sense, won't be talking like the bratting fools that's going. And is it settled? Is it a bargain? Yes, sir, I thank you, quite, said Archdale. Well, then, ye shall hear from me by the end of the week, and not a word, mind, till all's signed and sealed about knot and farm, and about other thing, never. The stars is coming out bright, and the sunset, did ye mind? Well, it's a frost tonight, it's come dark very sudden, sharp air. He paused, but the non-commissioned officer did not venture a kindred remark, even an acquiescence in these meteorological speculations. I heard the other day you made an organ for Mr. Arden. Is it true? said Harry, suddenly. Just a small thing, three stops, sir. I pays in principal, Darcy Anna. Well, I don't know nothing about such gear, except hear the old organ a-wife and on Sundays, but it's cleverer you. How did you learn? Prentice, sir, two years to an organ-builder in Westminster, Mr. Lomas, and he died, and I was put to the army, said Archdale. Well, I may give you a lift that way, too. They were talking of an organ for Warhampton Church. We'll see. I'll not forget. I thank you, sir, repeated Archdale. Any more commands for me, sir? Mr. Archdale stood stiffly at the gate, drawn up, as it were, at right angles to Harry Fairfield. No, nothing, Archdale. I'm glad the thing suits you, and it may lie in my way to make them better than you think for. Good night, Archdale. Good night, Sergeant Major. Good night, sir. And Archdale wheeled to his left, and with his back towards the village of Wyvern, marched away at so stiff and regular quick march, that you could have fancied the accompaniment of drums and fives. Harry stood at the iron gate, one half of which was open, and he kicked a stone listlessly into the road, and, leaning on the old iron arabesques, he looked long after that portly figure receding in distance and melting in twilight. Night's the mother of thought, I have heard say, said Harry, rousing himself, and swinging the great valve into its place with a clang. But thought won't do to dine on. Hello! Gate! Gate! Jorricks! Anyone? He shouted. Lock the gates, some of you, and make all sure for the night. And with these orders to Jorricks, he marched back under the ancestral trees to the old hall of Wyvern, who was to keep the hearth of the Fairfields aglow. The light of the old squire's life was flaring low in the socket. A tiny taper was just lighted in dark some carwell. And Harry Fairfield, was he ever to take his turn and illuminate the Wyvern world? End of Chapter 51. Chapter 52 of The Wyvern Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Brandon. The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan Lafannou. Chapter 52 A Talk With The Squire Harry proved how hungry he was by eating a huge dinner. He had the old dining-room to himself and sipped his brandy and water there by a pleasant fire of coal and spluttering wood. With a button or two undone, he gazed drowsily into the fire with his head thrown back and his eyes nearly closed, and the warmth of the fire and the glow of the alcohol flushed his cheeks and his nose and his forehead to a brilliant chrysm. Harry had had a hard day's writing, some agitations, great variety of air, and now, as we have seen, a hearty dinner and many glasses of brandy and water, and a hot fire before him. Naturally, he fell asleep. He dreamed that the old Squire was dead and buried. He forgot all about the little boy at Carwell, and fancied that he, Harry Fairfield, draped in the black metal, with which the demure undertaker, hangs the mourners in chief, had returned from the funeral and was seated in the old oak parlor, just in all other respects as he actually was. As he sat there, Master of Wyvern at last, and listening, he thought, to the rough tick of the old clock in the hall, Old Tom Ward seemed to him to bounce in. His mulberry-colored face turned the color of custard, his mouth agape, and his eyes starting out of their sockets. Get up, Master Harry, the old servant seemed to say, in a woody tremor, for may the devil fetch me if here bant the old Master back again, and he's in the blue room calling for ye. Ye lie, gasped Harry, waking up in a horror. Come ye quick, Master Harry, for when the Squire calls, it's ill-tarrying, said now the real voice of Tom Ward. Where? In the blue chamber. Where, where am I? said Harry now on his feet and looking at Tom Ward. By jingle, Tom, I believe I was dreaming. You gave me a hell of a fright, and is he there really? Very well. And Harry walked in and found the old Squire of Wyvern standing with his back to the fire, tall, gaunt, and flushed, and his eyes