A Broken Shilling: the story of a distressed Agriculturist

Chapter I

To many persons the county of Surrey is an unknown land, although half of London, that is London on the south side of the Thames, London over the water, or the Borough, as it is called, is in Surrey. Travellers by rail, as the trains run by Surbiton and by Sandown, through Surrey, do not see much to attract attention. Further south, at Woking, all the country appears to be barren heath, with Scotch firs struccdinor to grow in the sand which forms OO o o the soil. A Aldershot is in Hampshire, but is almost surrounded by the county of Surrey, and within the memory of middle-aged men was mostly a marsh and sand-hills, a good place to look for a snipe. Yet in Surrey there are some most productive lands. The green sand which forms the subsoil of much of the country about Farnham, has grown hops from time immemorial, and near Godalming and in other parts of the county are warm pieces of land resting on red sandstone.

The Geological Survey Map of Surrey describes large tracts of land, covered with heath and gorse, and lately enclosed at the south-western end of the county, as gault, a soil composed of sand, clay, and gravel, which becomes most fertile and productive as soon as the water is drained out of it. When these lands were enclosed, some thirty years ago, it was found necessary to leave many footpaths that crossed the heathery wastes, as these were the only ways by which the villagers of the scattered hamlets on the commons went to Church or to the smithy, the mill, or to the post-office. And it was natural that the Enclosure Commissioners, in leaving these means of access from one place to another, should take two points and make a straight line between them, setting out the paths accord ingly. The consequence has been that many of these paths are impassable.

The gault has frequent faults of clay, and the water coming through the gault, overflows the clay, and turns it into a bog, not passable in winter, and never dry in summer. In old times the villagers were wont to go round these clay morasses, but to enclose land by fences in the shape of the letter S, was not reasonable, and so, on the enclosure of a common, the lands allotted to neigh bouring freeholders, as well as those sold to O ' pay expenses, were set out in square parcels, with the effect of making any paths between them straight— up hill and down, through morasses or dry heath, as the case might be. On a certain day, in the month of November of the year 187 — , a man was going up a hill between two of these en closed parcels of land, by one of the paths before mentioned. It was set out about ten feet wide, with wattle hedges on each side.

Here and there a bush was growing on the path, preventing anyone from seeing far along it. For the first hundred yards or so from the bottom of the hill the path was on firm dry land. Then the man came to a piece of clay. He knew it well. The surface appeared to be hard, with uneven formation, but nothing grew on it, and he knew that if he put his foot on it the liquid clay would certainly come over his ankle, and possibly come up to his knee. The man was about five feet ten inches high, with broad and strong shoulders. His whole frame was wiry and well knit together. He was dressed much as a farm labourer, with stout nail boots and gaiters to the knees. He had on a smock-frock and a small round hat, and he was plastered with mud from head to foot. His hat even was covered with mud, but whether from habit, or because he did not know how deep the slime in front of him might be, he did not attempt to walk through the morass, so supporting himself by the stakes of the wattle fence at the side of the path, and treading on the heather that grew out of the fence, he managed to get safely past the clay.

On his arrival at the upper end of the morass, he was startled to see, within five yards of him, a lady most becomingly dressed in the last fashionable morning costume, and standing at the side of the path on a dry clump of grass. She must have come down the hill and through another smaller clay pit, a few yards higher up. The lady appeared to be alarmed, and hardly able to speak. Considerably taller than most women, with features delicate and regular, as she stood even in a somewhat ludicrous position, it was impossible not to be struck with her remarkable figure and beautiful O face. Her hair was jet black, not the black hair of Orientals, with its brownish hue, but blue black, with the sheen of a feather. Her mouth was small, but very well formed, and long eye-lashes shaded her large grey eyes.

With one hand, gloved as Paris alone can glove a lady's hand, she held an umbrella rolled to perfection. With the other, she held up her dress, and showed the cause of her distress and dismay. One boot, with many buttons, was not much soiled, and fitted a very neat foot. The other boot, as far as the ankle, could not be distinguished. It was covered with tenacious mud, half-an inch thick. In coming down the hill, she had put one foot into a clay-hole. How she escaped with only one boot soiled, was a marvel. The man could not help smiling at the position of affairs, much as he admired the figure before him. ' I am afraid that you have lost your way,' he said. ' I was taking a walk on the Common above,' she replied, with a pretty foreign accent, ' and on asking my way to Barledge, was told to come down this road.

