by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER II
STRANGERS, INDEED
Pickering left ruffled breasts behind him. The big farm in the center ofthe village was known as the White House, and had been owned by aBolland since there were Bollands in the county. It was perched on abank that rose steeply some twenty feet or more from the main road.Cartways of stiff gradient led down to the thoroughfare on either hand.A strong retaining wall, crowned with gooseberry bushes, marked theconfines of the garden, which adjoined a row of cottages tenanted bylaborers. Then came the White House itself, thatched, cleanly,comfortable-looking; beyond it, all fronting on the road, were stablesand outbuildings.
Behind lay the remainder of the kitchen garden and an orchard, backed bya strip of meadowland that climbed rapidly toward the free moor with itswhins and heather--a far-flung range of mountain given over to grouseand hardy sheep, and cleft by tiny ravines of exceeding beauty.
Across the village street stood some modern iron-roofed buildings, whereBolland kept his prize stock, and here was situated the real approach tothe couple of hundred acres of rich arable land which he farmed. Thehouse and rear pastures were his own; he rented the rest. Of late yearshe had ceased to grow grain, save for the limited purposes of hisstock, and had gone in more and more for pedigree cattle.
Pickering's words had hurt him sorely, since they held an element oftruth. The actual facts were these: One of his best cows had injuredherself by jumping a fence, and a calf was born prematurely. Oddlyenough, a similar accident had occurred the following year. On the thirdoccasion, when the animal was mated with Bainesse Boy III, Bollandthought it best not to tempt fortune again, but sold her for somethingless than the enhanced value which the circumstances warranted. From asimilar dam and the same sire he bred a yearling bull which realizedL250, or nearly the rent of his holding, so Pickering had reallyoverstated his case, making no allowance for the lottery ofstock-raising.
The third calf might have been normal and of great value. It was not.Bolland suspected the probable outcome and had acted accordingly. It wasthe charge of premeditated unfairness that rankled and caused him suchheart-burning.
When Mrs. Bolland, turkey-red in face, and with eyes still glintingfire, came in and slammed the door, she told Martin, angrily, to be off,and not stand there with his ears cocked like a terrier's.
The boy went out. He did not follow his accustomed track. He hesitatedwhether or not to go rabbiting. Although far too young to attach seriousimport to the innuendoes he had heard, he could not help wondering whatPickering meant by that ironical congratulation on the subject of hispaternity.
His mother, too, had not repelled the charge directly, but had gone outof her way to heap counter-abuse on the vilifier. It was odd, to saythe least of it, and he found himself wishing heartily that either theunfortunate cow had not been sold or that his father had met Mr.Pickering's protests more reasonably.
A whistle came from the lane that led up to the moor. Perched on a gatewas a white-headed urchin.
"Aren't ye coomin' te t' green?" was his cry, seeing that Martin heardhim.
"Not this evening, thanks."
"Oah, coom on. They're playin' tig, an' none of 'em can ketch JimBates."
That settled it. Jim Bates's pride must be lowered, and ferrets wereforgotten.
But Jim Bates had his revenge. If he could not run as fast as Martin, hemade an excellent pawn in the hands of fortune. Had the boy gone to therabbit warren, he would not have seen the village again until aftereight o'clock, and, possibly, the current of his life might have entereda different runnel. In the event, however, he was sauntering up thevillage street, when he encountered a lady and a little girl,accompanied by a woman whose dress reminded him of nuns seen inpictures. The three were complete strangers, and although Martin wasunusually well-mannered for one reared in a remote Yorkshire hamlet, hecould not help staring at them fixedly.
The Normandy nurse alone was enough to draw the eyes of the wholevillage, and Martin knew well it was owing to mere chance that a crowdof children was not following her already.
The lady was tall and of stately carriage. She was dressed quietly, butin excellent taste. Her very full face looked remarkably pink, and herlarge blue eyes stared out of puffy sockets. Beyond these unfavorabledetails, she was a handsome woman, and the boy thought vaguely that shemust have motored over from the castle midway between Elmsdale and thenearest market town of Nottonby.
Yet it was on the child that his wondering gaze dwelt longest. Shelooked about ten years old. Her elfin face was enshrined in jet-blackhair, and two big bright eyes glanced inquiringly at him from the depthsof a wide-brimmed, flowered-covered hat. A broad blue sash girdled herwhite linen dress; the starched skirts stood out like the frills of aballet dancer.
Her shapely legs were bare from above the knees, and her tiny feet wereencased in sandals. At Trouville she would be pronounced "sweet" byenthusiastic admirers of French fashion, but in a north-country villageshe was absurdly out of place. Nevertheless, being a remarkablyself-possessed little maiden, she returned with interest Martin's covertscrutiny.