looking large, with a glassy sheen of age. Well, why didn't you tell me the news, ye fool? said the Squire as he entered. Damn ye, if it hadn't have been for Tom Ward, I shouldn't have heard now to the matter. So there's a brat down in Carwell Grange. Ha-ha! Marriage is honourable, I've heard tell, but house-keeping's costly. Tis the old tune on the bagpipe, that's the way to beggar's bush. When marriage gets into the saddle, repentance gets up at the cropper. Why the devil didn't you tell me the news? Why didn't you tell me, ye damned weather-head? So I would have told ye tonight, but I fell asleep after dinner. It's true enough, though, and there's doctors and nurses and caudals and all sorts. Well, for Charlie he's out of the way. Dead Mice feels no cold, you know, and she's a badden, Alice Maybell's a badden. The vicar was a thankless loon, and she's took after him. She went her own gate, and much good it did her. Sweetheart and Honeybird keeps no house, and the devil's bread is half bran. She'll earn a lesson now. I was too good to that, Huzzy. Put another man's child in your bosom, they say, and he'll creep out at your sleeves. She's never a friend now. She's lost Charlie, and she's lost me. Well, might the cat wink when both her eyes were out? She'd like well enough to be back here again in Wyvern, damn her. She knows who was her best friend by this time. Right well pleased with herself. I'll be bound the day she geed us the slip and ran off with the fool Charlie, down in the mouth. I warrant her now, the jade. I dare say the parson's, down at the Grange every day, to pray we malady and talk a resignation. When all their rogueries breaks down, they take to Canton and Psalm singing, and turns up their eyes the limers, and cries the lords will be done. Welcome death, quoth the rat, when the trap fell. Much thanks to him for taking what they can't help. Well, she's a badden. A black-hearted treacherous lass, she proved. And Charlie was a soft fellow and a mad fellow, and so his day's over. And I was just a daft old fool, and treated according. The time and thought tames all, and we shall all lie alike in our graves. And what's the boy like? The old man resumed. Is he like Charlie? He was asleep, and the room dark, so there was no good trying to see him, said Harry, inventing an excuse. Not a bit dark or light, not a bit? He's Ali's son, and good won't grow from that stock, never. As the old bird crows, so crows the young, and that foreign madam I hear swears she was married first to poor Charlie. And what's that to me? Not that spoonful of punch. She's up in limbo, and if her story be true, why then that boy of Ali's ain't in the runnin'. And his mother, bless her heart, needn't trouble her head about Wyvern, nor be wishin' the old squire that was good to her under the sod, to make way for her son. And then there's you to step in and claim my shoes and my chair, and sell her key. And then, madam, what's her name? Van Trump? Or something. Well, out we a bantling, I take it, and you'll all fight it out, up and down, kick, throttle, and bite. In the court of chancery, or where you can, and what is it to me who wins or who loses? Not that bit a lemon peel. And if you think I'm gonna spend a handful of money in law, to clear up a matter that don't concern me, no more than the cat's whisker, you're a long way out in your reckoning. Be my soul, ye are. For I'll not back none of ye, and I won't sport a shillin', and I don't care a dam. Ye'll fight the battle over my grave, and ye'll take Wyvern who can, and will cost ye all round a pretty penny. Ye'll be sellin' your shirts and your smocks, and ye'll pretty well in for it. And ye can't draw back. Well, lathered is half-shaved, and it won't break my heart, I promise you. And the old man chuckled and hooded, and wagged his head fiercely as he declaimed in his own way upon the row that was coming. Don't ye spare one another for my sake? Take Wyvern who can. I'll keep my hands in my pockets, I promise ye. What have I to do, we other folk's windmills? So the old squire stormed on more serenely than he had done for a long time. Make another tanker to that thing, Tom. Make a big one, and brood well, and fetch a rumour for yourself, lad. Beggars breed for rich men to feed, resumed the squire. A son at the Green Joe Carwell no less. Well, I had taken enough and too much on my shoulders in my day, and is often the least boy carries the biggest fiddle. She's a sly lass, Alice. She'll find fools enough to help her. I a done we her. She's a badden. Look at that harpsichord thing there she used to play on. He pointed to the piano. I got that