Paths that Cross

Front matter

HGBY'S POPULAR NOVEL SERIES. Crown Svo, Handsome Cloth, Price 2s. bd. each. THE MYSTERY OF CLEMENT DUN- RAVEN. By Jean Middlemass, Author of ' A Girl in a Thousand.' etc. {Second Edition!) A HIDDEN CHAIN. By Dora Russell, Author of 'The Other Bond,' 'Footprints in the Snow,' etc. {Second Edition. ) DR JANET OF HARLEY STREET. By Dr Arabella Kenealy, Author of ' Molly and Her Man-o'-War,' ' Some Men are Such Gentlemen,' etc. {Sixth Edition with Portrait!) THE JOLLY ROGER. By Hume Nisbet, Author of ' Her Loving Slave,' ' Bail Up,' etc. With Illustrations by the Author. {Fifth Edition.) Other Works in same Scries in due course. DIGBY, LONG & CO., LONDON. BY MARK TREHERN AUTHOR OF " BURIED ALIVE," ETC. " Our acts our angels are for good or ill." John Fletcher. LONDON DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS 18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C. ZO JOHN KINCAID, Esq., JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA, THIS EOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.

CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. LETTERS ..... I II. VILLAGE POLITICS . . . . 12 III. JACK'S SCRAPE. .... 36 IV. MATRIMONIAL ..... 63 V. DICK'S NARRATIVE .... 97 VI. FIRE . . . . . .113 VII. SOUR GRAPES . . . . .134 VIII. THE WORKMEN'S CLUB . . 146 IX. CAN IT BE TRUE? . . . . 161 X. MORE EVIDENCE . . . .179 XI. UNVEILED . . . . .189 XII. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL . .

Chapter I. Letters

In the bright, tidy kitchen of a small villa stands a woman, busily engaged in folding the last small garment she has freshly ironed, to add to a heap of neatly-folded children's clothes on the table beside her. She is rather past middle age, jTet young looking, with a cheery, pleasant face, dark brown eyes and hair which is beginning to show the white threads time leaves behind, — after our first youth has passed, — to mark the annual pats he gives our heads. Her busy hands show signs of toil, and the forefinger of her left hand is roughened with needle pricks. With a weary sigh she clears the table of her clean, well-ironed clothes and calls to a young girl, who is in the little scullery beyond : " Come, Annie, put the kettle on. Your master will soon be in and want tea." Mrs. Stewart, young as she looks, is the mother A of eight children, six of whom are living.

Her husband, James Stewart, is a clerk in the employ of Rawley & Gibbins, shipbrokers in Russell Lane. His income is barely £200 per annum ; small enough to feed, clothe, and educate a family of six boys and girls, ranging from Ethel, who is in her twenty-first year, to baby Charlie, the pet and plaything of the whole household, and who has celebrated his fifth birthday to-day. The younger branches of the Stewart family were slowly recovering from the prevailing epi demic, influenza — too slowly the anxious mother thought, as she watched their white, thin faces and languid movements, so different to their usual merry, lively manner. June has set in, quite hot for the time of }Tear, and the little villa at Norwood seems cramped and stifling to the country-bred woman, who does herduty.to her husband and family, so cheerfully and contentedly.

Twenty-two years ago she married James Stewart, and on three occa sions only, since her marriage, has she visited her old home by the sea. To-day two letters have arrived from the place where she was born, whieh have led her thoughts more than usual to her young days and the pleasant Devonshire farmhouse. She can seem to hear the lowing of the cows waiting to be milked ; the clatter of the milk-pails ; the peep, peep, — peep— of tired sleepy little chickens, creeping for the night under the fluffed-out, clucking, old LETTERS. 3 mother-hen ; the rattle of the horses at their mangers ; the " come up," or " get over," of the carters busy racking up ; the hum and buzz of bees winging homewards to their hive, and all the home like, ceaseless sounds of unseen life, heard on a farm at evening. The clock is on the stroke of seven when the husband comes in tired, hot, and thirsty from his journey down from town, and his day's work in the close, airless city.