He would have passed on, but the lady lifted a pair of mountedeyeglasses and spoke to him.
"Boy," she said in a flute-like voice, "can you tell me which is theWhite House?"
Martin's cap flew off.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, pointing. "That is it. I live there."
"Oh, indeed. And what is your name?"
"Martin Court Bolland, ma'am."
"What an odd name. Why were you christened Martin Court?"
"I really don't know, ma'am. I didn't bother about it at the time, andsince then have never troubled to inquire."
Now, to be candid, Martin did not throw off this retort spontaneously.It was a little effusion built up through the years, the product offrequent necessity to answer the question. But the lady took it as acoruscation of rustic wit, and laughed. She turned to the nurse:
"Il m'a rendu la monnaie de ma piece, Francoise."
"J'en suis bien sur, madame, mais qu'est-ce qu'il a dit?" said thenurse.
The other translated rapidly, and the nurse grinned.
"Ah, il est naif, le petit," she commented. "Et tres gentil."
"Oh, maman," chimed in the child, "je serais heureuse si vous vouliez mepermettre de jouer avec ce joli garcon."
"Attendez, ma belle. Pas si vite.... Now, Martin Court, take me to yourmother."
Not knowing exactly what to do with his cap, the boy had kept it in hishand. The foregoing conversation was, of course, so much Greek in hisears. He realized that they were talking about him, and was fully aliveto the girl's demure admiration. The English words came with the moresurprise, seeing that they followed so quickly on some remark in anunknown tongue.
He led the way at once, hoping that his mother had regained her normalcondition of busy cheerfulness.
Silence reigned in the front kitchen when he pressed the latch. The roomwas empty, but the clank of pattens in the yard revealed that thefarmer's thrifty wife was sparing her skirts from the dirt while shecrossed to the pig tub with a pailful of garbage.
"Will you take a seat, ma'am?" said Martin politely. "I'll tell motheryou are here."
With a slight awkwardness he pulled three oaken chairs from the serriedrank they occupied along the wall beneath the high-silled windows.Feeling all eyes fixed on him quizzically, he blushed.
"Ah, v'la le p'tit. Il rougit!" laughed the nurse.
"Don't tease him, nurse!" cried the child in English. "He is a nice boy.I like him."
Clearly this was for Martin's benefit. Already the young lady was acoquette.
Mrs. Bolland, hearing there were "ladies" to visit her, entered withtrepidation. She expected to meet the vicar's aunt and one of thatlady's friends. In a moment of weakness she had consented to take chargeof the refreshment stall at a forthcoming bazaar in aid of certainchurch funds. But Bolland was told that the incumbent was adoptingritualistic practices, so he sternly forbade his better half to renderany assista
nce whatsoever. The Established Church was bad enough; it wasa positive scandal to introduce into the service aught that savored ofRome.
Poor Mrs. Bolland therefore racked her brain for a reasonable excuse asshe crossed the yard, and it is not to be wondered at if she was struckalmost dumb with surprise at sight of the strangers.
"Are you Mrs. Bolland?" asked the lady, without rising, and surveyingher through the eyeglasses with head tilted back.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Ah. Exactly. I--er--am staying at The Elms for some few weeks, and thepeople there recommended you as supplying excellent dairy produce. Iam--er--exceedingly particular about butter and milk, as my little girlis so delicate. Have you any objection to allowing me to inspect yourdairy? I may add that I will pay you well for all that I order."
The lady's accent, no less than the even flow of her words, joined tounpreparedness for such fashionable visitors, temporarily bereft Mrs.Bolland of a quick, if limited, understanding.
"Did ye say ye wanted soom bootermilk?" she cried vacantly.
"No, mother," interrupted Martin anxiously. For the first time in hislife he was aware of a hot and uncomfortable feeling that his mother wasmanifestly inferior to certain other people in the world. "The ladywishes to see the dairy."
"Why?"
"She wants to buy things from you, and--er--I suppose she would like tosee what sort of place we keep them in."
No manner of explanation could have restored Mrs. Bolland's normalsenses so speedily as the slightest hint that uncleanliness could harborits microbes in her house.
"My goodness, ma'am," she cried, "wheae's bin tellin' you that my pleaecehez owt wrong wi't?"
Now it was the stranger's turn to appeal to Martin, and the boy showedhis mettle by telling his mother, in exact detail, the request made bythe lady and her reference to the fragile-looking child.
Mrs. Bolland's wrath subsided, and her lips widened in a smile.