I am afraid to go any further.' ' If you are going to Barledge, you must continue your way down this path. Let me help you over the next few yards, or you will be in a worse plight than ever. Give me your umbrella ; hold on to it as you would to a rail. That is it,' he said, as she clasped the umbrella ; ' now hold up your dress with the other hand, and put your foot where I tell you.' And the man walking backward in front of her, showed her where to put her feet, on the heather at the edge, until, step by step, they arrived at the further end of the morass without further mishap. From there to the foot of the hill the ground was firm and clean. When they reached the bottom, he said : ' You will not like to walk through Barledge with your boot so dirty. Allow me to clean it.' And he knelt down, and having wiped off the thick of the mud with his hand, made the boot as clean as he could with his pocket-handkerchief.

The lady, who had not spoken after the explanation she had given of her arrival, had taken out her purse. As he stood up he said : ' Matters are not quite so bad now. Your way to Barledge is through that stile. The path is clean and sandy all the way. With a gracious ' Thank you,' she held out a shilling to him, and, with a face difficult to describe, he involuntarily took it without a word. The lady went through the stile as directed, but after following the path for a few yards, she found herself at the meeting of some cross-roads and stopped. On looking back she saw that the man who had helped her was washing the mud from his hands at a little pool beside the path they had first left. She waited, and in a few minutes he came up to her. ' You need not fear the path, madame,' he said ; ' it is quite straight and sandy.' ' I wish to go to Barledge Hall,' she replied. ' Is it not somewhere in this direction ? ' pointing along a path that ran at right angles to the one he had recommended. ' Yes, it is in those woods, quite near.

I will show you the way to it.' And taking the path, the lady pointed to, in a few minutes they came out on the main parish road, on one side of which there was a wall, which enclosed the private grounds of Barledge Hall. A few yards further on, they came to a door in the wall, and the man, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, opened the door, and held it open while the lady passed through. ' You will find the Hall about a hundred yards down that path,' he remarked, pointing to a path on the other side of the door. ' I know where I am now,' she replied, and as she passed, he raised his hat and shut the door behind her. A deep colour spread over her ivory face, for there was no mistaking the salute of a gentleman. Barledge Hall was a large old-fashioned house, tenanted by Mr Hill, a London stock broker.

He lived thus far from London for the sake of the pure air for his wife and family. Mrs Hill had several children, and she had asked Claire Carnot, who had been educated at the same convent as herself in Paris, to come and spend a few weeks with her. Madame Carnot gave an account at dinner of her disaster in the mud, and she related how a man had helped her to get on dry land, but she said nothing about giving the shilling, or about being let through the door in the wall into the grounds of Barledge Hall. ' Hill will take you in the carriage to the station to-morrow, Claire,' said Mrs Hill, ' if you want to go to London.' ' I shall be very glad to do so,' joined in her husband, ' but I must have my smoke ; so after I have seen you into a carriage, I shall be off elsewhere.' The next morning Mr Hill and his guest drove to Pentland, a station on a short line of railway that went to Dereham, where it was necessary to change carriages for the Waterloo terminus in London.

He handed Madame Carnot into a carriage, and went at once to have his smoke. To her astonishment, the gentleman on the seat opposite to her in the train was the same person who had helped her through the mud the day before. He was reading some papers covered with figures, and if he recognised her, did not show it. Immediately afterwards another gentleman got into the carriage, and as soon as he saw the reader, exclaimed : ' This is lucky, Farmer. You are the very man I wanted to see.' ' There is plenty of time to see me to-day, for I suppose that you are coming to the Board, about that surveyor you want ap pointed.' ' No,' replied the other. ' The farmers have found out that you have no intention of voting and they will have their own man.' ' What do you want then ? ' asked the gentleman addressed as Farmer. ' I want to show you some plans of new stables that we are going to put up.

