CHAPTER IV
An Encounter
The little freehold of "Walden" was a triangle, consisting of about twoacres of land. Its base abutted on the high road, and its apex waswedged into another and much larger estate. The owner of this propertyresided at Lyngates Hall. The Watsons had as yet only seen him in thedistance, but they knew from report that he was a naturalized German,and that his name was Hockheimer. They had heard rumours that he was notpopular in the district. So long as he kept his live stock on his ownside of the hedge, Mrs. Watson did not concern herself about herneighbour. When his cows strayed into her field she drove them back, andhad the gap securely mended to prevent further trespassing. Sheconsidered that to be the end of the matter, and did not give Mr.Hockheimer another thought. As for the young people, they had not yetrealized his existence. They discovered it one day quite suddenly andunpleasantly.
The second Monday morning after her start at school, Avelyn was walkingto the station with her brothers to catch the 8.15 train. The weatherwas still fine and summer-like, and the late September sunshine gildedthe yellowing nut trees, and turned the dew-drops in the long webs ofgossamer into diamonds. There was an exhilaration in being up and out soearly. The three marched along very cheerily, chatting as they went. Asthey rounded the corner beyond the smithy, they could see, about twohundred yards in front of them, a little figure in blue sports coat andtam-o'-shanter, also making its way in the direction of Netherton.
"Who's that girl?" asked Anthony. "We see her every day; she goes in toHarlingden by the same train that we do. She must be going to school,because she always has a satchel of books with her."
"It looks like Pamela Reynolds," returned Avelyn. "She's new atSilverside this term, and, now you speak of it, I remember somebody toldme she came from Lyngates, but I'd quite forgotten all about it tillthis moment. I don't even know where she lives. Shall we sprint andcatch her up?"
The Watsons hurried their footsteps, and by dint of what might be termeda forced march overtook Pamela on the brow of the hill. Avelyn greetedher by name from behind. She turned, surprised. She was a fine-lookinggirl of nearly fourteen, with wide-open honest brown eyes, a clear paleskin, and bronze-brown hair, which curled at the ends, and had atendency to make little rings round her forehead. She was really prettywhen she smiled.
"Hallo!" she exclaimed. "I never expected to see you here! Aren't youAvelyn Watson? I thought you were a boarder!"
"So I am, but only a weekly one. I come home from Friday to Monday. Doyou like being a day girl? Isn't it a long way to go every morning?"
"I don't mind; I used to have much farther to go to school when we livedin Canada."
"Used you to live in Canada?"
"Yes, I was born there. I've only come to England lately."
"I haven't met you about Lyngates before."
"We've only been here a month."
"Who's 'we'?"
"Just my mother and I."
"Do you like England?"
"Pretty well. It's too cultivated after Canada. All these little wallsand hedges to divide the tiny fields make me laugh. It's like a dolls'country. And I hate the high roads. Look here--there's a short cutthrough that wood to the station. I go that way nearly every day. Willyou come?"
The Watsons were perfectly ready to explore anything in the shape of anew path or by-lane. They helped Pamela to open the gate, and followedher into the wood. The long vista of trees was delightful. The shortgrass under foot was a vivid emerald green, there were patches ofyellowing bracken, clumps of crimson and orange toad-stools, spindlebushes covered with scarlet berries, and trails of pale late honeysuckletwining over the brambles. From the direction they were taking, theymust be cutting off a long corner on their way to the station.
They had walked for perhaps a few minutes, and were strolling on,chatting as they went, when they suddenly heard a shout in front ofthem, and someone came crashing through the undergrowth and stoodbarring their path. The somebody in question was undoubtedly very angry.He was a fair, short, stout, roundabout little man, with a big blondmoustache. His light-blue eyes flashed, and his large teeth gleamedunpleasantly as he spoke. But he not only spoke, he shouted.
"What are you doing here? Do you know this wood's private property?You've no business to be in it! Get out as fast as you can, the same wayyou came! Be quick about it, or I'll know the reason why. I could haveyou all taken up for trespassing if I liked. Why, _Pamela_!"
Pamela was standing staring at the surly objector, with a look ofmingled amazement, disgust, and defiance in her clear eyes.
"It's my fault, Uncle," she replied calmly. "It's a short cut to thestation through this wood, and to-day I brought these--friends"--shehesitated for a moment over the word--"with me. I come this way nearlyevery morning."