"Oah, if that's all," she said, "coom on, ma'am, an' welcome. Ye cannabe too careful about sike things, an' yer little lass do look pukey, tebe sure."
The lady, gathering her skirts for the perilous passage of the yard,followed the farmer's wife.
Martin and the girl sat and stared at each other. She it was who beganthe conversation.
"Have you lived here long?" she said.
"All my life," he answered. Pretty and well-dressed as she was, he hadno dread of her. He regarded girls as spiteful creatures who scratchedone another like cats when angry and shrieked hysterically when theyplayed.
"That's not very long," she cried.
"No; but it's longer than you've lived anywhere else."
"Me! I have lived everywhere--in London, Berlin, Paris, Nice,Montreux--O, je ne sais--I beg your pardon. Perhaps you don't speakFrench?"
"No."
"Would you like to learn?"
"Yes, very much."
"I'll teach you. It will be such fun. I know all sorts of naughty words.I learnt them in Monte Carlo, where I could hear the servants chatteringwhen I was put to bed. Watch me wake up nurse. Francoise, mon chou! Crenom d'un pipe, mais que vous etes triste aujourd'hui!"
The _bonne_ started. She shook the child angrily.
"You wicked girl!" she cried in French. "If madame heard you, she wouldblame me."
The imp cuddled her bare knees in a paroxysm of glee.
"You see," she shrilled. "I told you so."
"Was all that swearing?" demanded Martin gravely.
"Some of it."
"Then you shouldn't do it. If I were your brother, I'd hammer you."
"Oh, would you, indeed! I'd like to see any boy lay a finger on me. I'dtear his hair out by the roots."
Naturally, the talk languished for a while, until Martin thought he hadperhaps been rude in speaking so brusquely.
"I'm sorry if I offended you," he said.
The saucy, wide-open eyes sparkled.
"I forgive you," she said. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen. And you?"
"Twelve."
He was surprised. "I thought you were younger," he said.
"So does everybody. You see, I'm tiny, and mamma dresses me in this babyway. I don't mind. I know your name. You haven't asked me mine."
"Tell me," he said with a smile.
"Angele. Angele Saumarez."
"I'll never be able to say that," he protested.
"Oh, yes, you will. It's quite easy. It sounds Frenchy, but I amEnglish, except in my ways, mother says. Now try. Say 'An'----"
"Ang----"
"Not so much through your nose. This way--'An-gele.'"
The next effort was better, but tuition halted abruptly when Martindiscovered that Angele's mother, instead of being "Mrs. Saumarez," was"the Baroness Irma von Edelstein."
"Oh, crikey!" he blurted out. "How can that be?"
Angele laughed at his blank astonishment.
"Mamma is a German baroness," she explained. "My papa was a colonel inthe British army, but mamma did not lose her courtesy title when shemarried. Of course, she is Mrs. Saumarez, too."
These subtleties of Burke and the Almanach de Gotha went over Martin'shead.
"It sounds a bit like an entry in a stock catalogue," he said.
Angele, in turn, was befogged, but saw instantly that the village youthwas not sufficiently reverent to the claims of rank.
"You can never be a gentleman unless you learn these things," sheannounced airily.
"You don't say," retorted Martin with a smile. He was really far moreintelligent than this pert monitress, and had detected a curiousexpression on the stolid face of Francoise when the Baroness vonEdelstein's name cropped up in a talk which she could not understand.The truth was that the canny Norman woman, though willing enough to takea German mistress's gold, thoroughly disliked the lady's nationality.Martin could only guess vaguely at something of the sort, but the mereguess sufficed.
Angele, however, wanted no more bickering just then. She was about toresume the lesson when the Baroness and Mrs. Bolland re-entered thehouse. Evidently the inspection of the dairy had been satisfactory, andthe lady had signified her approval in words that pleased the olderwoman greatly.
The visitor was delighted, too, with the old-world appearance of thekitchen, the heavy rafters with their load of hams and sides of bacon,the oaken furniture, the spotless white of the well-scrubbed ash-toppedtable, the solemn grandfather's clock, and the rough stone floor, overwhich soft red sandstone had been rubbed when wet.
By this time the tact of the woman of society had accommodated her wordsand utterance to the limited comprehension of her hearer, and shedisplayed such genuine interest in the farm and its belongings that Mrs.Bolland gave her a hearty invitation to come next morning, when thelight would be stronger. Then "John" would let her see his prize stockand the extensive buildings on "t' other side o' t' road.... T' kye (thecows) were fastened up for t' neet" by this time.
The baroness was puzzled, but managed to catch the speaker's drift.
