A Man of the Name of John

Front matter

a, xvctis^ttry NO LONGER UNKNOWN. C( \ T OW that the cold and chilly l\ season of the year has * arrived, the food we take is a matter requiring serious con sideration. ' Coffee ' has ahvays been regarded as a superior winter beverage, its warming and invigo rating properties being generally recognised The famous FRENCH COFFEE, as used in Paris, should be selected for the morning breakfast. It can be obtained in Shilling Canisters from Messrs. BARBER & COMPANY, 274, Regent Circus, and their various branch establishments in Brighton and Birmingham. This eminent firm has been established nearly a century (since 1797) and has always been noted for the superior quality of its Teas and Coffees." — The Court Journal, Oct. 29, 1S92 This is the Choicest and most Carefully Selected Coffee, " Eoasted on the French Principle," and mixed with the Finest Bruges Chicory. 2-lb.

Sample, in Tins, sent free by Parcel Tost to any Post Town in the United Kingdom and Channel Islands for 2s. Oil.; 5 Ibs., in Tins, for 6s.; &' Ibs., in Tins, for Os. <id. Larger Quantities Carriage Free in England. Cheques and Postal Orders lo be crossed "Xational Provincial Bank." BARBER & COMPANY, (THE ORIGINAL.) "Established in the last Century (1797)." ONLY ADDBES3ES NOW ARE— 274, REGENT CIRCUS, OXFORD STREET, W. 61, Eishopsgate Street, London, E.C. 102, Westbourne Grove, W. 67, Erixton Road, S.W. 42, Great Titchfield Street, W. Quadrant, New Street, BIRMINGHAM. 147, North Street, & 76, East Street, BRIGHTON; also 60, Church Road, Hove (their only Addresses in Sussex). "THE BUTLER WAS HOLDING ASIDE ONE OF THE GREEN BOUGHS AND ANNOUNCING GRAVELY MR. AND MISS CRAWFORD." (-W- S9-) BY FLORENCE M. KING AUTHOR OF "WOMANLIKE" ETC. ETC, CASSELL and COMPANY Limited LONDON PARIS & MELBOURNE i393 AH- SIQHTS KESKRYET-. Reprinted from Casei.:2s Magazine.

Chapter I. Ashleigh Place Loses Its Master

A PERFECT April day, with a hazy blue sky overhead, and masses of white clouds faintly tinged with pink on the far horizon ; sunshine on the rolling glades of the open park ; flickering lights and shadows in the great double avenue, where the inner line of trees wore a faint pinkish hue, as if the young buds blushed at their first appearance in the world ; and the outer line of beeches had clothed themselves already in fresh vivid green. Here and there across the park a blackthorn showed white and clear against the prevailing hues of soft greens and browns ; a distant clump of firs stood out almost black by contrast. Primroses shone like stars among the dead brown leaves under the trees ; bluebells and anemones lifted their graceful heads among the long grass ; violets covered the short turf with a carpet of blue and white.

The birds sang merrily among the budding branches, the call of the cuckoo sounded faintly from the distant woods. The tinkling of the sheep-bells mingled with the bleating of the young lambs, and the deeper answering voices of their mothers, as the flocks moved slowly across the sunny turf. A herd of deer A AIan op the Name of foHN. 8 came slowly over the crest of a sloping hill, and, pausing for a moment, with their pretty heads held high in air, bounded away swift as arrows, alarmed at a sudden bark from the faithful sheep-dog. So much beauty, so much to rejoice in on this sweet spring day — and the man who owned it all but yester day would never see it more ! — mused Gypsy March mont, turning her gaze towards the long grey house at the head of the avenue, where every blind was closely drawn.