down from Lunan for her to jingle tunes at as long as she liked, and I had it smashed up and pitched in the river only to make her think I cared enough about her to take that trouble about her lumber. She turned her back on me when she liked, and I'll not turn my face on her when she lists. A graceless huzzy she was and is. And grace lasts but beauty blasts. And so let it be for me. That's enough. I take it there's no more to tell. So take he a candle if you're sleepy, man. No use dawdling sluggard's guise. Loath to bed and loath to rise. And so with a gruff nod he dismissed him. An in came Tom Ward with the punch before very long. That's good, Tom. That'll warm your ribs. How long you been here? Wyvern always but a long time in the house. Tom a long time. We the family. To 60 years ago, Tom, I remember you and our livery. Isabel and blue. Them's the old colors. They don't know the name now. Salmon, they calls it. We have seen Christmas pretty often in the old house. We'll not see many more, I'm thinking. The tale's nigh done. It wasn't bad times we hear, Tom. We can't complain. We had our share. And after cheese comes nothing, as the old folks used to say. Take the rummer and sit ye down by the door, Tom. There's Master Harry. I'd rather hay a glass we ye, Tom, than a dozen we him. A damned pippin' squeezein' rascal. Tom ain't he a sneak. No fairfield, Tom. Ain't he? Ain't he? Damn ye. I won't say that all out, sir. He's a tall, handsome lad, and Master Harry can sit down and drink his share like a man. Like a beast you mean. He never tells ye a pleasant story nor laughs like a man. And what liquor he swallows goes into a bad skin, Tom. He's not hot and hearty in his cups like a fairfield. He has no good nature, Tom. He's so close-fisted and cunning. I hate them fellows that can't buy at the market and sell at the fair. And drink when he's drinkin', damn him. He's always a watchin' to do ye. Just like his mother, a screw she was. And her sons like her, crooked to sell and crooked to buy. I hate him sober, Tom. And I hate him drunk. Bring your glass here, ol' lad. A choice mugful you've brewed tonight. Hold it straight, you fool. What was I saying? The old things is out of date, Tom. The world's changin' and taint in nature, Tom, to teach ol' dogs tricks. I do suppose there's fun goin', though. I don't see it. The old folks beginn' to be in the way as they were always. And things won't change for us. We were brave lads, we fairfields. But there's no one to come now. There won't be no one after me in Wyvern House. To the wrestling on Wyvern Fairgreen when I was a boy, I mined the time when lords and ladies had come, ridin' down for twenty miles round, and all the old stock of the country. Some on horseback, and some in coaches, and silks, and satins, to see the belt played for, and single-stick and quarter-staves. They were manly times, Tom, at a fairfield ever first in the field. And what year is this? I. I was twenty the week before that day. To sixty-four years ago, when I threw Dick Dutton over my shoulder and broke his collarbone, and Dutton was counted the best man they ever brought down here. And Meg Weeks. You'll mind Meg Weeks, we the hazel eyes was lookin' on, and the wrestling's gone, and not a man left in the country round that could tell a quarter staff from a flail. And when I'm gone to my place in the churchyard, there's not a fairfield in Wyvern no longer. For I don't count Harry one. He's not a fairfield. By no chance, and never was. Charlie had it in him, handsome Charlie. I seen many a turn in him like me I did. And that Captain Jollips died only t'other day that he shot in the arm at Tewkesbury only twenty years ago for sayin' a rye word of me. Old Morton read it yesterday. He says in the loon in paper. But it's all over, we Charlie. And stand up, Tom, and fill your glass, and we'll drink to him. Old Tom Ward was the first to speak after. Hot blood and proud sir. And a bit wild when he was young. More than that, there's not to be said by any. A brave lad, sir. And a good naturedist I ever see. He shouldn't be buried where he is alone. I don't like that know-how. He wouldn't have done so by you, Squire. He liked you well. He liked everyone that was ever kind to him. I mind how he cried after poor Master Willie. They, too, was very like and loving. Master Willie was tall, like him, and handsome. Don't ye be talk, I know them at all, you fool. Broken the Squire violently. Stop that and hold your tongue, Tom. Damn you. Do you think I'm foolish? Light my candle and get ye to bed. The tankard's out. Get ye to bed, ye damned old fool. And he shook the old servant hard