Only a Commoner

Front matter

NAT GOULD'S SPORTING NOVELS. Uniform with this Volume. THE DOUBLE EVENT. RUNNING IT OFF. JOCKEY JACK. HARRY DALE'S JOCKEY. BANKER AND BROKER. THROWN AWAY. STUCK UP. BY NAT GOULD (verax) author of "the double event," "harry dale's jockey,' " thrown away," etc. COPYRIGHT LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Limited Broadway, Ludgate Hill manchester and new york [All Rights Reserved.] CONTENTS. CHAPTER TAGE i. the yeoman 7 ii. hard as flint 17 in. the derwent light , 29 iv. the new life 41 V. at the mount 51 VI. mystery shows pace , , . 60 VII. ralton at the mount 71 VIII. A MAN SURPRISED IS HALF BEATEN 80 IX. ARTHUR NEWMAN WRITES 9 1 X. IN HYDE PARK, SYDNEY 99 XI. ADA LAWTON IO9 XII. DULLERANA STATION I I 7 XIII. TEDIGREE UNKNOWN 1 28 XIV. RALTON AT WORK I38 XV. " IS THAT THE MARE ? " 1 46 XVI.

DICK MURTON 1 58 XVII. A NOTE OF WARNING 1 68 XVIII. QUITE BY ACCIDENT 1 CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE XIX. RALTON HAS TWO SURPRISES 1 89 XX. "I'LL TELL YOU ON THE COURSE." 200 XXI. AN OBJECTION TO MYSTERY 210 XXII. THE HOBART C j? 2 20 XXIII. A STRANGE FATALITY 23O XXIV. HE WHO DIES PAYS ALL DEBTS 239 XXV. THE DETECTIVES STORY 248 XXVI. A DAY AT RYDAL FARM 258 XXVII. GEORGE ANDREWS SPEAKS 267 XXVIII. FROM THE DUKE ONLY A COMMONER.

Chapter I. The

Y E O M A N. TWILIGHT was gently heralding the approach of night, and the day was softly stealing away. It was harvest time amidst the peaceful hills and dales of Derbyshire. There was a scent of new-mown hay in the air, which was rendered somewhat overpower ing with its fragrance. From a distant hill the sound of the mowing machine could be faintly heard as the driver went his last round. The birds were twittering in their leafy bowers, bidding each other good-night amidst the shade of the elder trees and the giant chestnuts. The fowls were quietly going to roost on the lower branches of thc trees, and the snores of the pigs could be heard from their snug old styes covered with ivy and moss, that betokened age. The men servants were idling in the farmyard after the day's toil, chatting over the trivial inci dents of their every-day life.

They had very few cares en their mind. Life was hard to them did they but know it, but they were content to go on as their fathers had done before them, and as their children would after they were gone. A dull, monotonous life the English farm laborers lead, but the men do not seem to know it, and are happy in their way. Hawthorn Farm had been tenanted by the Wildes for three generations, under the Dukes of The present representative of the family, John Wilde, was a hale, hearty, healthy, fine-looking man of about fifty years of age, or perhaps a few years older. He was a typical specimen of the old yeo man stock from which he had sprung, that stock which is the sinew and backbone of England. No titled gentlemen the Wildes, although one of them in days gone by had fought for his country, and another had occupied a high position at the bar, and afterwards attained to eminence as a judge.

They were what John Wilde represented them to be, true types of the British farmer or yeoman. A hard-working, thrifty, prosperous race they had been in days gone by. They had tilled the land and en hanced its value many-fold since the first Wilde came to Hawthorn Farm under the third Duke. Time had not dealt harshly with the old home stead; it was a picturesque spot. The old-fashioned white cottage nestled at the top of a slope which ran down in varied undulations to the river Dove, which wended its way through thc valley. Beyond, thc land rose again until it seemed as though it had been formed to tempt a daring tW£ V£0.W.4X- 9 engineer to bridge it over with some new design of suspension bridge. The cottage wn-5 white, that peculiar gritty white almost like small pieces of coral plastered together.