They made a pretty picture standing together, girl and dog, in the wide avenue : Gypsy in her soft green dress, and her hands full of golden daffodils. Yet Gypsy was hardly considered pretty ; her features were too pronounced and irregular for that. Her face depended on expression for its charm. When the deep grey eyes were lit with laughter, and the proud mouth curved in smiles, she was very fascinating. When she was tired or out of humour, she was almost plain. Her dark hair, cut quite short, and curling all over her head, gave her a quaint, boyish look ; but somehow its rough untidiness suited with the air of wild easy grace that had gained her in early childhood her pet name. " Tired of waiting, Crona ? So am I," she said aloud, laying a hand on the handsome collie's head. " Such dull work as it is, too, for there is no exciting news to wait for.

Sir Charles was much too uninterest ing a person to provide us with a little sensation at his death." A sudden eager movement on the dog's part inter rupted her musings. Two figures appeared on the steps in front of the house, and as one hastened down the foHN. 9 long flight, and crossed the wide sweep of gravel that lay at the end of the avenue, Gypsy advanced slowly to meet her father. " Tired of waiting, Gypsy ? Have I been long ? " he called, as he approached. " No, not longer than I expected," she answered. " I know what a tiresome old daddy you are when once Mr. Fortescue gets hold of you." " I am very sorry, really. I said good-bye once, but just as I was coming away Freeman arrived, so I stopped to speak to him," Mr. Marchmont explained, as they left the shadowy avenue and turned off across the turf.

" Oh, I am glad you have seen him ! Now you will know all about everything. Is there a will ? " questioned Gypsy eagerly. " Why, of course there is a will." " Oh, dear ! " and she sighed deeply. " And I have been cherishing visions of excitement, and romance, and long-lost heirs, in defiance of my better judgment, and they all hinged upon a missing will." Mr. Marchmont looked at his daughter and laughed. " You silly child ! Sir Charles was far too good a man of business to have left his will to the last minute. It was made some time ago, and the old man told Fortescue what was in it. All the real estate goes to Freeman, and the personal property to various charities, with the exception of a legacy to Fortescue. Sir Charles added a codicil in his favour not long ago. I hope he has left him something handsome."

" So do I," said Gypsy, with a little smile. " He really deserves it, too," went on Mr. March mont, " He has been quite a son to the old man for fonv. 10 the last two or three years. He seems honestly sorry for the poor old fellow's death — about the only person in the world who is, I should fancy." " I suppose so," assented Gypsy absently. " But oh, Daddy! " — with sudden animation — "do you really mean Mr. Freeman has come into it all ? He will never think of coming to live up here ; " and Gypsy's face expressed blank incredulity at the idea. " Oh, he will probably sell it. In fact, I should think he would sell all the property, if he can. What would Mr. Freeman do with a lot of land on his hands ? " said Mr. Marchmont. " Or any one else, in these days," remarked Gypsy. " Still, it does seem odd to think of his coming into it all."

" Well, really, I don't see how the old man could have done better, if he was determined not to remember his own relations. Freeman has been a very good friend to him." " Had he any relations to remember ?" " Yes, I suppose so. I always understood his brother married and had a family. It was a pity Sir Charles never kept up his family connections." " I suppose if he had relations, one of them would come in for the baronetcy ? " remarked Gypsy. " Yes, of course ; but it would be an empty honour without the property: not worth advertising. If no one claims it, I suppose the name will die out, and we shall see some parvenu master here — a man who made his money in cotton." " Or screws," suggested Gypsy mischievously. Mr. Marchmont was off now at full tilt, and enlarged on his favourite subject of the political situation to his A As an of the Name of foim. 11 heart's content, as they crossed the park and descended the hill towards the village.

Ashleigh Church and Vicarage lay nestled in the hollow below them, and a few cottages straggled along the invisible road that led up the opposite hill, to where the red-tiled roof of Ashleigh Manor showed among the trees. As they neared the park boundary, Mr. Marchmont drew a key from his pocket, and opened a gate in the paling. Gypsy paused, and looked back with sudden regret. " I wonder if we shall be free to wander here as we choose next spring," she said, sighing. " After all, I am really sorry Sir Charles is dead. Nell will be sorry too, I think." " What is that about Nell ? " asked her father. " Did you hear from her to-day, Gypsy ? " " Yes ; didn't I tell you ? She wants to run down for a Sunday. I hope she will before things are altered." Something in her present train of thought seemed to have saddened the girl ; she passed silently out through the open gate, and went listlessly up the road, her eyes bent on the ground.

