Collected works of j s f.., p.861
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 861
“Y-yes,” answered Miss Partridge. “Y-yes, sir — to invest it.”
She put the thousand pounds in her old-fashioned reticule and went off to a legal gentleman whom she had once or twice had occasion to consult. To him she made a communication which caused him to stare.
“My dear madam,” he exclaimed. “This is giving away all you possess.”
“No,” interrupted Miss Partridge. “I have the shop.”
“Well, at any rate, take the place as security,” began the solicitor; “and — —”
“No,” said Miss Partridge, firmly. “No, sir! No one is to know; no one is ever to know — except you — where the money came from. It’s my money, and I’ve a right to do what I please with it.”
“Oh, very well,” said the solicitor. “Very well. I’ll settle the matter at once. And you may be sure the poor things will be very grateful to their unknown benefactor.”
Miss Partridge walked home by way of Stapleby churchyard. She turned into its quietude and sought out Robert Dickinson’s grave. There were daisies growing on the green turf that covered it, and she gathered a little bunch of them and carried them home to put away with the ribbons and the locket. And that done she took off her best things and dropped once more into the old way of life.
CHAPTER V
THE MARRIAGE OF MR. JARVIS
WHEN THE LIFT-BOY came down to the ground-floor again and threw open the door of the cage in which he spent so many mechanical hours every day, he became aware that the entrance hall was just then given up to a solitary female who was anxiously scanning the various names which appeared on the boards set up on either side. He gathered a general impression of rusticity, but, sharp as he was, would have found himself hard put to it to define it — the lady’s bonnet was not appreciably different from the bonnets worn by respectable, middle-class, town ladies; the lady’s umbrella was not carried at an awkward angle. Nevertheless he was quite certain that if the lady was going aloft to anywhere between there and the sixth floor she was about to step into an elevator for the first time.
He stood waiting, knowing very well that the stranger would presently address him. It was gloomy in the entrance hall, and he saw that she could not see the names on the top-half of the board at which she was gazing. She turned, glanced hastily at the opposite board, then looked half-doubtfully at him.
“Young man,” she said, “can you tell me if Mr. Watkin Vavasower’s office is anywhere about here?”
“Mr. Vavasore, mum? — third floor, mum — just gone up, has Mr. Vavasore,” replied the lift-boy.
He stood aside from the door of his cage with an implied invitation to enter. But the lady, whom in the clearer light of the inner hall he now perceived to be middle-aged and of stern countenance, looked doubtfully at the stairs.
“I suppose I shall see the name on the door if I go up-stairs, young man?” she said. “It’s that dark in these London places — —”
“Step inside, mum,” said the lift-boy.
The lady started and looked inside the cage as she might have looked inside one of her own hen-coops if she had suspected the presence of a fox therein. She turned a suspicious eye on the boy.
“Is it safe?” she said.
Then, instinctively obeying the authoritative wave of the official hand, she stepped inside and heard the gate bang. She gave a little gasp as the world fell from under her feet; another when the elevator suddenly stopped and she found herself ejected on a higher plane.
“Well, I’m sure — —” she began.
“Second door on the left, mum,” said the boy, and sank from view.
The lady paused for a second or two, glanced down the shaft as if she expected to hear a shriek of agony from the bottom, and then slowly moved in the direction which the boy had indicated. A few steps along the corridor and she stood before a door on which was inscribed in heavy brass letters, highly polished, the name “Mr. Watkin Vavasour.”
She hesitated a moment before knocking; when she did so, her knock was timid and gentle. But it was heard within, for a girl’s voice, sharp and business-like, bade her enter. She turned the handle and walked into a comfortably furnished room wherein sat a very smart young lady who was busily engaged with a typewriter and who looked up from her work with questioning eyes.
“Is Mr. Watkin Vavasower in?” inquired the caller.
The smart young lady rose from her desk with an air of condescending patience.
“What name, madam?” she asked.
The caller hesitated.