Every morning he has to be at his desk at nine o'clock, and no matter what hour business is over for the day, he is always the last to leave the premises at night. A tall, fair man is James Stewart; strongly rather than gracefully built, with crisp, curly hair and observant grey eyes. He stopped for a moment in the narrow passage — called by the builder " a hall " — to remove his " city " coat and put on an old, comfortable, tobacco-scented garment, kept specially for home wear. " Where are the youngsters ? " he asked, turning into the living room, and giving his wife the usual kiss. "They started to meet you," replied Mrs. Stewart; " probably they've missed you, as I asked them to call at the baker's and settle the bread-bill; but where is Herbie ? " " Oh, Herbie has to stop rather later to-night, something extra on at the bank, I think," replied Mr. Stewart, " Jack does not seem at all himself to-day," remarked Mrs. Stewart.

" In fact, none of the chil dren seem to gain strength very fast, and I am afraid they won't, unless we can get them quite away from London, What do you say, pa, to send ing us all into the country for a month or two ? " and with a merry glance at her husband's per plexed face, Mrs. Stewart began cutting slices of bread and butter. " Ah, Maggie, if I only could ! The spirit is willing, my dear, but the pocket is weak," he answered, sitting down, with a long-drawn sigh. To feel unable lo give his children, who were all in all to him, the necessary change of air, was a matter of profound regret to him. With small means and a large family, Mr. and Mrs. Stewart had always found it a hard struggle to "make both ends meet " ; and now that sickness, with the ex penses of a doctor's bill, and extra delicacies for the invalids had to be paid for, the bare idea of a trip away from home, seemed to him so utterly im possible that he was inclined to think his careful, methodical wife was a trifle light-headed to su__o-est such a thing.

" James, the good fairies have been busy to-day ! Look, dear, here's a letter from mother, with two five-pound notes enclosed, and a letter from Dick, asking us all to go down to Hawleigh for the summer. He has taken the old Manor Farm, ready LETTERS. 5 furnished, and he says we must go as early as possible to ' cheer him up a bit,' or he'll be off to America again. He has taken the house for six months, James ; see what he says," and Mrs. Stewart ran round the table, to read the letters over her husband's shoulder, making eager com mentary remarks the while. "Dick is the best of brothers. Oh ! the Manor Farm is only ten miles from home, James. Close to the sea ! Mother will send us all our butter and eggs ! Think of that, dear ! " she continued in a similar strain until her husband folded both letters, and put them in their respective envelopes.

Then she came from behind him, and putting her hands on his shoulders, her brown eyes sparkling like a girl's, looked up into his face and said, " James, isn't it a splendid plan ? Don't you think we can manage to go ? The sea air will suit the children so nicely. It is so secluded at Hawleigh, no one will see them, so they can wear their oldest things all the week. As for myself, I shall want nothing new to wear in that quiet place. So really, dear, it will be cheaper in the end than if we remained at home all the summer ; for then, you know, we must have some new things, or be set down as 'shabby genteel' people." James Stewart gave her a knowing smile, for Hawleigh was not far from her native place. She was never tired of telling the children tales of her old, free home life, and extolling the beauties of the surrounding scenery.

She firmly believed that the pure sea air, of that particular spot, would cure nearly every illness that flesh is heir to. "But, Maggie," argued Mr. Stewart, "if you decide to inflict Uncle Dick with such a host of invalid nieces and nephews, what's Herbie and myself to do ? " " Oh, I've arranged that nicely in my own mind, James. Annie can manage the house very well. She could go home to see her mother from the Satur day to the Monday in each week, if you could arrange with Rawley & Gibbins to be rather late to busi ness on Mondays. I've no doubt they won't mind for a little time. There's a train which reaches London rather before ten o'clock. That time will suit Herbie nicely, won't it ? You will both get your holidays next month, then you could bring Annie down with you. I'm sure Dick won't mind, and the girl deserves a holiday, she has been so good in helping to nurse the children.