Mr. Marchmont followed, calling to the dog, and talking to it in his cheery way. Gypsy's varying moods were well known in the family, and generally respected, if not understood. A turn in the road brought them in sight of the tall yew hedge, on the opposite side of the way, that bounded the Vicarage garden. A young fellow mounted on a bright bay had halted opposite the gate, and was deep in converse with two of" the vicar's daughters. Joyce Kendall, the eldest of the family, who acted mother to all the motherless children, stood on the path, basket in hand, just returned from district-visiting. She was a tall girl, with a clever face and a beautiful figure, that made her old navy-blue dress look fit for a princess. One of her younger sisters, a tall lanky girl of thirteen, hatless and gloveless, with yellow hair streaming over her shoulders, leant over the gate from the inside, brandishing a tennis racquet, and talking in a bright, but somewhat loud, tone.

" Only fancy your not knowing ! I should have thought you would have heard it long ago," she cried. " Holloa ! There's Gypsy ! " In another moment Meg had cleared the gate, and was tearing down the road, a confused mass of flying hair, arms, and legs, to meet her friend. " Steady, Meg ! Queen Bess will be all over the place if you frighten her like that ! " cried her rider in a tone of annoyance, as the mare plunged across the road in a way that would have proved trying to a less sure seat than Cecil Crawford's. "Steady, lass! To heel, Rags ! Gypsy, please call Crona off" ! " he continued to ejaculate, as fox-terrier and collie rushed at one another, and rolled in the dust together, snapping and barking, under the mare's very nose. " Is that your new purchase, Cecil ? " demanded Gypsy, when order was restored.

" Because, if so, I think she is one too many for you." Gypsy stood on the pathway, Meg hanging on her arm, looking very mischievous and provoking. " Meg and the dogs together are enough to frighten any horse that ever stepped," returned Cecil good temperedly. " I told you to be careful, Meg ; you nearly got kicked then," " I never knew before that horses kicked with their heads," remarked Gypsy coolly. " That's a fine animal of yours, Cecil. Is that the mare Fortescue was speaking of last week ? " asked Mr. Marchmont, standing in the road, and surveying her with the air of a critic. " Yes, sir ; I gave eighty guineas for her, and I think she is cheap at the price," said Cecil, with satisfaction. " She is a splendid fencer " " Walks on her hind legs, waltzes, and eats sugar out of the proprietor's hand !

" went on Gypsy, in a sing song tone. " Walk up, ladies and gentlemen ! The show's just agoin' to begin ! " " By the way, talking of Fortescue," continued Cecil, without noticing the interruption, " Miss Kendall was just telling me that Sir Charles Hurst is dead at last. I had no idea he was any worse lately. I saw Fortescue yesterday, and he said nothing about it then." " It was very sudden," said Mr. Marchmont. " He was particularly well all yesterday, and was talking to Fortescue after dinner as usual, when he was suddenly seized with another stroke. They sent for the doctor at once, but there was nothing to be done ; he only lived for a couple of hours afterwards." " Poor old chap ! It seems odd to think he is really gone, though he has been nothing but a myth for so long," remarked Cecil.

" It must be ten years at least since I saw him last. It will be rather a blow to Fortescue, though. I wonder what he will do ? " " The dad says Sir Charles has remembered Mr. Fortescue handsomely in his will ; and I am sure he deserves it," remarked Gypsy to Joyce, without looking at her. A AsA.w of the Name of foHN. 14 " I hope he won't have to go away just as all the tennis and cricket are coming on," said Meg anxiously. " Father would miss him very much," said Joyce thoughtfully. " He was so good about those cottages in the forest, you know, and he always got such hand some subscriptions out of Sir Charles for us. No one else ever got a penny out of him before." She fell into a brown study, totally oblivious of Meg and Gypsy's mutual banter, till Gypsy roused her from it, calling out, in her clear ringing voice — "Daddy dear, don't wait for me.