It i:;:d small windows, with diamond-shaped panes. Silt] on the insidean old wainscoted scat ran round the Low-shaped window. The porch was covered with climbing roses, and the pear trees clambered up cither side of the walls, and became entwined with creepers as they rose to the top. In front of the hou-.e a gardctl in full bloom, and the white gravd walk yvas cart fully tended, not a I ..i I COllld be 5WET] among it. A ~unk wall divided the cottage from the croft in front, and on this fine summer's night it was a charming sight to s:e Lhc small pony attached to one of the old-fashioned milk-wheels, drawing a can full of water up from the spring. flO.W peaceful it all looked, and how contented in -t all be wilhin the Walls of ' lawthorn Farm ! Harvest prospects were ii'>ne tOfl good; the ■ lrwrjlit had been seven , and the crops were light. la seme places the machine kft brhind it a few sircaks of gfass wlncl) could almost have been blown av ay by a puft of w ''""-•• There was very little grass in the meadows, and the \\ut.jr v.vs',c;irce, the river being a nn.re apology, anil was now a trickling stream.

Still, for all that, the inmates of Hawthorn Farm tfid not seem wry discontented. In theold-fa?hioncd yard at the rear of the cottage could be heard the sounds of an accordion, and the clang of heavy hob-nailed shoes on the barn floor as the men amused themselves after their hard day's work. Sounds of laughter and approving applause followed when the music ceased. In the old shrubbery one of the men was chopping wood, and the dairy maid was scouring out her tins and making them shine like silver. All these various sounds completed the music that can be heard around any English farm homestead on such a night. How beautiful are the twilight hours, and how fondly they linger in the remembrance of those who have come to reside in lands where the light vanishes into darkness at almost a moment's warning !

Twilight is full of romance. It was made for lovers to woo in, and for all nature to prepare for repose. John Wilde sat in an old-fashioned chair in front of the house, and at his feet lay a couple of sheep dogs. They were not pure-bred collies, but good, hard-working dogs that could be trusted to round up the cows at milking time without being attended by any one, Farmer Wilde's pipe evidently soothed his nerves, and he watched the smoke curl and wreathe about in a hundred fantastic shapes in the still night air. How often had he looked upon the familiar scene mapped out before him in the twilight's gloom ! He had seen it covered with snow many inches deep, when all the country seemed buried amidst a white THE YEOMAN. 11 canopy. He had seen it in good seasons and bad, as his ancestors had done before him.

He had tilled the land upon which he was born, and he loved the place as any true yeoman loves the land. Times were serious, however, now farming was not what it used to be, and rents had not been re duced. It was a hard struggle to make both ends meet. The landlord reaped the benefit, while the tenant worked for a mere pittance. John Wilde, like many of his class, had been taught to reverence the ducal owners of the soil, but some how or another as John became older he saw this in a different light. Perhaps his son had something to do with this. John Wilde had given his son the best education he could afford, and the lad had got on well. His young ideas had been formed in a far different school to those of his father. He had learnt that if it was right to respect property, so it was right for men of property to respect those who toiled for them.

Tom Wilde, at the age of twenty-one, had ideas of his own that sometimes astonished his father. He had actually suggested to John Wilde that he should see the Duke in person, and let him know how matters stood as between the tenant farmers and the Duke's agent. At first John Wilde had been horrified at the idea, but it gradually dawned upon him there might be something in it after all. He was considering the matter over as he sat in his chair this calm summer night. He had time after time asked the agent to make improvements to thc homestead and outbuildings, but he had declined to do so. He had also asked for his rent to be lowered, and this had been refused in the most peremptory manner. John Wilde had an idea the Duke knew veiy little of his agent's carrying on. He felt that although the Duke might be an austere man, he would also be just, but that rascal of an agent — well, he might just as well try to get blood out of a stone.

The clatter of a horse's hoofs far down on the road beneath, which now looked like a white streak winding in and out between the hedgerows, roused him from his reverie. " That must be Tom," he thought to himself, " the lad has not been long away. He's made the most of his time at any rate." Thc gate swung to with a bang as the trap passed through, and the horse forded the river to the opposite side and commenced to ascend the hill leading to the cottage. In a very short time a fine stalwart young man joined John Wilde, and said: " Not been long, have I, father? A good twelve mile there and back to Ashbourne, and Bess did it easily in a little over an hour, including stoppages and time for a glass of bitter at the ' George and D» . > ragon. " Good lad, Tom," said John Wilde. " I hope you did not push the mare too hard, there was no hurry for that."

" She's all right, father, never fear. I got thc knives for the machine all right, so we can go on THE YEOMAN. 13 with the bottom close to-morrow morning first thing. What a grand night it is. Suppose we have the flagon out here, for I'm dry." " As you like, lad. Tell Janet to fill it up and bring it out." In response to Tom's halloa at the cottage door, Janet appeared, and in due course so did a large silver tankard brimming over with froth and looking like a regular stirrup-cup. " What have you been thinking about, father, while I have been away," said Tom. " About the rent of the farm, the bad crops, and a heap of other things. I'm glad your poor mother is not alive to see Hawthorn Farm going to the dogs. It would have broken her heart, Tom." " Not when she knew it was not our fault, father," said Tom.