My lady will have me show them to you. I said that you had enough to do, but will you come over and look at them ? ' ' I will tell you what I will do, if conveni ent to Lady Halstead. The hounds meet on Saturday at Byles's, your neighbour. I will come and breakfast with you and look at your plans, but you must ask Lady Halstead not to keep me late.' ' It shall be all done just as you wish,' replied the other, and the train having arrived at Dereham, all the passengers got out. Mr Hill came for Claire Carnot. ' For some reason she did not ask him who the gentleman called Farmer was. Still, as her two fellow-passengers walked away from Dereham station towards the town, she could not restrain her curiosity, and whilst they were waiting for the train to London, inquired of the inspector on the platform who they were. ' The tall one is Mr Grey Howard, madame, and the other is Lord Halstead.' ' I do not mean those,' she said, supposing he was referring to some of the other passengers who were walking away ; ' the gentleman I mean is called Farmer.' ' Oh,' laughed the man, ' the gentlefolks, who are his friends, call Mr Howard " Farmer."

That is what you have heard.' In the evening there was no one at dinner at Barledge Hall except Mr and Mrs Hill and their guest. ' You can have a mount on Saturdaj^, Claire,' said Mr Hill. 'The M.M. meet near here at a Mr Byles's, and I will lend you my horse, but I do not know how you are to get home, for I must go to London. I can go with you to the meet.' ' I should so much like to go,' she replied ; ' I want to see some English hunting. Can I not come home alone ? I am accustomed to ride by myself.' ' Ask the Squire to see her home,' said Mrs Hill, addressing her husband ; 'he is sure to be out on Saturday.' ' Of course ! I wonder I did not think of it.' Who is the Squire ? ' inquired Claire. ' Our landlord, Mr Grey Howard ; he is the very man to help you.' ' Is he married ? ' ' Married !

No ! He says he is too poor to marry, but he is as steady as a table.' ' But he owns this house. How can he be poor ? ' ' He owns this house, and all the land you can see from the top of it, in Surrey, Hants, and Sussex. All the same, I daresay he is poor, for, with the exception of four or five farms, the whole estate is forest, bog, and heather. He told me once that he lived on what we pay him as rent for this house, £120 a year.' ' Is he a gentleman ? ' she asked. ' Gentleman ! I should rather say so. His mother was a Grey, and his father of course a Howard : that is why he is called Grey Howard. When he came into the property, he found it mortgaged and bur dened beyond its value, so he lives in a large farmhouse just below us, and lets his dwelling-house. We call him Squire, be cause all the poor people about here do so, but many persons call him " Farmer."

He is generally found at some farm work.' ' I do not think I shall care to hunt on Saturday, if you will not be there,' said the French lady. ' Oh, do go,' cried Mrs Hill, ' or Hill will be so put out.' Her husband, thinking that he saw a little further than his wife, explained : ' Mr Howard is a poor man according to his own account, but for all that, he is one of the great men about here. He is chair man of the Board of Guardians, and although Lord Halstead is chairman of the Bench of Magistrates, everyone knows that Grey Howard is the real head. People say that B he might be Member for one of the divisions of Hants if he liked, and get into office, but he does not care about it.' ' I do not doubt all that,' remarked Madame Carnot, with rather a troubled expression on her face, ' but I do not wish to go.' They were silent, and Mrs Hill, seeing that there was something which distressed her friend, waited until the servants had left the room after dinner.

When they were gone, her two eldest children came in — a girl of eight, called Lillie, and her brother, seven years old, named after his father, Archibald. ' What is the matter, Claire ? ' asked Mrs Hill. ' I would rather not know Mr Howard,' she replied. ' Good heavens ! ' ejaculated Mr Hill ; ' why not ? ' ' I do not like mysteries,' said the French lady, ' but I think the man who helped me out of the mud yesterday was Mr Howard.' ' What of that ? ' broke in her host. ' He would think nothing of that. Oh ! vou O V think he would not like you to have seen him all over mud. Do not trouble yourself. He would not care if the whole world saw him.' ' Yes ; but I did not tell you all. I am afraid I made a great mistake.' Mr Hill looked up from his walnuts, and Mrs Hill, seeing her friend's uneasiness, said, — ■ ' You could not offend Grey Howard, he is the kindest man in the world.' ' I think — but I had better tell you, when this man had helped me to the bottom of the hill, he took out his handkerchief to clean my boot and it was whiter than my own are.