by the hand as he spoke. End of Chapter 52. Recording by John Brandon. Chapter 53 of the Wyvern Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Brandon. The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan Lafano. Harry Fairfield Grows Uneasy. A few days later, Harry Fairfield rode from Wyvern into the picturesque little town of Wickford and passing the steep narrow bridge pulled up near the church at the door of Dr. Willett. Harry had something to say to the doctor, but like a good diplomatist, a true dealer in horses preferred letting the doctor talk a bit on his own account first. He found him in slippers and dressing gown, flipping his evergreens that grew in front of his house, the hour of his forenoon excursion not having yet arrived. Woodmen, spare that tree! said Harry, quoting a popular song facetiously. The doctor looked up. And how is Dr. Willett this morning? said Harry. Oh! Oh, is that you? said the doctor, straightening his back with a little effort, for he had been stooping to his task, and old backs don't unbend in a moment. Quite well, thank you. So are you, I see. Can't complain. And how's the old squire? said the doctor. How's the old house? answered Harry. Stanchin' straight, and like to stand forever. I see no change in him. And oh, well, over at Carwell. Far from it, said the doctor. And who's sick? The poor young mother. Very ill indeed, said he. Nervous, low and feverish, she has been. And yesterday, when I saw her, it was plainly fever, quite declared. What sort of fever? asked Harry. Well, the nerves are very much engaged, began the doctor. Take care, it ain't typhus, said Harry. The baby ain't got it, I hope. No, the child's all safe. There's typhus down at Grisus Mel, and a child in Scarletina in the glen I hear. He's there, huh? It has been going a good deal at that side, I'm told, said Dr. Willett. There's Lady Windale at Olton. Very good nature she seems to be. Wouldn't she take the child and nurse it for a while? It's a nice place, well enclosed, and lies high. Not likely to get in there. I attended a patient there and dropped she once, when it was let. And the Windale's away in India. Aye, she's good-natured. She'd have the mother and child together with a welcome. But she says she won't take no one's babby to nurse away from its people, and she's right, I think. So the young chap must stand to his grounds and buy the fortune of war, you know. What time should you be there today? He inquired. Three o'clock. Very well, then. I'll be passing at the mill end of the glen about that time, and I'll ride up and look in just to hear what you have to say. And I'll get home by Cressley Common. It'll do me as well as t'other way. I turn to side a bit to reach you and hear the news, and they must be jogging again. Good-bye, Doctor. Is your church-clock right? said Harry, looking up at the old tower and pulling out his watch to compare. The clock goes as it pleases the clerk, the old saw tells us. But we all go by the clock here, and it does keep right good time, said Old Doc Willet, with his hand over his eyes reading its golden hands and figures, as Harry was. Well, then, Doctor, good-bye, and God bless you, said Harry, and away he rode without hearing the doctor's farewell. At Carwell Grainge, at three o'clock, there was the gloom and silence of his sick-house. The tip-toe tread of old Dulcy Bella, and her whisperings at the door, were scarcely audible, and now and then a weary moan was heard in the darkened room, and the wail and swall of a little child from another room not far off. Old Mildred Tarnley had undertaken the charge of the child while Dulcy Bella, with the aid of a neighbor brought in for the occasion, took charge of the sick lady. Before three o'clock came, to the surprise of this sad household, Harry Fairfield arrived. He did not come riding, he arrived in a tax cart. He had got through more real work that day than many men who were earning their bread by their labor. Give this one a fee, Tom. And how's all here? said he, throwing the apron off and jumping down. Bad enough, I'm afraid, sir. Worse? I don't know, sir, till the doctor comes. But can't be no better, for I heard Mrs. Crane say she didn't close an eye all night. I hope they're not forgetting the child in the hurry, said Harry. Mrs. Tarnley and Lily Dogger looks after him, turnabout. That wouldn't do know-how, you know, said Harry. And give her a good fee, Tom. Good dog, good bone. She came at a good lick, I can tell you, up the glen. The doctor will be here soon. Aye, sir. Well, I'll stay here till I hear what he says. And there's sickness in Carwell Glen here, I'm