" We've got no chance here in these days. They grind us down and wring the last penny out of us. Good crops or bad, high prices or low, it's all one with them ; they must have their rent." " We have been on this farm for generations, Tom," said John Wilde, " and I should be sorry to leave the old house and the place I was reared on, but if something is not done I shall have to go. I am not going to ruin thy prospects, lad, by losing what bit I have saved here. We have only ourselves now, Tom. Mother's gone, and James is gone, and you are all I have in the world now." " Father," said Tom, and he looked a manly affectionate son as he put his hand on John Wilde's shoulder, " never think of me in the matter. If it pleases you to remain on at the old place, then stay. We shall pull through somehow.

For myself I don't care a rap. Where you are, there will I be, father, and if you decide for Hawthorn Farm, so be it." " You're a good lad, Tom, a real good son to me, but I'll stand it no longer. Hawthorn Farm has been in our family for three centuries. For nigh three hundred years have the Wildes worked and paid the rent of Hawthorn Farm to the Dukes. We have never owed a penny, and so long as I am here we never shall. But flesh and blood can stand it no longer. The cottage there is hardly fit to live in, and the out-houses are dangerous. I asked Ralton to assist us, but he said the Duke had declined to incur any further outlay this year." " I believe that is not true, father," said Tom. " Ralton is the Duke's agent, and the more he grinds out of people the better his master is pleased, but I do not believe the Duke knows how we tenants are treated."

" Likely not, Tom, likely not," said John Wilde. '• Do what I tell you, father. Go and see the Duke. If you can see him I am sure he will listen to you," said Tom. " And suppose he does not, Tom?" " then it is for you to decide, father." " And I will decide, Tom. If he will not hear me, and listen to reason, we will go. We will leave Hawthorn Farm, and tear all its fond memories out of our hearts. We will do what you suggested, Tom ; seek a new country while we have some capital left, and begin a new life. I am not an old man yet, Tom, and we have no one here to stay behind for. We THE YEOMAN. ■5 are the last of a good old stock of British yeomen, and we bear a name that is untarnished." " Well done, father. I feel a new man now. I almost hope the Duke will decide against you. I want to travel and see other countries.

There are many lands, father, where you and I can find a rest ing place and earn an honest living." " No doubt, Tom," said his father, " but you are younger than I, and it will not be such a wrench for you to leave the old place as it will for me." " Then stay, father, and I will stay with you," said Tom. " We will see what I can do about the farm. I will not submit to this injustice any longer. It is slavery, my lad, that's what it amounts to." John Wilde and his son sat talking for over an hour. Tom Wilde had a friend named Arthur Newman, who had been in Tasmania a couple of years, and had written to him several times imploring him to come out with his father, as the country was magnificent, and there was plenty of scope for such men as the Wildes. Often had father and son talked the matter over, and now, on this calm summer night, with the scent of the new-mown hay around them, they went over the old ground again.

Tom's heart was set on going out to join his friend. He would have gone with him but he could not leave his father behind to live a lonely life at Hawthorn Farm. It had come to this, that many of the landlords were driving the best men out of thc country, men that the colonies would be only too glad to receive with open arms. Thc Wildes of Hawthorn Farm were not the only old yeomen family that had determined to desert the land of their birth, and cast it off for a new place across the sea. John Wilde might have hesitated before he under took such a step on his own responsibility, but the enthusiasm of his son was catching, and his ideas were moulded by the younger man's. When father and son parted for the night, it was with the mutual understanding that as soon as the harvest was in John Wilde should see the Duke if possible and place their grievances before him.

Failing this, a last request was to be made to the agent, and if he declined to come to terms, then Hawthorn Farm should know them no more, and they would sail for a new land which gave more promise for them. Were they right in this decision ? A thoucar.d times yes, as the sequel will show. In the meantime we must wait and see how John Wilde fared with the Duke and his agent. J 7

Chapter II. Hard As

F! INT. The harvest was safely gathered, and the stacks had been thatched in good old-fashioned style. There were no hay barns at Hawthorn Farm, not even a mere shed to caver the crops when they were harvested. The Duke's agent considered " thatch ing " good enough for what ho designated such a tumble-down place as Hawthorn Farm. J"hn Wilde had made up his mind to sec the Duke in person, and to place the matter before him. I fe thought he could get justice from the great man could he but see him. The tenants living their peaceful, quiet lives knew little of the movements of the aristocracy. John Wilde, as he drove over to Raworth Park, the Duke's Derbyshire seat, fancied he would have very little difficulty in obtaining an audience. Fate willed it, however, that John Wilde should not see the Duke.