I am going to stop to tea with Meg." " I say, Gypsy, wait a moment," cried Cecil Crawford, springing up into the path. He had dismounted, in order to show off better the points of his new acqui sition, and now stood with the bridle over his arm — a model specimen of a young Englishman, as far as looks went. Six foot two in his stockings, but too well-propor tioned for his height to be obtrusive ; with a handsome head, well set on his shoulders, golden-haired and bluc eycd, and carrying himself with a thorough-bred air, it was small wonder that Cecil Crawford presumed on his attractions, and fancied himself irresistible. The only son of his mother, and she a widow, he had been systematically spoilt from early youth, and the marvel was that his conceit was his worst fault. He was a thoroughly good fellow at heart, and very popular, not only amongst the fair sex, but — what spoke better for him — with men also.

The only person who persistently teased and snubbed him was Gypsy Marchmont ; but a certain licence had always been accorded her, on the plea that they had been playmates from childhood. Whether they would ever be anything more to each other had been at one time taken for granted. Now that she was three-and-twenty, and the snubbing still went on, though he was two years her senior, and a man of importance in his own county, speculation began to be entertained on the subject. " I say, how about the primrosing party you talked of ? Sybil wants to know when it is to be," he asked eagerly. " I am sure I don't know," answered Gypsy carelessly. " What day would suit you, Joy ? " " Any day you like ; but — I don't know — when do you think the funeral is likely to be ? " asked Joyce. " Oh, I never thought of that," said Cecil, turning to Mr. Marchmont.

" I suppose one ought to go, sir ? " "Yes, certainly; I shall go," was the reply. "It seems only neighbourly, though there is no one to feel the compliment. What is to-day ? Thursday ? Well, fix your party for to-day week, and you can't go wrong." " We ought to make haste, for the flowers are going over," put in Meg. " Well, Thursday be it, then," said Gypsy. " I will let Sybil know particulars of time and place. You are coming, Cecil ? " " Of course." " I'm afraid Mr. Fortescue won't be able to join us now. What a bore 1 " said Gypsy, carefully arranging a single daffodil in her button-hole. " There ! Do I look æsthetic ? I feel limp and dejected enough at this sad thought." fonv. Cecil made no reply ; he had his foot in the stirrup, and mounted in a second, in spite of the mare's refusal to stand still.

Perfectly at ease, and regardless of her plunging at starting, he turned in his saddle to take off his hat to the girls. " Good-bye till Thursday, then. Don't forget to tell Roger about the rabbits, Meg," he cried, as he rode off. "After all, you know," remarked Gypsy, as they watched him cantering down the turf by the road-side, " Cecil has one point in his favour. He does know how to ride."

Chapter II

"there's many a slip ': It is a mournful reflection that a man can live ninety years in this world of hopes and fears, of joys and sorrows, and yet keep so absolutely aloof from the interests of his fellow-men that no single human being is the poorer or the sadder for his death. Yet this was literally the case with Sir Charles Hurst. Neither friend nor relation grieved for his loss. None but the agent, whose only tie to him was a paid salary, even pretended to miss or regret him. And even Alan Fortescue felt an uneasy sensation of duty unfulfilled, now that there was no one for him to amuse and take care of, rather than any definite sorrow for the old man's loss. It was not only that Sir Charles had outlived his generation, but he had never had any friends to out live, and his only brother had parted from him in wrath long years ago.