told. I'd he say, sir. There's a good deal going, I hear. He needn't take her out of the shafts, Tom. Fix her head in a halter by the gate. In the ring there. If you have a nosebag at hand, and come in here. She's as quiet as a lamb. I want to talk to you a bit. I'm going to buy two or three fillies. And think of any you may have seen down about here. Old Tarnley's in the kitchen now, is she? I think she is, sir. Well, think of them fillies, if you can. There's business to be done, if I can get them to suit. So in March, Harry, and tapped at the kitchen window, and nodded and smiled to Mrs. Tarnley. So you're all sick down here, I'm told. But sickness is better than sadness. That's all I can say, lass, said Harry, pacing much in his usual way into the kitchen, and clapping his big hand down on Mildred's shoulder. Sick, sore, and sorry, we be, sir. Your brother is not that long buried, that there should be no sadness in the Grange. His own house, that was, and his widows, that is. Sickness may well be better than sadness, but Tain't turn about with them here, but one and other both together. And that slut upstairs, Mr. Dogger, if you please, out of the scullery into the bed chamber. She's no more used to me than the cock at the top of Carwell Steeple. I never knew such times in Carwell Grange. I'm wore off my old feet. I can't stand it long, and I wish twenty times in a day I was quiet at last in my grave. A grunting horse and a grumbling wife, they say, lasts long. Never you fear. You won't die this time, old girl, and I wouldn't know the Grange if you wasn't here. Twill I'll be right again soon, I warrant. No wind blows long at the highest, you know, and we'll hear what the doctor says just now. Hoot! What can the doctors say? Well, just the old thing. The leech to the physic, and God to the cure, and death will do as God allows, and sickness shows us what we are, and all fears the grave as the trial does the dark. I don't know much good he's doing as much as he did for Master Charles, not but he's as good as another, and better than many a one maybe, but he costs a deal of money, and only Lady Windale came over here yesterday, poorly though she is, and not able to get out of her coach, and saw Mrs. Crane and lend a fifty-pun note to keep all straight till the young lady, please God, may be able to look about her and see after him herself. We'd have been at a sore pinch before the week was out, but he's good but helps better. Tis well in this miserly world, there's a kind one left here and there, that wouldn't let kindred want in the midst of plenty. There's Squire Harry O' Wyvern, and his own little grandson lying up in the cradle there, and look at you, Master Harry. I wonder you hadn't the thought. Harry laughed, perhaps the least degree awkwardly. Why Chickabiddy began, Harry? I am none of your Chickabiddies. I am Old Mildred Tarnley, O' the Green Chakarwell, that's in the service of the family, her and hers, many a long year, and I speaks my mind, and I shouldn't like the family to be talked of, as it will for meanness. If there's a want of money here in times of sickness, Tis a shame. Well, you know there's no want, but the Governor's riled, just now, and he'll come round again, and as far as me, I'm as poor a dog as is in the parish. Take me and turn me round and round, and what more am I than just a poor devil that lives by horses, and not always the price of a pot of stout in my pocket. Four farthings and a thimble makes the tailor's pocket jingle. Your tongue's a bit hard, Mildred, but you mean well, and there's kindness at the bottom of the mug, though the brew be bitter. I think I hear the doctor, said Mildred, placing her palm behind her ear and listening. I, said Harry, I hear him talking, and forth he strode to meet him. Before he went up, Harry and the doctor talked together for a little in the panel sitting room with which we are familiar. I'm sure to see you here, eh? Before I go, yes. I shall look in here. All right, said Harry, and the doctor walked up the stairs on his exploration. End of Chapter 53, Recording by John Brandon Chapter 54 A Drive to Twyford In less than ten minutes the doctor came down. Well? said Harry over his shoulder, turning briskly from the window. No material change, replied the doctor. It's not a case in which medicine can do much. The most hearing thing about it is that her strength is not given way. But, you know, it is an anxious case. A very anxious case. I hope they're taking care of the child. Old, dulcy bellocrane would be a deal better for that sort of thing that dry old cake-mildered tornly. But then Allie would half-break her