When he arrived at the Lodge gates he was told it would be useless to proceed further, as the Duke was away on the Continent, and would not come to Raworth again until Christmas. " Had my journey for nothing," thought Wilde 33 he turned his horse's head for tl)e long homeward I drive. " Perhaps it is for the best. He might have refused to see me, and I could not have stood that." The day John Wilde drove over to see the Duke, Ralton the agent decided to pay a visit to Haw thorn Farm and one or two homesteads adjoining. Ralton was an autocrat, and a man who considered himself a person of the highest importance as representative of the Duke. He looked upon tenant farmers as his natural enemies, born to cause him annoyance by their persistent demands for " some thing to be done." To the Duke Ralton was a very different man to what he was to the farmers.

His Grace had confi dence in him because he only saw one side of the man's life. Busy with politics and the affairs of the nation, the Duke had little time to personally in quire into the condition of his tenants. When a general election was approaching he be came more condescending, and even went so far as to write to his principal tenantry stating his views and pointing out that such and such a candidate for political honors would, he thought, be worthy of their support. Of course he would not for a moment suggest that they should vote against their politi cal opinions, if they happened to have any, but he hinted that if Mr. So-and-so was not returned at the head of the poll he should be very much displeased. When Ralton arrived at Hawthorn Farm he found Tom Wilde busily engaged in breaking in a colt that appeared to have some good blood in it, and had every appearance of being a thoroughbred, or pretty near it.

If there was one thing more than another Ralton detested, it was to see a tenant farmer, or his son, better horsed than himself. He had no love for young Tom Wilde. Ralton prided himself upon his skill in the saddle, and in the hunting field, but he knew from experience that Tom Wilde could give him a long start when the hounds were in full cry. Many a time had Tom given him the go-by in the hunting field, and Ralton never forgot it. He was a bachelor, and not a bad-looking man, and yet he knew that Tom Wilde, old farmer Wilde's son, could cut him out with the prettiest girl in the room at the Hunt Club Ball. As for Tom Wilde, he took a particular delight in cutting Ralton out when he got an opportunity. He disliked Ralton about as much as it was in his nature to dislike any man. Tom was so busy with the colt that he did not notice Ralton enter the yard.

The young 'un was fresh and fiery and Tom had got his blood up. They were engaged in a battle royal as Ralton rode up. Tom did not abuse the colt, but he gave him to understand one of them must give in, and that one would not be his rider. After a ten-minutes' tussle, it seemed to dawn upon the colt that he had met his match, and he gradually calmed down, blowing hard to get his breath after the struggle. It was then that Tom Wilde saw Ralton sitting on his horse watching him with no very friendly glance. It was a good deal more than the agent could have done to tame that colt, and he knew it, and he hated Tom for being a better horseman than himself. " Halloa," said Tom, " you here? " The tone was not at all respectful, and Ralton was accustomed to be treated with a good deal of defer ence, due more to the position he held than himself.

He resented the tone in which Tom spoke, although he did not show it. " I have come to have a look round," he said, " to see that the farm is all right, and that everything is in proper order." " Have you ? " said Tom. " Then just cast your eyes round and you'll see the farm is very much out of order. I hope you have come to see what repairs are needed, and to give instructions for everything to be properly done up." " Where's your father? " said Ralton. " Gone to see the Duke," said Tom, as he got off his horse. The audacity of the statement staggered Ralton, although he knew the Duke was away. The bare idea of a tenant farmer seeking a personal interview with his Grace was too much for his equanimity. " And pray, what has your father had the presump tion to go and see the Duke about?" said Ralton.

" Presumption," said Tom, " well, I like that. Can't one man go and see another when he has im portant business to talk about. A Duke's a man, I s'upposc. Judging from your remarks he might be a god." " You are impertinent, sir," said Ralton. " If your father has had the audacity to attempt to seek an interview with his Grace, I might as well tell you he will not succeed. The Duke is on the Continent. I presume your father's business is not important enough for him to follow him." " Poor old dad had his journey for nothing," thought Tom. " Perhaps it is for the best." Turning to Ralton, he said: " My father's business is important, but he can bide his time. It is such men as you, Mr. Ralton, that make visits such as the one my father has undertaken necessary." " I am the Duke's agent," commenced Ralton.