"Then you won't do it again!" thundered the short man. "Don't let meever catch you here any more, or any of your friends. You may understandthat once and for all, and I'll be obeyed. Go back, I tell you!"
He waved them savagely in the direction of the gate through which theyhad come.
"Mayn't we go on just this once?" pleaded Pamela. "I'm afraid we'll missour train."
"Then miss it! What do I care? It's your own faults for trespassing, andI hope you'll all get into trouble at school. You richly deserve it.Back, I tell you, you young rascals!"
With an angry man raving like a lunatic in their path, there was nothingfor it but to beat a retreat as speedily as they could. When they hadpassed through the gate, David looked at his watch.
"Five past eight! Thunder! We shall have to sprint if we want to catchthat train."
There was no time for comment. All four immediately set off running.Each, perhaps, was buoyed up with an obstinate determination to reachthe station by 8.15 in spite of the unamiable hopes of the owner of thewood. They only wished he could be there to see them defeat hisprophecy. In spite of such hindrances as bumping satchels, streaminghair, and, in Anthony's case, a trailing bootlace, they panted along,and covered the ground somehow. They could hear the train rumbling inthe distance, and could see the smoke of the engine as they raced downthe last hill. By the greatest of good luck a special cargo of milk-cansand butter baskets had to be placed that morning in the luggage van, andthe extra two minutes spent in stowing them away saved the situation.The guard was just waving his green flag as the Watsons and Pamela,scarlet with their exertions, popped into the last carriage.
For a few minutes they were too breathless to speak. It was Anthony whofirst found words.
"Well, of all raggy old lunatics commend me to that one!"
"Strafe the baity old blighter!" gasped David.
"I never heard of such meanness!" put in Avelyn. "Actually to _want_ usto miss our train!"
"I'd have knocked him over for two pins," declared David savagely.
"Wish we'd tried!" growled Anthony.
"I don't know who he is, but he's no gentleman!" exploded Avelyn,divided between her ruffled clothes and her ruffled feelings. "Sorry,Pamela, if he's your uncle, but I can't help saying what I think."
Pamela was leaning back in a corner. She had taken off her bluetam-o'-shanter, and was trying to re-tie her bronze-brown hair. Shelooked up quickly.
"You needn't mind me. You can say anything you like about him. I onlywish he wasn't my uncle. We don't choose our relations, do we?"
"Nobody'd choose him if they could help it, I should think," repliedAvelyn frankly. "What's his name?"
"Mr. Hockheimer."
"The Mr. Hockheimer who lives at The Hall?"
"Yes."
"Why, he's a German, isn't he?"
"Yes, but I'm not! I'm as English as I possibly can be."
"Then how are you related to him?"
"He married my aunt."
"Oh!"
"DO YOU KNOW THIS WOOD'S PRIVATE PROPERTY?" HE SHOUTED]
There was a long pause, and then Anthony volunteered:
"If Auntie Belle was to marry a German, I'd never call her 'auntie'ag
ain--never!"
"It was before the war, and she's dead now," groaned Pamela. "UncleFritz has lived twenty years in England."
"How is it he's not interned?" asked David.
"He's naturalized, you see."
"Need you call him 'uncle'?"
"I'd rather not, but I've got to. I'd never seen him till I came here amonth ago."
"And you don't like him?"
For answer, Pamela suddenly burst into a storm of passionate tears.
"Like him! I hate him! Oh! why did we ever leave Canada and come toEngland? It's wretched here, and I'm miserable. I'd like to run away!"Then, dabbing her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief: "There, don't takeany notice of me, please. I get these fits sometimes. I'll feel bettersoon. Please don't talk any more to me about uncle."
The Watsons glanced at her compassionately, and began to converse amongthemselves upon other topics. Pamela stared hard out of the window,blinked, and presently regained her composure. When the train arrived atHarlingden, she and Avelyn walked to Silverside together, but theytalked of school concerns, and did not reopen the subject of Mr.Hockheimer.