heart if you took old dulcy Bella from her. Always used to her, you know. And what's best to be done? It would be bad enough to lose poor Allie. But it would be worse to lose the boy. For though I'm willing to take my share of work for the family, there's one thing I won't do, and that's to marry. I'm past the time, and damn me if I take half England to do it. I'd like to manage and nurse the estate for him and be paid, of course, like other fellows, and that's what would fit my knuckle. But by Jove, if they kill that boy, among them there would be no one to maintain the old name of Wyvern, and kill him, they will, if they leave him in the hard hands of that wiry old girl Mildred Tarnley. She's a cast iron-old maid with a devil's temper, and she has a dozen other things to mind beside, and I know the child will die, and I don't know anything to advise. Damn me if I do. The house is in confusion, and very little attention for the child, certainly, said Dr. Willet, and that damned scarletina beyond a doubt is in the glen there. The old doctor shrugged and shook his head. I talked to the governor a bit, said Harry, thinking he might have the child over to Wyvern, where it would be safe and well looked after, but he hates the whole lot. You know it was a stolen match, and it's no use trying in that quarter. You're going now, and I'll walk a little beside you. Maybe you'll think of something, and I haven't no money, you may guess, to throw away, but rather than the child shouldn't thrive, I'll make out what would answer. There's very kind of you, sir, said Dr. Willet. Looking at him admiringly, they certainly have their hands pretty full here, and the little neglect sometimes goes a long way with the child. So they walked out together, talking, and when the doctor got on his horse, Harry walked beside him, part of the way towards Cressley Common. When he came back to the Grange, Harry asked to see old Dulcy Bella, and he told her, standing on the lobby and talking in whispers, the doctor says she's not able to understand anything as she is at present. Well, you know she's wandering just now, but she may clear up a bit for a while by and by. Well, the doctor says she's not to be told a word that can fret her, and particularly about the child, for he says this is no place for it, and he won't be answerable for its life if it's left longer here, and this garlictina and fever all round, and you have as much as you can handle here already? So few as there is without nursing children, and Dr. Willet says he'll have it well attended to by a person near Wickford, and I'll bring old Mildred over with it to the place this evening, and we'll get it out of reach o' the sickness that's going. Please, God, said Dulcy Bella after a pause. Amen, added Harry, and walked down, whistling low with his hands in his pockets, to tell the same story to old Mildred Tarnley. Tis a pity, she said darkly. The child should be sent away from its home. Especially with scarlet fever and typhus all round, said Harry. And away from its mother, she continued. Much good its mother is to it. Just now she mayn't be able to do much. Oh, but she can, though, interrupted Harry. She may give it the fever she's got, whatever that is. Well, I can't say nothing else, but it's a pity the child should be took away from its natural home and its own mother, repeated Mrs. Tarnley. And who's taken care of it now? demanded Harry. Lily Duggar, answered she. Lily Duggar, just so, the slut. You said yourself today you wouldn't trust a kitten with. Mrs. Tarnley couldn't deny it. She sniffed and tossed up her chin a little. You forget, lass, T'was never a wyvern fashion nursing the babbies at home. I wasn't, nor Charlie poor fellow, nor willy, nor none of us. T'was a saiyan with the old folk, and often ye heard it. One year a nurse, and seven years the worse. And we all was tall, well-thriven lads, and lives long, without fever or broken bones or the like, floors us untimely. And anyhow the doctor says, so it must be. There's no one here we all the sickness in the house has time to look after it, and the child will just come to grief unless his orders be followed. So stick on your bonnet, and roll up the young chap in blankets, and I'll drive ye over to the place he says. It brings me a bit out of my way, but kith and kin, you know? And I told the doctor if he went to any expense I'd be answerable to him myself. And I'll gie ye a pound for good luck. So ye see, I'm not such a screw all out as ye took me for. I thank you, Master Harry. And I'll not deny but was always the way we the family descend out the children to nurse. And what Mr. Charles