I've not said a word to any of the children but Ethel, in case they should be disappointed. Don't you think we could manage as I've said, James ? " Before Mr. Stewart could reply, the door opened, and Ethel with her younger brothers and sisters entered. They had " been up the road nearly to the station," they said ; but it was hot and dusty and they were so tired. Little five-year-old Charlie LETTERS. 7 wanted to be taken on "papa's knee, for him to tuddle Tarlie, 'taus Tarlie's head seeled so big." Ethel left the room to help the little hard working servant to bring in the rest of the tea. She was rather taller than her mother, with the same pleasant expression and quiet manners. A brown house sparrow, without the fuss and chatter of those noisy birds. Hers was a face a man would like to look at across his hearth ; a restful, helping face ; not pretty, not very intellectual, but honest and true.

Ethel was not very accomplished in showy, useless things, but she was clever in household management, a good needlewoman and an excellent cook. Had she any time to devote to practise, she would have made a fine musician; but poor Ethel's music was always put off " to a more convenient period," which never came. All the disagreeable things, no one else cared for, fell to Ethel's share. The biggest holes in the bo37s' socks ; the most tattered jackets and knickerbockers ; Minnie's rent dresses ; Charlie's cut fingers or broken knees, all of which Ethel could attend to better than anyone else in the house. Taking little Charlie on his knee, Mr. Stewart said to the rest : " Boys and girls, who would like to go down to Hawleigh next week ? Take time to think it over. Don't answer in a hurry ! " A chorus of exclamations of delight and surprise, accompanied by bear-like hugs and hearty kisses, answered him.

Even Charlie joined in the general excitement, with a vague impression something pleasant was going to happen, but he did not quite know what. " Well," said twelve-year-old Kate, a few minutes after, when they were seated round the tea-table, " I wonder if going to Hawleigh will cure the nasty shakes in my knees, and wobbles in my head ? I feel sometimes, when I come downstairs, as if my head wobbles off', and I have to stop still till it comes back again." " I must take all my old gloves, and get a big sun hat," said Minnie, who was seventeen, and con sidered the beauty of the family. " I intend collecting sea-weed and studying botany, but I don't wish to be sun-burned ; I hate to look red." "I shall dig a hole in the sand, and lie in it all day, and watch the clouds fly overhead," said Jack, who was nearly two years older than Kate, and very like his elder sister, Ethel, in features, but as restless as the sea.

Someone once offered Jack a shilling if he could sit still on a chair for five minutes. Now a shilling was a big sum in Jack's eyes, and he tried hard to earn it. First his nose itched, then his head, next came fidgets in his legs, then his arms and shoulders, finally Jack's seat became so unbearable he started up and ran off, before three minutes of the appointed time had elapsed. This had been a LETTERS. 9 standing family joke against poor Jack, so his announcement was greeted wdth peals of laughter. " Who couldn't sit still for five minutes ? " said Kate, wiping the tears from her eyes with her handkerchief rolled in a round hard ball. "I'd like to see you stop in one place all day, Jack ! " " I know that if your bones ached like mine do," said Jack, nodding his head, " 3Tou'd be glad to stop still in a hornet's nest, sooner than have to move."

" Well, Jack," replied Kate the tomboy, who was Jack's constant companion in all his scrapes, " if we only get rid of the shakes, aches, and wobbles, Jack, we'll learn to jump a five-bar gate like those boys of Jenkins' do." " What will mother's Charlie do ? " asked Mrs. Stewart. " Be a dood boy, an' say his prayers nice, an' never pull the pussey's tail, never no more," replied Charlie. Looking round on the circle of pale faces, Mr. Stewart felt great satisfaction and thankfulness at his brother-in-law's invitation, and before the last post went out, a letter of acceptance and hearty thanks was written. The children went in a body with the letter to the pillar-box, and stood eagerly round it to watch Ethel drop it in. Charlie in sisted on being lifted up to see if he could get a peep at it.