Before this happening Avelyn, though she had been vaguely aware ofPamela's existence, had not mentally singled her out among the generalcrowd of her schoolfellows. From that Monday morning she began to takean interest in her. She smiled at her when they passed on the stairs,and spoke to her occasionally in the playground. As they were indifferent forms they had few opportunities of meeting, and even atdinner the boarders sat at a different table from the day girls. Avelynlooked out for Pamela on Friday afternoon, but she was not at thestation. She had either left school early, or was travelling by a latertrain. She seemed such an attractive, pathetic little figure thatAvelyn's curiosity was aroused. She wanted to know where Pamela lived,and more about her. She cast round in her mind for any likely source ofinformation, and decided upon Mrs. Garside, a fat kindly old soul, whoowned a farm close to Walden, and was disposed to be neighbourly andtalkative. On the excuse of going for the weekly butter she tapped atthe house door, and was ushered in. Mrs. Garside was busy washing pots,but she placed a chair for her visitor, fetched the butter from thedairy, and, as she packed it in the basket, glided off intoconversation. Once started, it was difficult to stop her, or to lead heraway from the various topics upon which her tongue ran so glibly. It wasonly after much manoeuvring and a considerable amount of patience thatAvelyn could get her to concentrate on the subject of Pamela Reynolds.Even then her mind side-tracked.
"A young lady with dark hair, that wears a blue tam-o'-shanter. Yes,I've seen her--not that I like tam-o'-shanters, and I wouldn't get onefor Hilda, though she begged hard; I bought her a felt instead. Mr.Hockheimer's niece? Yes, he lives at The Hall, though many think he's noright to be there; and if I'd my way, I'd say an internment camp was theright place for him. With two sons in the trenches it doesn't give oneany patience for these naturalized Germans, coming and turning outdecent English folk, too, that ought to be there instead of him. It wasa queer business, and people ought to make their wills properly beforethey come to die, instead of leaving them half-written. I've made mine,and divided what I've got equal share and share alike among my sixchildren, so that there won't be any quarrelling after my funeral, forI've told them beforehand what to expect. And people say the oldSquire's ghost haunts The Hall, and small wonder; though it's not muchuse, for a ghost can't sign a will, and he should have had the sense todo it while he was alive."
Mrs. Garside's statements were so rambling and involved, that it tookAvelyn a very long time indeed to sift the information she wanted fromamong the large number of superfluous details supplied by her loquaciousneighbour. By dint of pertinacity and tact, however, she pieced togetherthe following narrative.--
Pamela's ancestors had for many generations been Squires of Lyngates,and had resided at The Hall. Her grandfather, Mr. George Reynolds, hadlived there until his death, two years ago. Mrs. Garside could rememberhim since her girlhood--a tall, handsome man with a brown beard, whorode about the country on a favourite white horse named Champion. He hadbeen a good landlord, and was well liked in the neighbourhood. His wifehad died early, and left two children, a son and daughter. The son, Mr.Leonard, had been a high-spirited lad, and it was said in the villagethat he and his father did not get on well together. There was someupset and a quarrel, the rights of which nobody ever knew, for theSquire was too proud to air his troubles, and kept family skeletonssecurely locked in their cupboards. At any rate, Mr. Leonard had goneaway to Canada and started farming, and had never returned to his oldhome, though he had written that he was married, and, later on, that hehad a daughter. This was all the news that Lyngates people had heard ofhim in fourteen years. Whether he had prospered or otherwise on hisfar-off Canadian ranch they did not know. Squire Reynolds's other child,Miss Dora, had been a pretty girl, and her father's favourite. Manyyears went by, however, before she married. She had been fond ofhunting, and used to look very smart riding to hounds in her neatnavy-blue habit. It was at a meet that she had first met Mr. Hockheimer.He rented a shooting-box in the neighbourhood, and came down frequentlyfrom London for week ends. Nobody could understand how this naturalizedGerman had obtained such a hold over Miss Dora and her father, though itwas rumoured that he had reinvested the Squire's money for him to greatadvantage. Being a City man he was well acquainted with finance. MissDora was long past her first youth, but she was still handsome, andeveryone in Lyngates had said that she was far too good for Mr.Hockheimer. The village worthies, however, were not consulted, and thewedding took place.
A year afterwards the European war broke out. There was great comment inLyngates on the position of Mr. Hockheimer, but he had proved himself tobe a naturalized British subject, and declared he was heart and soul onthe side of the Allies. He had been very energetic on local committees,and had given large sums to the Belgian Fund.