"I do not rise very early," she said. "I breakfast about eleven"--shecould not imagine what a sensation this statement caused in a housewhere breakfast was served never later than seven o'clock--"and it takesme an hour to dress; but I can call about twelve, if that will suit."
"Ay, do, ma'am," was the cheery agreement. "You'll be able te see t'farmhands havin' their dinner. It's a fair treat te watch them men an'lads puttin' away a beefsteak pie."
"And this is your little boy?" said the other, evidently inclined forgossip.
"Yes, ma'am."
"He is a splendid little fellow. What a nice name you gave him--MartinCourt Bolland--so unusual. How came you to select his Christian names?"
The question caused the farmer's wife a good deal of unnoticedembarrassment. The baroness was looking idly at an old colored print ofYork Castle, and the boy himself was far too taken up with Angele tolisten to the chat of his elders.
Mrs. Bolland laughed confusedly.
"Martin," she said. "T
ak t' young leddy an' t' nurse as far as t' brig,an' show 'em t' mill."
The baroness was surprised at this order, but an explanation was soonforthcoming. In her labored speech and broad dialect, the farmer's wiferevealed a startling romance. Thirteen years ago her husband's brotherdied suddenly while attending a show at Islington, and the funeral tookJohn and herself to London. They found the place so vast and noisy thatit overwhelmed them; but in the evening, after the ceremony at AbneyPark, they strolled out from their hotel near King's Cross Station tosee the sights.
Not knowing whither they were drifting, they found themselves, an hourlater, gazing at St. Paul's Cathedral from the foot of Ludgate Hill.They were walking toward the stately edifice, when a terrible thinghappened.
A young woman fell, or threw herself, from a fourth-floor window ontothe pavement of St. Martin's Court. In her arms was an infant, a boytwelve months old. Providence saved him from the instant death met byhis mother. A projecting signboard caught his clothing, tore him fromthe encircling arms, and held him a precarious second until the rentfrock gave way.
But John Bolland's sharp eyes had noted the child's momentary escape. Hesprang forward and caught the tiny body as it dropped. At that hour,nearly nine o'clock, the court was deserted, and Ludgate Hill had lostmuch of its daily crowd. Of course, a number of passers-by gathered; anda policeman took the names and address of the farmer and his wife, theybeing the only actual witnesses of the tragedy.
But what was to be done with the baby? Mrs. Bolland volunteered to takecare of it for the night, and the policeman was glad enough to leave itwith her when he ascertained that no one in the house from which thewoman fell knew anything about her save that she was a "Mrs. Martineau,"and rented a furnished room beneath the attic.
The inquest detained the Bollands another day in town. Police inquiriesshowed that the unfortunate young woman had committed suicide. A letter,stuck to a dressing-table with a hatpin, stated her intention, and thather name was not Martineau. Would the lady like to see the letter?
"Oh, dear, no!" said the baroness hastily. "Your story is awfullyinteresting, but I could not bear to read the poor creature's words."
Well, the rest was obvious. Mrs. Bolland was childless after twentyyears of married life. She begged for the bairn, and her husband allowedher to adopt it. They gave the boy their own name, but christened himafter the scene of his mother's death and his own miraculous escape. Andthere he was now, coming up the village street, leading Angeleconfidently by the hand--a fine, intelligent lad, and wholly differentfrom every other boy in the village.
Not even the squire's sons equaled him in any respect, and the teacherof the village school gave him special lessons. Perhaps the lady hadnoticed the way he spoke. The teacher was proud of Martin's abilities,and he tried to please her by not using the Yorkshire dialect.
"Ah, I see," said the baroness quietly. "His history is quite romantic.But what will he become when he grows up--a farmer, like his adoptedfather?"
"John thinks te mak' him a minister," said Mrs. Bolland with genialpride.
"A minister! Do you mean a preacher, a Nonconformist person?"
"Why, yes, ma'am. John wouldn't hear of his bein' a parson."
"Grand Dieu! Quelle betise! I beg your pardon. Of course, you will dowhat is best for him.... Well, ma belle, have you enjoyed your littlewalk?"
"Oh, so much, mamma. The miller has such lovely pigs, so fat, so tightthat you can't pinch them. And there's a beautiful dog, with four puppydogs. I'm so glad we came here. J'en suis bien aise."
"She's a queer little girl," said Mrs. Bolland, as Martin and shewatched the party walking back to The Elms. "I couldn't tell half whatshe said."
"No, mother," he replied. "She goes off into French without thinking,and her mother's a German baroness, who married an English officer. Thenurse doesn't speak any English. I wish I knew French and German.French, at any rate."