Jack devoutly hoped it would not get lost on the way ; visions of wrecked trains and lost letter-bags crossed his mind. Kate was afraid papa had not addressed it properly, as he had done it so quickly ; even Minnie forgot her grown-up airs, and expressed her opinion that the letter would have been safer had they carried it on to the General Post-office. Too full of excitement to return home, and for getting all their former tiredness, the children insisted on Ethel's taking them towards the station to meet Herbie, in order to tell him the wonderful news. Herbert Stewart was the eldest son, just about nineteen years of age. He was a junior clerk in a London bank, and travelled up and down to the city every day. In appearance he was a smaller, weaker, washed-out edition of his father. He put on an affected, bored air ; smoked a big meerschaum pipe, which made his eyes water ; carried a silver mounted cane ; ogled every pretty-looking girl he met, and in his ordinary conversation used the big gest words he could find in " Walker's Dictionary."

He had not long been in his present situation, but already felt himself of as great importance as the bank-manager himself. He adopted a man-of-the world manner, and examined with anxious care, every morning, a slight straw-coloured down, growing on his upper lip. Within himself, he was as pleased as the children when he heard where they anticipated spending LETTERS. 11 the summer, but he remarked to Ethel he " thought it a horrid bore to have to go to such an out-of-the world hole." He fancied it would sound well to his fellow-clerks and acquaintances to be able to say, " I shall spend my holidays down in Devonshire, at my uncle's place, Hawleigh Manor, where my people have already gone for the summer." Her bert thought there was no harm in leaving out the little word " farm," as it sounded so much better without it.

" Now, little ones, time for bed," said Mrs. Stewart later in the evening. " Charlie say his prayers nicely to Annie before he gets into bed." " No, mamma, I'll say 'em to myself," replied Master Charlie ; " if a feller tan't say his prayers to hisself when he's five, I wonder when a feller tan."

Chapter II. Village Politics

Up a steep hill, overhung with arching trees, rode two gentlemen. One has a nut-brown complexion, hair,and eyes ; tlie dark bronze on his face shows signs of a tropical sun, and his quick, keen eyes appear to see everything. He sits firmly in his saddle, as one accustomed to spend much time on horseback, and his strong, muscular figure shows to great ad vantage, as he moves in unison with the action of his horse. His companion is dark also, but of fairer skin, and is smaller and more compactly built. He has a dreamy expression, unlike the other's quick, ob servant look. He is a man of great culture, and some day will become a great painter ; he sees things within himself, which frequently makes him lost to the world around him. These two, so utterly dissimilar in character and disposition, are firm, fast friends.

The former is Richard, — or as he is more frequently called, — Dick Peel, Mrs. Stewart's youngest brother. His friend is Paul Graham, gentleman and artist, whose house, a large, quaint, comfortable place called " The Wilderness," is situated half way between Hawleigh and Mrs. Stewart's old home, Prior's Farm, where Dick Peel is at present visiting. They are on their way to the old Manor Farm, which Dick has rented for six months, but has not yet taken possession. Bridget Donovan, who was a servant at Prior's Farm in Dick's childhood, and her husband, Mike, a gardener, have been caretakers of the Manor Farm ever since it has been to let. Bridget vowed the place must have a thorough "cleaning up" be fore Master Dick could come in, so has been busy from morning to night with pail, mop, broom and scrubbing-brush, till everything that could shine was bright as hands could make it.

Arriving at Hawleigh, the two gentlemen put their horses up at the " Bull's Head," an old fashioned country inn, shaded by a big oak tree that grew straight in front of the door. From there, through the peaceful piece of ground, — the "garden of sleep," — which lay around the old Norman church, and across two or three meadows, knee-deep in grass almost fit for the mower's scythe, was a near cut to the Manor Farm, the land of which was occupied by one Jonah Kite, who owned a large farm called " Grange," situated next it. Walking up a short avenue of immense beech trees to the front door, they saw Bridget vigorously rubbing the knocker ; hearing some one behind her, she, without looking round, exclaimed : " Now then, Donovan, don't you get comin' in front ways no more, just keep to th' back, will ye ?