would have done himself if he was alive, as every one of us knows. And for that reason, what the lady upstairs would have done, if she had been able to talk about anything. I'm sorry I have to drive ye over, but I'll bring ye back to night. And ye know, I couldn't drive and manage the babby. And the folk would be wondering when the child set up the pipes in the tax cart. And I'd soon have the human cry behind me. Hoot! I wouldn't allow no such thing as let the poor little thing be drove so all alone like a parcel of shop goods. No, no. The family's not come to that yet a bit, I hope, cried Mrs. Tarnley. Give me a lump of bread and cheese and a mug of beer. I don't think I ever was here before without a bit and a sup, and it wouldn't be lucky, ye know, to go without enough to swear by anyhow. And there's no hurry, mind. You needn't be ready for a good hour to come, for Willet won't have no nurse there sooner. Harry went out and had a talk with Tom Clinton, smoked his pipe for half an hour, and Tom thought that the young squire was dull and queerish. And perhaps he was not very well, for he did not eat his bread and cheese, but drank a deal more beer than usual instead. Bring a lot of lollipops and milk or whatever it likes best, we ye, to keep it quiet. I can't abide the ball and the children. Lily Dogger, with red eyes and an inflamed nose, blubbered, heartbroken and murmured to the baby, lest old Mildred should overhear and blow her up, to leave takings and endearments, as she held it close in her arms. Beautiful enough to us men, utterly mysterious is the feminine love of babies. Lily Dogger had led a serene, if not a cheerful, life at Carwell Grange up to this. But now came this parting, and her peace was shivered. Old Mildred had now got up, with her thread-dare brown cloak and her grisly old bonnet, and had arranged the child on her lap. So at last, all being ready, the tax cart was in motion. It was late in the autumn now. The long days were over. They had dawdled away a longer time than they supposed, before starting. It turned out a long drive, much longer than Mildred turnly had expected. The moon rose, and they had got into a part of the country with which he was not familiar. They had driven fourteen miles, or upward, through a lonely and somewhat melancholy country. It was, I suppose, little better than more, but he attached groups of trees, possibly the broken and disappearing fragments, of what had once been a forest, gave it a sad sort of picturesqueness. Mildred turnly was not a garrulous person, and had not spent her life at Carwell Grange without learning the accomplishment of taciturnity. But she remarked and resented the gloomy silence of Master Harry, who had never once addressed a word to her, since they started. Toward the close of their journey, she observed that Harry Fairfield, looked frequently at his watch, hurried the pace of the mayor, and altogether seemed to grow more and more anxious. They had been obliged to pull up twice to enable her to feed the baby, who was now fast asleep. Tis right, she thought. He should look ahead and mind his driving, while we're getting on. Though a word now and then would not have troubled him much, but when we stopped to feed the child there was no excuse. He got down and settled the buckle at the horse's head. He got up again and drew the rug over his knees, and he leaned on his elbow back upon the cushion, and he never so much as asked, was me or the baby alive. They now reached a gentle hollow, in which a shallow brook crossed the road, and some four or five habitations of a humble sort stood at either side. One under the shade of two gigantic ashtreys, at a sign depending in front, being a wayside in of the humblest dimensions. A village this could hardly be termed. And at the near end Harry pulled up before a building a little above the rank of a cottage old in quaint, with a large leafed plant that in the moonlight looked like a vine growing over the prop of a sort of porch that opened under the gable. If the mayor was quiet at the grange, you may be sure that her run to Twyford had not made her less so. Harry helped old Tarnley down, with her little charge in her arms, and let her silently into the neat little room with tears of delf ornaments and brilliant colors on the cupboard, and a dutch clock ticking in the nook by the fire where some faggots crackled, and a candle was burning on the table in a bright brass candlestick. Mrs. Tarnley's experienced eye surveyed the room and its belongings. She decried moreover a ladder stair which mounted to a loft, from whose dormant window, as she looked from her seat