“Well, if it’s agreeable,” she said, “I’d rather not give my name to anybody but the gentleman himself, though of course if — —”
“Take a chair, please,” said the smart young lady. She vanished through an inner door marked “Private,” leaving the visitor to examine an imitation Turkey carpet, a roll-top American desk, two office chairs, and a reproduction of the late Lord Leighton’s Married, which hung over the fire-place. She was speculating as to the nationality of the two persons concerned in this picture when the smart young lady returned with an invitation to enter Mr. Vavasour’s presence. Mr. Vavasour, a somewhat more than middle-aged, stoutish gentleman, whose name would more fittingly have been Isaacs, Cohen, or Abraham, and who evidently set much store by fine linen and purple and the wearing of gold and diamonds, rose from behind an elegant rosewood writing-table and waved his visitor to the easiest of chairs with much grace. His highly polished bald head bowed itself benevolently towards her.
“And what can I have the pleasure of doing for you, my dear madam?” Mr. Vavasour inquired blandly.
The visitor, who had examined Mr. Vavasour with a sharp glance as she made a formal bow to him, gave a little prefatory cough, and gazed at Mr. Vavasour’s cheery fire.
“Of course,” she said, “I am addressing Mr. Watkin Vavasower, the matrimonial agent? The Mr. Vavasower as advertises in the newspapers?”
“Just so, madam, just so,” replied Mr. Vavasour in soothing tones. “I am that individual. And whom have I the pleasure of receiving?”
“Well, Mr. Vavasower, my name is Mrs. Rebecca Pringle,” said the visitor. “Of course, you’ll not know the name, but you’re familiar with the name of the place I come from — the Old Farm, Windleby?”
Mr. Vavasour swept a jewelled hand over his high forehead.
“The Old Farm, Windleby?” he said. “The name seems familiar. Ah, yes, of course — the address of a respected client, Mr. — yes, Mr. Stephen Jarvis. Dear me — yes, of course. A very worthy gentleman!”
“Well, Mr. Vavasower,” said Mrs. Pringle, smoothing her gown, which the agent’s sharp eyes noticed to be of good substantial silk, “there’s many a worthy gentleman as can make a fool of himself! I’ve nothing to say against Stephen, especially as I’ve kept house for him for fifteen years, which is to say ever since Pringle died. But I’m not blind to his faults, Mr. Vavasower, and of course I can’t see him rush to his destruction, as it were, without putting out a finger to stop his headlong flight.”
Mr. Vavasour made a lugubrious face, shook his head, and looked further inquiries.
“‘It’s come to my knowledge, Mr. Vavasower,” continued Mrs. Pringle, “that Stephen Jarvis, as is my first cousin, has been having correspondence with you on the matter of finding a wife. A pretty thing for a man of his years to do — five-and-fifty he is, and no less — when he’s kept off the ladies all this time! And I must tell you, Mr. Vavasower, that his family does not approve of it, and that’s why I have come to see you.”
Mr. Vavasour spread out fat hands.
“My dear madam!” he said, deprecatingly. “My dear Mrs. Pringle! It is a strict rule of mine never to discuss a client’s affairs, or to — —”
Mrs. Pringle favoured him with a knowing look.
“Of course, it would be made worth Mr. Vavasower’s while,” she said, tapping a small reticule which she carried. “The family doesn’t expect Mr. Vavasower to assist it for nothing.”
Mr. Vavasour hesitated. He called up the Jarvis case in his mind, and remembered that Mr. Stephen Jarvis did not want a moneyed wife, and that, therefore, there would be no commission in that particular connection.
“Who are the members of the family, ma’am?” he inquired.
Mrs. Pringle looked him squarely in the face.
“The members of the family, Mr. Vavasower,” she replied, “is me and my only son, John William, as has always been led to look upon himself as Stephen Jarvis’s heir. And, of course, if so be as Stephen Jarvis was to marry a young woman, well, there’d no doubt be children, and then — —”
“To be sure, ma’am, to be sure!” said Mr. Vavasour comprehendingly. “Of course, you and your son have means that would justify — —”
“My son, John William, Mr. Vavasower, is in a very nice way of business in the grocery line,” answered Mrs. Pringle. “But of course I don’t intend to see him ousted out of his proper place because Stephen Jarvis takes it into his head to marry at his time of life! Stephen must be put off it, and there’s an end of the matter.”