Always of a reserved, unsociable disposition, as years rolled on the old man became more and more retired and exclusive in his habits, till at last the lawyer from the neighbouring town, who had succeeded his father in the management of Sir Charles's affairs, was the only man who was ever suffered to cross the threshold of Ashleigh Place. This state of affairs might have continued till his death, had not the loss of his old bailiff, followed by B op foHN. a paralytic stroke, which rendered him almost help less, forced Sir Charles, long after he had passed his eightieth year, to engage a young and active agent. Alan Fortescue, a distant connection of Mr. Free man's, obtained the post, and for five years now he had lived in the great desolate house, faithfully doing his duty by the old man. He had gradually acquired great influence over him, and was virtually free to manage the property as he chose ; and never had it been better looked after, nor the tenants better satisfied.

Some people began to speculate if he would eventually be the old man's heir, but Sir Charles had no such intention. He explained to Alan one day the exact terms of his will, and added that he would find himself remembered in a codicil to the tune of a thousand pounds or so, but that he need never look for anything more. Alan did not look for anything more, but he under stood the old man's ways well enough to know that the thousand pounds might well be two or three ; and in the last few days a glorious castle in the air had raised itself on the foundation of this legacy. There was a certain farm, not a mile from Ashleigh, prettily situated, with a comfortable old-fashioned house, capable of being made a charming home with the aid of a moderate outlay and a little good taste. The lease had just fallen in, and the present tenant declined to renew it.

For some weeks Alan had been debating whether he could afford to take it himself Now that all the property was likely to be sold, the idea had flashed upon him that he would do far better to buy it. He was not afraid of not making it pay ; it was A Man of the Name of foHN. 19 good land, and he understood its capabilities thoroughly, and he had a little capital to fall back on. There was a good thing to be made out of it, he was certain. At nine-and-twenty he was beginning to want to make a home for himself, and where could he make it better than in Ashleigh, as master of High Beeches, with fair Joyce Kendall as its young mistress ? But before his golden dreams could take shape he must be sure of his legacy, and at present neither he nor Mr. Freeman had been able to find the old man's will.

At first the lawyer laughed at the careful way in which Sir Charles had hidden it, but as time went on he became absolutely annoyed, and grumbled heartily at his client's folly, as he termed it. The funeral was fixed for Tuesday, and when Alan Fortescue went in to supper at the vicarage after service on Sunday night, his reply to the vicar's question was still— " No, we cannot find the will anywhere." " Perhaps there is none," suggested Mag, charmed at the prospect of some excitement. " What would you do then ? " " But we know there is one," answered Alan, smiling at her. " We have only to look till we find it ; it must turn up in time." Later on, when supper was over, and he was strolling up and down the garden with Mr. Kendall, enjoying a quiet pipe, they paused by the open drawing-room window.

Joyce sat on a low chair, gazing out into the soft twilight ; further in the room, Kitty, the musician of the family, was playing from memory in the flickering fire-light some of Mendelssohn's loveliest airs. B A As an op the Name of foriN. 20 "What are you thinking of, Miss Kendall?" said a voice in her car. Mr. Kendall was strolling further on to the lawn to catch a glimpse of some particular star, and they were practically alone. " My thoughts are governed by Kitty's music — ' and He shall give thee thy heart's desire,'" sang Joyce, under her breath. " I was wondering how many people get their heart's desire in this world." " It depends partly on the desire, I suppose. I hope, I trust, I may get mine before long." It was spoken very softly ; there was more in the tone than in the words ; but Joyce flushed in the sheltering twilight, and flew away on the wings of Kitty's music into a world that lies open only to love and youth.

The funeral took place on Tuesday afternoon. There was a great gathering of neighbours, and the whole village turned out to stare. Mourners, in the true sense of the word, there were none. Curiosity and speculation were rife concerning the missing will. Some thought it had been destroyed ; others that it had been placed by Sir Charles in some hiding-place, the secret of which had died with him. As soon as the funeral was over, a more thorough search was commenced, extending to the deceased's private rooms. Alan Fortescue was as busy as ever, and reluctantly obliged to decline at all events to start with the primrosing party on Thursday. If he could, he would join them afterwards, he said, but he was afraid he should be unable to get away. About half-past four that afternoon, however a sudden order came down to the stables that the do<r- A ATan op the Name of foHN. 21 cart was to be got ready immediately.