I was very puzzled, for his voice sounded quite refined ; but as he knelt down to wipe the boot, I could see all his clothes muddy and his hat was covered with mud, and his hands quite brown ; and I hardly knew what I was doing. When he had done I gave him a shilling.' ' Gave him what ? ' shrieked Mr Hill, the tears coming into his eyes as he tried to suppress his laughter. Madame Carnot took no notice, and went on : ' And afterwards, I was not sure where I was, so I asked him to show me the way to the Hall, and he took a key out of his pocket and let me through that green door in the wall, and as he left me, he raised his hat, then I felt almost certain that he was a gentleman. I cannot meet him.' ' Let you through the door at the end of the walk ? ' asked Mrs Hill, who was laughing almost as much as her husband. ' I shall never get over it,' he gasped. ' How the fellows in the train will laugh.' ' You will not mention it,' said the French lady in great distress. ' Pray do not mention it.

It was all a mistake.' ' I am sure it was Mr Howard,' piped in little Lillie Hill ; ' for when we went for eggs to the farm yesterday, Madame An nette was in a great state and scolding because the water was not hot for his bath, when he came in. He had been in the drains showing the men what he wanted done, and he called down the stairs to her, and when she came back with his clothes, they were so muddy and wet, and she told Sally to dry the smock-frock at once, and she said we were to stop to tea, Nurse and all, and there was new bread and jam and cream, and he came and had tea withus.' ' This is the first that I have heard of this little feast,' exclaimed her mother. '0 mother,' cried out the little boy, 'you said we might always stop to tea at Mr Howard's.' ' And he had two cups of tea,' the little girl continued, ' and ate such a quantity of bread and butter and talked so, and we told him Claire was here, and Archie said that she was an American, and he looked up, but when I said that she was a French woman, he laughed that way he does, quite quiet.

I am sure it was Mr Howard that Claire met, for he took a shilling out of his pocket and looked at it.' ' I shall not be introduced to him,' said Madame Carnot, ' but pray do not tell any one about the shilling.' ' I will make a bargain with you, Madame,' replied Mr Hill, ' if' you will go to the hunt on Saturday, and let me come away from the meet to get to London, and also let me ask Mr Howard to see you home, I will say nothing about the shilling to anyone.' ' You are very hard. I am sure that it will be very awkward for the gentleman as well as myself.' ' Do not think of that, dear,' said Mrs Hill, ' we know him so well. Take no notice of it, and I am certain that he will not.' To meet her host's wishes, Madame Carnot consented to do as he wanted, but she asked presently : ' Who is Madame Annette, that you spoke of at Mr Howard's, Lillie ? ' ' She is his servant ; she is very old, but very careful.

She is very kind to us.' ' Is she a Frenchwoman ? ' ' Oh, yes. She can only speak French. I know what she says when she speaks to me, but when she is speaking to Mr Howard, I cannot understand, she talks so fast.' ' I am going to have a smoke,' said the host. ' I won't laugh more than I can help, Claire, but Grey Howard is the proudest man in England, and you tipped him a shilling.' ' It has distressed me, I assure you, though I take some comfort from what the children say about him.' The ladies went to the drawing-room, and Mrs Hill asked : ' Was there any bad news in that formid able packet from New York, that I put in your room to-day, dear ? ' ' No. Only the same story that made me leave Paris, but that does not distress me, for I am sure that my husband is dead. When the lawyers thought that I was very rich, they brought me absolute proof of his death.

He died in Boston Penitentiary, more than four years ago.' ' If it would not pain you too much,' said Mrs Hill, 'I should like to hear all about your marriage ? ' ' I will tell you. You ought to know, but I should mention first that I come from pure French people. We have no American relations or connections. In 1790 my great-grandfather, taking my grandfather with him, emigrated from France to Louisiana, and obtained large tracts of land in the northern part of that State. The land was very valuable before the war. My grandfather went to Canada for his wife, and my father went to Paris for his. I believe my mother was married to my father, just as I was married to Miller. It . was a mariage de convenance where the relations of birth and fortune were more considered than the inclination of the parties.