I ain't going to have your dirty boots trampen' through my clean hall." Bridget was a square woman; her very face seemed square, especially when she laughed ; her legs seemed square blocks, which settled down into square felt boots without heels, her short petticoats displaying these to great advantage. She had the big, brawny arms of a blacksmith, and a heart as square and unartiticial as her figure. "We'll wipe our boots, Bridget," said Dick Peel, smiling at the old woman. " You will never rust cut for want of work, I think, but you must get a girl from the village to help you. Do you know of a likely one ? " "Lord love ye, Master Dick, how you scared me! I thought 'twas my old man finished work for th' night," " I came over to tell you, Bridget, that my sister and her family will be down next Saturday.

There are rooms enough, and I want you to make them as comfortable as you can." " Good sakes ! " exclaimed Bridget, rubbing her O * O nose in the corner of her apron, "sure it'll be a sight for weak eyes to see Miss Maggie as was. I knows a gall as will do fine. She's niece to my old man, an' as good a worker as any in th' parish. She'll come, an' glad to." " You must get in everything eatable that is necessary, Bridget ; remember there will be hungry children to provide for. I'll send in ale, wines and spirits, and come over myself on Friday next. I won't hinder you to-night, but we'll just look round the garden before we go. Keep a good larder, and don't starve us, you know." The lawn and flower-garden overlooked the sea. It was a glorious view, not a movement on the water but that of the opal-tinted, changing lights, which faded in the distance into a pearly, grey-blue mist.

The last cloud had floated off the sky ; the sky itself was a clear, vivid silver, changing into pale yellows and rosy pinks where the sun had set. Over the line of cliff, which stood out clear and bold in the pure atmosphere, shone the crescent moon, and close by it a single star. " What a perfect night ! That star is like a gem ! ' The forget-me-nots of the angels,' Longfellow calls them," said Paul Graham. " I like that American poet, he seems to fit nature so completely. Those lines suit such a night as this. He must have loved nature, I think." " Evening, sir," said a thick voice. Mike Donovan, gardener and assistant caretaker of the Manor Farm House, had come behind them, his heavy boots unheard on the velvet grass. Mike was a wiry man, of middle height, and lank as if he had been forced through a big hole in a cullender ; a face like a walnut, colour and wrinkles complete.

His manner was surly, and he made a point of disagreeing with every one's opinion, whether it coincided with his own or not. He always looked on the rough, dark side of things, and grumbled on principle, even if he were pleased. " Evening, sir," and Mike took off a weather beaten felt hat, and scratched the side of his head ; whether from any idea of courtesy or to freshen his wits, no one knew, but this was his usual mode of addressing people. " Good evening, Donovan," said Dick cheerily. " The rain yesterday did a deal of good. How fresh and nice your lawn looks. I don't think any one round can beat your flower borders, they are simply perfect." Now the flower-garden was the pride of Mike's heart ; he gave a leisurely survey of the place and remarked with a grunt : " Spiles a good plot for taters, I says.

Jest see now, the sight o' cowcumbers 1 could grow in that glass house ! — a pertier sight than all th' rubbishen flowers, as anybody knows. My old 'ooman she's for flowers, she is ; but she ain't got no trouble with 'em. She talks ! Oh lor, — talks ! " Here Mike's eloquence failed to express the length and strength of his wife's tongue, so he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat, with a slow, steady movement of that organ, from the bend in his right arm down to the cuff, and farther reliev ing his feelings by spitting contemptuously at a daisy in the grass at his feet, stood still waiting the next observation from either of the gentlemen. " That summer-house is something fresh since I last was here," said Paul Graham ; " really it is a charming place for one. The effect is most pictur esque from here."

" Summer-house, ye calls it," replied Mike " Spiders' house, an' ear-wigs,' an' cheese-bobs,' an' anta,' an' snails' arbour, I calls it. Wish I'd never put it up there ; spiles a good bit of ground for nothing. Well yes, that lobelia border ain't so bad ; but jest see here, sommat bin eaten' the roots of that one, spiles the whole lot, maken' the border look broke in the middle like. They stocks ain't what they ought to be, too many single ones there, spiles the lot they do. Petunias be bad things, grown scraggly like everywhere. Well, as you says, they do blow constant, but what o' that when they won't grow where you wants 'em to ? They blows too much they do. Where be the old master gone ? Well he's gone to Roosher or Africa, I can't say where, but 'tis to some foreign incline for the missus' health.