in the tax cart, she had observed the light of a candle. Very humble it undoubtedly was, but nothing could be more scrupulously clean. It had an air of decency too, that was reassuring. There was a woman there in a cloak in bonnet who rose as they entered and curtsied. Harry set a lumbering armchair by the fire and Tarnley to occupy it, then he asked, How soon is the warhampton bus expected? Twenty-five minutes, please, sir, answered the woman with another curtsy and a glance at the clock. That woman from Willets is coming by the bus, he said gruffly to Meldred. Tis a snug little place this, and as clean as a bone after a hungry dog. Would you mind, he continued, addressing the stranger or hostess, whichsoever she might be, telling Archdale if he's here I want a word with him at the door. He's over the way, I think, sir, with the horse. I'll call him, please, sir. So off she went. This is where poor Charles said he'd like to have his child nursed, twyford. To sweet air, about here, considered. He was expecting a babby poor fellow, and he talked a deal with me about it the day he was took. Wouldn't she like a bit to eat and a glass of beer or something? They have lots over the way, for as poor as it looks. And here's the pound, I promise she lasts, for luck, you know, when we was leaving the Grange. He drew forth the hand with which he had been fumbling in his pocket and placed the piece of gold in hers. Thank you, Master Harry, she said, making a little instinctive effort to rise for the purpose of executing a curtsy. But Harry, with his hand on her shoulder, repressed it. Sit ye quiet and rest yourself, after jogging all this way, and what's that bundle? The baby's thing, sir. All right. Well, and what will you have? I feel a bit queerish, Master Harry, I thank ye. I'd rather not eat nothing till I get home, and I'll get my cup of tea, then. Not eat? Nothing, sir, I thank ye, Master Harry. Well, said Harry, so far forth relieved, but resolved, cost what it might, to make Mildred happy on this particular occasion. If ye won't eat, I'm hanged, but ye shall drink some. I tell you what it shall be, a jug of sherry-niggas. Come ye must. Well, Master Harry, I so you will have it. I'll not say ye nay, consented Mildred, graciously. Harry went himself to the little pot-house over the way, and saw this nectar brood, and brought it over in his own hand. The tankered in one hand, and the glass in the other. Devilish good stuff it is, Mildred, and I'm glad ol' lass, I thought of it. I remember you like that brood long ago, and much good may it do you girl. He was trying to be kind. He had set it down on the table, and now as he spoke he laid his hand on her shoulder, and she thought she might have wronged Master Harry with his rough jests and trued ways, and that he had more of the fair-field in his nature than she had always given him credit for. Out he went again, and talked with Archdale, who was in plain clothes, and around hat, with a great coat buttoned up to his smooth blue chin, and a gig whip in his hand. Archdale, as usual, was severely placid and brief, and as Harry talked with him outside, Mildred Tarnley thought she heard a step in the loft over her head, and another sound that excited her curiosity. She listened, but all was quiet again. Harry returned in comparatively high spirits. Well, Mrs. Tarnley said he, the bus is a bit late, I'm thinking, but anyhow, he can't wait, and he pointed over his shoulder at Mr. Archdale, who stood at the door, he'll drive you back again, and he knows the road is far as crestly common, and you can show him the rest, and you'll want to be back again with poor Alice, and the doctor will look in here often in the week almost every day, and tell you how the little chap's going on. And see, here's a very respectable woman, what's her name? She was here this minute, and she won't be leaving till after the bus comes in, and you leave her the baby, and I'll wait here till I see it in charge of the nurse that's coming from Wickford. Come in, will ye? Not you, the woman, I mean. Now, Mildred, give her the baby. The woman had a gentle, cheerful, and honest face, and looked down with the angelic light of a woman's tenderness on the sleeping face of the little baby. Lord love it, she murmured, smiling, what a darling little face. Mildred Tarnley looked down on it, too. She said nothing. She bit her lips hard, had rolled eyes filled with tears, had welled over as she surrendered the baby without a word, and then hastily she went out, mounted to her seat in the tax cart, and was driven swiftly away by a companion as silent as he who had conveyed her there.