When red war flamed in Flanders, and Britain summoned all her sons toher standard, Leonard Reynolds, on his far-away ranch in the Rockies,had heard the call and answered it. He had joined one of the firstCanadian contingents, and had come over the sea to "do his bit" for theMotherland, leaving his wife and child at the ranch to carry on thebrave but wellnigh impossible task of keeping the home fires burning. Inhis passage through England he had had thirty-six hours' leave, and hadvisited his father at Lyngates. The villagers had seen him again afterfourteen years' absence, and had admired him in his khaki uniform. Hehad spoken to several of them--words of fire and patriotism andenthusiasm for the coming conflict.
Everybody lived for the newspapers in those first months of war, andLyngates was no exception to the general rule. In farm-house andcottage they read of the retreat from Mons. Duke's son and plough-boy,Oxford graduate and City clerk, scientist, shopman and crossing-sweeperalike, had paid the great sacrifice, and the name of Leonard Reynoldsstood among them. The Squire was in bed at the time, recovering from asevere operation. The news was broken to him by an injudicious nurse ata crisis in his illness, and it proved his death-blow. In his few lastgasping words he had tried to say something about a will, but those whowere with him could not understand what he meant to convey. With theincoherent message still trembling on his stricken lips he had passedaway into the silence. He was buried with his ancestors in Lyngateschurchyard, but there was no cross to mark the grave of his son Leonard.The survivors of the Canadian contingent could give no details beyondthe fact that a certain portion of them had been utterly wiped out by aterrific explosion. It was impossible to identify the dead. War wasreaping a red harvest of human lives.
After Squire Reynolds's funeral, Mr. and Mrs. Hockheimer had takenpossession of The Hall. Though search was made everywhere the only willwhich could be discovered was one in the custody of the familysolicitor, which was dated fifteen years back. In the briefest terms itleft a certain sum of money to his daughter, and the estate of Lyngatesto his son, but in the event of the death of either, the survivor was toinherit the whole property. As it had been d
rawn up before his son'smarriage, no mention was made in it of Leonard's wife and child. It wasa perfectly valid will, and it was duly proved, Mrs. Hockheimersucceeding to the entire estate of her late father. She lived only sixmonths to enjoy it, and was laid to rest with her dead baby in her arms.She had executed a will bequeathing everything to her husband, so thatMr. Hockheimer, the naturalized German, assumed absolute command of theReynolds property.
Meanwhile, matters had gone hardly with the wife and child of LeonardReynolds. It had been impossible for them to farm the ranch, and theyhad no private means. By the advice of her friends Mrs. Reynolds hadsold up her few possessions and had come to England with her daughter,to find out at first hand from the lawyers whether any provision hadbeen made for her out of the estate. The solicitors were polite andsympathetic: they acknowledged the keen injustice of the matter, butassured her that there was no redress, and, according to British law,Mr. Hockheimer had full rights of possession in the Lyngates property,while she and her child could not claim so much as a solitary farthing.They represented the case, however, to Mr. Hockheimer, and he at onceoffered Mrs. Reynolds the use of a cottage on his land, together with asmall annual income, and promised to pay for Pamela's education at a dayschool in Harlingden. As she had no other means of livelihood, Mrs.Reynolds had accepted this help, and had settled down at Lyngatesshortly before this story begins. She was a fragile little woman,gentle and clinging in disposition, and so battered by misfortune thatshe was glad to rest anywhere where she could find a home. She receivedMr. Hockheimer's dole quite gratefully. With the loss of her husbandlife had for her practically stopped. Through her daughter it held asecond-hand kind of interest. She welcomed the idea of Pamela attendinga good school, and her crushed soul even began to indulge in timidlittle day-dreams concerning her child's future. These hopes, patheticand tender, were like wild sweet violets springing up over thedesolation of a battle-field.
Pamela viewed the situation from an utterly different standpoint. Shehad inherited her grandfather's strength of character along with theReynolds features, and also a considerable share of his pride. Her earlylife in Canada had made her more independent than most English girls ofher age. She considered that by all rights of justice an equal half ofthe Lyngates estate should have been hers, and that her uncle, Mr.Hockheimer, had managed to steal her inheritance. She hated to acceptfrom him as charity what she felt ought to have been her own, and shebitterly resented the patronizing attitude which he adopted towardsherself and her mother. She, too, had her day-dreams, and most of themcentred round a time when she would be old enough to shake off thisthraldom of dependence and strike out a line of her own in the world.