Doctor said her lungs was weak. No, he never farmed th' land here. Only took th' house an' grounds wi' orchard and paddock for a B fourteen year lease. House be too good for a farm house you say ? Well I dunno. Why can't farmers have good houses to live in as anybody else ? Oh yes, I had to keep th' garden, no matter whether th' house let or no. Precious sight o' work too, so I tells ye. " I knows of a handy lad to help if ye only got one hoss to see after, sir. Bridget says a milch cow is a comen' here from th' old farm. If so th' lad '11 milk aud look ater she too. I don't want no boys in my garden, they hinders more 'an helps. Good night, an thank 'ee, sir," and Mike put a finger to his battered hat to Paul Graham. " Good-night, Mike," said Dick, " I shall be here bag and baggage on Friday.

See the lad looks after the cow. I'll send her over some time during the week," and the two gentlemen walked slowly down the darkening avenue, the scent of their cigars mingling with the thousand sweet perfumes of shrubs and flowers round them. Arriving at the " Bull's Head," Dick suggested having some refreshment. " I want to give my horse a good hour's rest," he said ; " he has been to Oldham to-day, besides coming over here." The landlord thought " th' missus could soon fry some good home-cured gammon and fresh eggs." " That will do finely," said Dick. " Tell her not to hurry, we can wait till it's ready." " This place always reminds me of a quaint old inn, called the ' Blue Lion,' on the road from Eversley to Ascot," said Paul Graham. " The sign there is placed in the branches of a tree similar to this one, and the artist who painted the Lion must have dreamed it in a fit of night-mare.

The creature is mad ; every hair in his mane is raving mad, so is every claw and every joint in his tail. He's an awful creature, painted only in shades of blue." The " Bull's Head " possessed one private room only ; this the worthy hostess had decorated with white antimacassars over the backs of the chairs, until the room looked like a laundry on a small scale. Dick soon got tired of looking at a week old newspaper, and examining a cracked china shepherdess tending a headless sheep, which held the post of honour in the middle of the chimney piece. Lighting fresh cigars, the two friends walked to the open front door. The inn was evidently the meeting-place of the local politicians, and owing to the warmness of the night these had moved their seats outside the house, where the landlord served them with numerous pots of beer through the open window, at which he now stood, coatless, and shirt sleeves tucked over his elbows, his arms leaning on the window sash, which was pushed down from the top, as far as it would go.

A general shuffle of feet, and one or two fingers to the foreheads, of the few who knew who they were, acknowledged the presence of the new-comers. A sandy-complexioned, obstinate-looking man, with a stubbly beard, a general appearance of having been splashed with a white-wash brush, and smel ling of new mortar, was talking in a loud dom ineering voice about the Durham coal strikes. " Th' men's right," he said, waving his pipe in the air, " an' if I was they, I'd stand out, an' so shut up every factory, an' cut every steamer off from sailing out o' port. Another thing we working men wants is Land Reform ! An' that's what we means to have too ! I read in th' paper as the labouring man — as is the back bone o' England — is called 'hinds! Some Tory name for us, I'll be bound, because we are behind some countries, such as America I suppose.

In America the labouring man is the gentleman an' the master ! Why not here too ? The time's coming when they'll call us 'fores' not 'hinds,' 'cause we'll be before! We must ; we got more power than th' Tories, 'cause we got the biggest number ! Why not make use of our power ? Why should we sit still an' let th' bloated aristocracy ride over us ? Why keep a crowned head an' a lot of gilded puppets at court, when thousands of honest poor men want bread ? ("Hear! Hear!" from the listeners around.) "Look at America where they've got Equality ! Ain't it the finest country in the world ? Ain't I as good as th' squire up at th' big house ? Sure I be, an' a deal better too, 'cause I've worked and earned my money by th' sweat o' my brow, an' he only spends — " "You'd spend too, I reckon, if you'd only got th' chance," said a voice in the background.