“But, my dear madam!” exclaimed Mr. Vavasour. “How can I prevent it? My client has asked me for introductions; he is somewhat particular, or I could have suited him some weeks ago. He desires a young and pretty wife, and — —”
“Old fool!” exclaimed Mrs. Pringle. “Well, he’s not to have one, Mr. Vavasower — as I say, it’s not agreeable to me and John William that he should. And as to how you can prevent it, well, Mr. Vavasower, I’ve a plan in which you must join — me and John William will make it worth your while to do so — that will put Stephen Jarvis out of conceit with matrimony. The fact of the case is, Mr. Vavasower, Stephen is a very close-fisted man. He’s the sort that looks twice at a sixpence before he spends it — and then, like as not, he puts it back in his pocket.”
Mr. Vavasour inclined his head. He was interested.
“Now, Mr. Vavasower,” continued Mrs. Pringle, “Stephen is as innocent of the ways of young women as what a pagan negro is. He’s never had aught to do with them; he doesn’t know how expensive they are. If he knew how the young woman of now-a-days flings money about, he’d faint with terror at the prospect of wedding one. Now, you must know a deal of clever young women, Mr. Vavasower, your profession being what it is — actresses and such-like, no doubt, as could play a part for a slight consideration. If you could get such a one as would come down to the Old Farm as my guest for a fortnight or so, and would obey orders as to showing Stephen Jarvis what modern young women really is — well, we should hear no more of this ridiculous marrying idea. Of course, I could pass the young woman off as a distant relation of my poor husband’s, just come from America or somewhere foreign. I would like her to show expensive tastes and to let Stephen see what a deal it would cost to keep a young wife. And of course she’d have to be a bit what they call fascinating — but you’ll understand my meaning, Mr. Vavasower. And I can assure you that although Stephen Jarvis is such a well-to-do man, he’s that near and mean that you’ll do better to deal with me and John William than with him.”
Mr. Vavasour, who had been thinking hard, rubbed his hands.
“And the terms, my clear madam?” he said. “Let us consider the terms on which we shall conduct this little matter. Now — —”
Then Mrs. Pringle and Mr. Vavasour talked very confidentially, and eventually certain crisp bank-notes passed from the lady to the agent, and a document was signed by the former, and at last they parted with a very good understanding of each other.
“For you’ll understand, Mr. Vavasower,” said Mrs. Pringle, as she shook hands at the door of the private room, “that I’m not going to be particular about spending a hundred or so when it’s a question of making sure of a good many thousands and a nice bit of property. And Stephen Jarvis is a hearty eater, and disposed to apoplexy, and he might be took sudden.”
Then Mrs. Pringle went away and returned to the Old Farm, and for the next fortnight kept a particularly observant eye on Mr. Jarvis and on the correspondence which reached him from and through Mr. Vavasour. She noticed that he became grumpy and dissatisfied almost to moroseness — the fact was that the agent, in order to keep his contract with Mrs. Pringle, was sending the would-be Benedick a choice of unlikely candidates, and Mr. Jarvis was getting sick of looking at photographs of ladies none of whom came up to his expectations. As for Mrs. Pringle, she conducted her correspondence with Mr. Vavasour through John William, whose grocery establishment was in a neighbouring market-town, and it was not until the end of the second week after her return home that she received a communication from him which warranted her in taking the field.
“Well, upon my honour!” she exclaimed, as she sat at breakfast with Mr. Jarvis one morning and laid down a letter which she had been reading. “Wonders never will cease, and there’s an end of it. Who do you think I’ve heard from, Stephen?”
“Nay, I don’t know,” growled Mr. Jarvis, who had just received the photograph of a very homely-looking young woman from Mr. Vavasour, and was much incensed by what he considered the agent’s stupidity. “Who?”
“Why, from my niece — leastways a sort of niece, seeing as she was poor George’s sister Martha Margaret’s daughter — Poppy Atteridge, as has just returned to England from foreign parts,” answered Mrs. Pringle. “Her father was an engineer and took her over to Canada when he went to settle there after his wife died. He’s dead now, it seems, and so the poor girl’s come home. Dear me! — I did once see her when she was little. She writes quite affectionate and says she feels lonely. Ah, if I’d a house of my own, I’d ask her to come and see me!”