It is just five years ago. I was then eighteen, and I did not like it, but my father wrote urging it and Reverend Mother made me agree to it. Everyone said that Mr Miller was an excellent parti, that he had large estates in Louisiana near ours, and all that sort of argument. I cannot tell you how it was brought about, it was all over so soon. I O 7 never was with Miller alone until we were married. He got drunk at the wedding breakfast, although I do not think that drink was his failing, but he felt that he O ' had gained his end, and he forgot himself. We started for Havre in the afternoon to go by steamer to New Orleans. Miller was taken to the hotel where rooms had been bespoken, and I went straight on board the steamer. The . next dav he came on board and was full of apologies, but I hated the sight of him.

He was very sick at sea as soon as the voyage began, and I conceived the most acute repulsion to him. It was so intense and manifest that he took an antipathy to me, quite as strong. We were nine days in getting to New Orleans, and the first news I received there was of my father's death. As soon as possible, I started for our home in Louisiana where I had not been since I was a child, five years old. Miller remained in New Orleans for a long time, I should think two months, and then he came down to the estate with some companions, and Dinah my maid told me that he was accompanied by some dreadful creature, who at first kept out of sight. It appeared that I was owner of all my father's estate, and Miller's great object was to get hold of it. To keep him away from me, I signed anything he sent me to sign, until the common report was that he had sold the very house we were living in.

I seemed to have but one wish, which was to be undisturbed by Miller, and at first I agreed to everything his lawyer proposed. To amuse myself, I rode every day some where or another all round the country, so I learned my way about, and made the ac quaintance of a lady wTho advised me to buy a revolver and learn to shoot with it. She also advised me to see a lawyer and not to sign any more papers. I had made up my mind to this, when one day after breakfast the lawyer whom Miller employed sent in his card, wishing to see me on business. This was the same man who had always brought me papers to sign. He had, as usual, papers with him, and was very plausible. I sat down at my table, and he put his finger on the spot I was to sign on the paper, and I said that I would look through the papers and give them to him in the morning.

I shall never forget his look of astonished fury, for he had a most speaking face. His eyes were not like other men's, one moment they seemed to flash fire, and he made a gesture to take the papers again.' ' How very dreadful,' said Mrs Hill. ' It was ; but at the time I was not afraid, for I expected some violence, only he never said a word. When he leant forward to take the papers, I held them with my left hand and to his amazement, took the revolver out of the drawer with my right. All I could say was, " Go, go," and he went. If he had not gone, I am sure I should have shot at him and killed him, if I could. What gave me this desperation I do not know, but for the time I was in earnest, and he saw it. When he was gone, I called the servants. I could hardly hold the papers to read that the man had brought, my hand shook so.

But after a few minutes, I made out that one paper contained a list of jewellery, said to be in a black box, and on the back of the paper was an acknowledgment from a firm of bankers in New Orleans, that they held the jewels for my father. The other paper was an order made out in my name to give the box to the bearer. As I read the papers, the same spirit of desperation came over me, that I had when the lawyer asked me to sign, and I determined to go to New Orleans at once. I ordered my horse for my mid-day ride, and then I took the papers with me, and went to the post-office. The postmaster helped me, and the next morning I was in New Orleans. On going to the bank, the senior partner was very kind ; he advised me to go to New York by a steamer leaving on that day, and he gave me letters of introduction to my father's agents there, who remitted to the bank from time to time the rents of some houses that belonged to me.

I went on board the steamer, taking my passage under my mother's name of Carnot, which I have always used since. These agents were also lawyers, and I instructed them, these very men whose letters came to-day, to get a divorce from Miller for me. They set about it, and tracked him from place to place, chiefly at railway stations, perhaps looking for me, until at last they ascertained that in a brawl with a train conductor, because he would follow some closely veiled lady into a carriage, Miller had fallen or been knocked off the train, and was put into Boston Peni tentiary, where he died of his injuries. At that time they brought me undoubted proof of his death, with photographs the prison people had taken of him, and everything necessary to identify him. I longed to go back to France, but after I had taken my passage these same lawyers brought me a letter which they pretended to believe was written by Miller a few days before, and they persuaded me to find more money for the divorce proceedings, and that has continued ever since.