" More's the pity," retorted Tom. " He'll find out how much you are worth when he has lost all his best tenants, and half his farm-houses have tumbled down for lack of repairs." " If your father has any complaints or requests to make, they must be made to me," went on Ralton, ignoring the interruption. " What business has he to go to the Duke behind my back? " " It's no business of yours what my father does," said Tom. " What is the use of asking you to do anything. You are as hard as flint. There's no getting anything out of you." " When I am approached in a proper manner, and when I consider there is necessity for something to be done, then I give my orders accordingly. I am the best judge of what is wanted at Hawthorn Farm, or any other farm under my supervision," said Ralton. " Are you, indeed ?

" said Tom. " I should have imagined the tenant of Hawthorn Farm, or any other farm, knew a good deal more about the wants of one than a casual visitor like yourself. However, I am busy, I cannot waste time talking. If I do not get on with my work we shall not be able to pay the rent, and that would trouble you more than anything else. If you want to see my father, call on your way back to-night, when he will be at home." " And when I do see him, I shall tell him he ought to teach his son to keep a civil tongue in his head," said Ralton. " You can tell him what you like, Mr. Ralton," said Tom. " There's no love lost between us. I may as well tell you to your face I much prefer your enmity to your friendship." Tom Wilde got on the colt's back again, and after another short tussle, walked him quietly out of the yard, leaving Ralton in a towering passion.

" I'll make them suffer for this," thought Ralton. " Hard as flint, am I, eh ? So be it. I will take good care you do not get a spark of concession out of the flint. I will see old Wilde to-night and give him a lecture he will not expect. Confound the old fool's impudence. Gone to see the Duke and com plain about me, I suppose. Luckily his Grace is away or he might have listened to him. He's too soft-hearted. I'm the man to deal with these tenant farmers. All the beggars are good for is to pay their rent. The more I get out of them the better it is for me. I'll let old Wilde see I am not a man to be trifled with. If he does not make that upstart of a son of his change his tone I will very soon have them out of Hawthorn Farm." John Wilde as he drove home thought of all he would have said to the Duke had he been able to meet him.

He felt certain he should have succeeded in his request. There was nothing for it now but to tackle Ralton again, and he had very little hope of getting anything out of the agent. When he arrived home Tom told him of the agent's visit and of the conversation that passed between them. " I felt inclined to knock him off his horse with the butt-end of my whip, father," said Tom. " He's a brute, and if he comes to-night you give him a piece of your mind." " I suppose the upshot of it all will be we shall have to leave the old home," said John Wilde, sadly. " Don't speak like that, father," said Tom. " If we have to leave the old place, better men than we have been driven out of the country through no fault of their own." " So they have, lad ; so they have," said John Wilde. " I'll not humble myself before the man, although I could have pleaded hard with the Duke."

Ralton called at Hawthorn Farm that night, and when his horse had been put up, marched into the house with little ceremony. " So you have returned from your visit to the Duke, Mr. Wilde," he said. " I hope you found his Grace well." " I found him out," said John Wilde. " Had he been at home perhaps you would have altered your tone a bit in future." ONLY A COMMONER. 24 " Indeed," said Ralton. " Yes, indeed, Mr. Ralton. I should have given his Grace a better idea of the real value of his agent than I expect he has at present." " So you would have tried to make mischief," said Ralton, " I thought as much. And do you suppose that is the way to get what you require from me?" " I do not require anything from you," said Wilde. " I might have asked the Duke to do something for me. I shall never ask you again, that's certain."

" Very glad to hear it. It will relieve me of the painful duty of declining your request," said Ralton. " My father has too much of the man in him to ask favors from you," said Tom. " We can do with out such men as you, Mr. Ralton. Let me tell you it is a bad lookout for the Duke when he has such men as yourself to look after his interests, or neglect them, as the case may be." " You should teach your son to be more civil to his betters, Mr. Wilde," said Ralton. "And pray who do you consider his betters, Mr. Ralton ? " said John Wilde. " Myself as the Duke's agent," said Ralton. " As his Grace's representative I expect to be treated with deference by his tenantry." " I consider my son a far better man than you are, Mr. Ralton," said John Wilde. " Let me tell you our farm is one of the oldest in Derbyshire.