The groom scanned his face narrowly as Alan came down the steps and took his place. " There's something gone wrong," was his shrewd comment, as he watched the young man's set expres sion, and the unusually tight hand he kept upon the reins. They had driven rapidly for about two miles between the bright green hedges, vivid in their spring beauty, when a turn in the road brought Alan in sight of his friends. A sloping bank at one side of the lane led up to a little copse, whence the underwood had been lately cleared, and among the sycamore shoots and saplings the whole party of girls and children were flitting about in search of floral spoil, laughing, singing, and calling excitedly to one another as they hit on some new treasure. The Marchmonts' little pony-cart stood in the middle of the road, and Kitty Kendall held the reins, while Cecil Crawford transferred the contents of several baskets to the hampers over which she was keeping guard.

Alan drew up, and watched the happy unconscious party with an odd pain at his heart. A moment's observation revealed Joyce lingering rather behind the others, and absorbed over a cluster of primroses at the foot of a young beech. He threw the reins to the groom, and dismissed the dog-cart, and springing up the bank, he stood the next moment by her side, unobserved by the rest of the party. Joyce looked up as she heard his footsteps rustling through the dead leaves, but did not move from her kneeling position when she recognised him. " So you have been able to get away, after all ? " she said. " Isn't it a lovely afternoon ? " A ATan of the Name of so /in. 22 "Beautiful," he assented, leaning against the tree. " We had given up all hopes of seeing you," she went on. " I suppose, as you were able to come, that your task is over, and the will is found ?

" "Yes, we have found the will," he said quietly. " And it is just what you expected, I suppose ? " " Yes, just what we expected." " And did he — has — I mean," stammered Joyce, with flushing cheeks, "I hope Sir Charles has remembered you in his will ? " " He did indeed," in the same calm, unmoved tone. " He left me five thousand pounds." Joyce rose with a sudden look of delight. " I am very glad," she said. " I congratulate you with all my heart. But — but — you don't seem very much pleased yourself," she went on doubtfully. She could not understand the expression of his face. " There is a trifling informality in the will which affects the bequest, that is all," he said slowly. " It is not signed." Joyce felt her heart stand still, and wondered vaguely if her ears had heard aright. " The will not signed ?

Do you mean the codicil, or the will itself? " she asked, blankly incredulous. " Both. The whole thing is invalid. It has never been signed at all." Joyce's eyes fell. There was a dead, a dangerous silence. "You don't think he left it unsigned on purpose?'' she ventured softly. " No, I don't ; I don't indeed," he said earnestly. Nor did he. He did not believe the old man had purposely destroyed the hopes that had been built on A ATan of the Name of foHN. 23 this legacy. It was only, he was sure, the strange, incomprehensible feeling that leads men to shrink from signing their wills as though they were their own death warrants. But for that firm conviction, the blow would have been too hard to bear. To have seen it down in black and white that the sum of five thousand pounds — a larger sum than he had ever dared to dream of — was left him " in recognition of. his faithful service," and then to find that the whole thing was useless, invalid, the mere scratching of a pen upon a piece of paper, was a shock indeed.

For one second he had seen his wildest hopes fulfilled, his wife and home standing before his eyes ; and now he stood beside Joyce's real living presence, and felt that honour forbade him to speak the words that had been in his heart so long. Joyce's gaze was fixed on the flowers at her feet that she no longer saw ; Alan's eyes rested on her. Even in that moment of bitter disappointment there was a sweet sense of sympathy and mutual loss that was very tempt ing. The birds sang round them, the bright sunshine filtered through the leaves overhead, happy voices and laughter rang through the air, everything rejoiced and was glad but those two young hearts. What more natural than that they should comfort one another ? In another moment the thought would have shaped itself into speech, when, even as Alan moved a step nearer, Gypsy's clear voice called from the field close by — " Joyce !