“Ask her to come and see you here, then!” said the farmer. “I’m sure there’s room enough, unless she wants to sleep in six bed-chambers all at once.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s very kind of you,” said Mrs. Pringle, “and if you really don’t mind, I will ask her. I don’t think you’ll find her in the way very much — they were always a quiet, well-behaved sort, the Atteridges.”
Mr. Jarvis remarked that a few lasses, more or less, in the house were not likely to trouble him, and having finished his breakfast, lighted a cigar, and locked up the homely-looking lady’s photograph in his desk with a hearty anathematization of Mr. Vavasour for sending it, went out to look at his sheep and cattle and forgot the breakfast-table conversation. Indeed, he thought no more of it until two days later, when, on his going home from market to the Saturday evening high tea, Mrs. Pringle met him in the hall with the news that her niece had arrived, and was in the parlour.
“Oh, indeed!” said Mr. Jarvis, who was in a very benevolent mood, consequent upon his having got an uncommonly good price for his wheat and spent a convivial hour with the purchaser. “Poor thing — I doubt she’ll have had a rare cold journey.”
Then he walked into the parlour to offer the poor young thing a welcome to his roof and hearth, and found himself encountered by a smiling and handsome young lady who had very sparkling eyes and a vivacious manner, and whom he immediately set down as the likeliest lass he had seen for many a long day. He thought of the gallery of dowdies whom Mr. Vavasour had recently sent him by counterfeit presentment, and his spirits rose rapidly.
“Well, deary me to-day!” he said, as he began to carve the home-fed ham in delicate slices. “Deary me to-day! I’d no idea that we were to be honoured with so much youth and beauty, as the saying is. I was looking forward to seeing a little gel, Mrs. Pringle. Your aunt there didn’t prepare me for such a pleasant surprise, Miss — nay, I’ve forgotten what the name is!”
“Atteridge,” said Mrs. Pringle’s supposed niece. “But call me Poppy, Mr. Jarvis — I shall feel more at home.”
“Poppy!” chuckled Mr. Jarvis. “Ecod, and a rare pretty poppy an’ all! Deary me — deary me!”
“The Atteridges was always a good-looking family,” said Mrs. Pringle.
“I should think they must ha’ been,” said Mr. Jarvis, handing his guest some cold fowl and ham with an admiring look. “I should think they must ha’ been, ma’am, judging by the sample present. So for what we’re about to receive — —”
Mr. Jarvis, Mrs. Pringle, and Miss Atteridge spent a very pleasant evening. The guest, in addition to great vivacity, talked well and interestingly, and it began to dawn upon the housekeeper that she really must have been in Canada, as she knew so much about life there. In addition to Miss Atteridge’s conversational powers it turned out that she played the piano, and in response to Mr. Jarvis’s request for a tune or two, she sat down to an ancient instrument which had not been opened within the recollection of Mrs. Pringle, and extracted what music she could from it. Mr. Jarvis was highly delighted, and said so.
“But if you’re so fond of music, Mr. Jarvis, you should buy a new piano,” said Miss Atteridge airily. “I’ve no doubt this has been a good one, but I’m afraid it’s quite done for now.”
“Happen I might if I’d anybody to play on it,” said Mr. Jarvis, with a sly look.
“Oh, you could find lots of people to play on it,” said Miss Atteridge.
When the guest had retired Mr. Jarvis mixed his toddy, and in accordance with custom, handed a glass to Mrs. Pringle.
“She’s a rare fine lass, that niece o’ yours, missis,” he said. “You’re welcome to ask her to stop as long as she likes. It’ll do her good.”
Next morning Mr. Jarvis, saying that he had business in the market-town, ordered out his smart dog-cart and the bay mare, and asked Miss Atteridge to go a-driving with him. They made a good-looking pair as they drove off, for the farmer, in spite of his five-and-fifty years, was a handsome and well-set-up man, with never a grey hair in his head, and he had a spice of vanity in him which made him very particular about his personal appearance.
Mr. Jarvis and Miss Atteridge were away all the morning — when they returned to dinner at half-past one both seemed to be in very good spirits. They and Mrs. Pringle were sitting in the parlour after dinner when the housekeeper perceived a cart approaching the house, and remarked upon the fact that it contained a queer-looking packing-case and was attended by two men who wore green baize aprons.
