CHAPTER III
THE SEEDS OF MISCHIEF
Preparations for the forthcoming "Feast" were varied by gossipconcerning "the baroness," her daughter, and the Normandy _bonne_.Elmsdale had never before set eyes on any human beings quite so foreignto its environment. At first, the canny Yorkshire folk were muchintrigued by the lady's title. A princess or a duchess they had read of;a marchioness and a countess they had seen, because the county of broadacres finds room for a great many noble houses; and baronets' wives,each a "Lady" by perspective right, were so plentiful as to arouse nospecial comment.
But a "baroness" was rather un-English, while Elmsdale frankly refusedto pronounce her name other than "Eedelsteen." The village was ready toallude to her as "her ladyship," but was still doubtful whether or notto grant her the prefix "Lady," when the question was settled in awholly unexpected way by the announcement that the baroness preferred tobe addressed as "Mrs. Saumarez." In fact, she was rather annoyed thatAngele should have flaunted the title at all.
"I am English by marriage, and proud of my husband's name," sheexplained. "He was a gallant officer, who fell in the Boer War, and Ihave long since left the use of my German rank for purely officialoccasions. It is no secret, of course, but Angele should not havementioned it."
Elmsdale liked this democratic utterance. It made these blunt Yorkshirefolk far readier to address her as "your ladyship" than would have beenthe case otherwise, and, truth to tell, she never chided them for anylapse of the sort, though, in accordance with her wish, she becamegenerally known as Mrs. Saumarez.
She rented a suite at The Elms, a once pretentious country mansion ownedby a family named Walker. The males had died, the revenues had dwindled,and two elderly maiden ladies, after taking counsel with the vicar, hadadvertised their house in a society newspaper.
Mrs. Saumarez said she was an invalid. She required rest and good air.Francoise, since Angele had outgrown the attentions of a nurse, wasemployed mainly as her mistress's confidential servant. Francoise eithercould not or would not speak English; Mrs. Saumarez gave excellentreferences and no information as to her past, while Angele's volatilereminiscences of continental society had no meaning for Elmsdale.
But it was abundantly clear that Mrs. Saumarez was rich. She swept asidethe arrangements made by the Misses Walker for her comfort, chose herown set of apartments, ordered things wholly her own way, and paiddouble the terms originally demanded.
The day following her visit to the White House she descended on thechief grocer, whose shop was an emporium of many articles outside histrade, but mostly of a cheap order.
"Mr. Webster," she said in her grand manner, "few of the goods you stockwill meet my requirements. I prefer to deal with local tradesmen, butthey must meet my wants. Now, if you are prepared to cater for me, youwill not only save me the trouble of ordering supplies from London, butmake some extra profit. You have proper agents, no doubt, so you mustobtain everything of the best quality. You understand. I shall nevergrumble at the prices; but the least inferiority will lead me towithdraw my custom."
It was a sore point with Mr. Webster that "the squire" dealt with theStores. He promised implicit obedience, and wrote such instructions toLeeds, his supply town, that the wholesale house there wondered who hadcome to live at Elmsdale.
The proprietress of the "Black Lion," hearing the golden tales thatcirculated through the village, dressed in her best one afternoon andcalled at The Elms in the hope of obtaining patronage for wines, bottledbeer, and mineral waters. Mrs. Saumarez was resting. The elder MissWalker conveyed Mrs. Atkinson's name and business. Some conversationtook place between Mrs. Saumarez and Francoise, with the result thatMrs. Atkinson was instructed to supply Schweppe's soda water, but "nointoxicants."
So Mrs. Saumarez was a teetotaller. The secretary of the local branch ofthe Good Templars donned a faded black coat and a rusty tall hat andsent in a subscription list. It came out with a guinea. The vicar was atThe Elms next day. Mrs. Saumarez received him graciously and gave him afive-pound note toward the funds of the bazaar which would be openednext week. Most decidedly the lady was an acquisition. When Miss MarthaWalker was enjoined by her sister, Miss Emmy, to find out how long Mrs.Saumarez intended to remain at Elmsdale--on the plausible pretext thatthe terms would be lowered for a monthly tenancy--she was given a curtreply.
"I am a creature of moods. I may be here a day, a year. At present theplace suits me. And Angele is brimming over with health. But it is fatalif I am told I must remain a precise period anywhere. That is why Inever go to Carlsbad."
Miss Martha did not understand the reference to Carlsbad; but the natureof the reply stopped effectually all further curiosity as to Mrs.Saumarez's plans. It also insured unflagging service.
Hardly a day passed that the newcomer did not call at the White House.She astounded John Bolland by the accuracy of her knowledge concerningstock, and annoyed him, too, by remarking that some of his land requireddraining.
"Your lower pastures are too rank," she said. "So long as there is asuccession of fine seasons it does not matter, but a wet spring andsummer will trouble you. You will have fifty acres of water-soddenmeadows, and nothing breeds disease more quickly."
"None o' my cattle hev had a day's illness, short o' bein' a trifleoverfed wi' oil cake," he said testily.
"Quite so. You told me that in former years you raised wheat and oatsthere. I'm talking about grass."
Martin and Angele became close friends. The only children of the girl'ssocial rank in the neighborhood were the vicar's daughter, ElsieHerbert, and the squire's two sons, Frank and Ernest Beckett-Smythe. Mr.Beckett-Smythe was a widower. He lived at the Hall, three-quarters of amile away, and had not as yet met Mrs. Saumarez. Angele would havenothing to do with Elsie.
"I don't like her," she confided to Martin. "She doesn't care for boys,and I adore them. She's trop reglee for me."
"What is that?"
"Well, she holds her nose--so."
Angele tilted her head and cast down her eyes.
"Of course, I don't know her, but she seems to be a nice girl," saidMartin.
"Why do you say, 'Of course, I don't know her'? She lives here, doesn'tshe?"
"Yes, but my father is a farmer. She has a governess, and goes to tea atthe Hall. I've met her driving from the Castle. She's above me, yousee."
Angele laughed maliciously.
"O la la! c'est pour rire! I'm sorry. She is--what do you say--a littlesnob."
"No, no," protested Martin. "I think she would be very nice, if I knewher. You'll like her fine when you play with her."
"Me! Play with her, so prim, so pious. I prefer Jim Bates. He winked atme yesterday."
"Did he? Next time I see him I'll make it hard for him to wink."
Angele clapped her hands and pirouetted.
"What," she cried, "you will fight him, and for me! What joy! It's justlike a story book. You must kick him, so, and he will fall down, and Iwill kiss you."
"I will not kick him," said the indignant Martin. "Boys don't kick inEngland. And I don't want to be kissed."
"Don't boys kiss in England?"
"Well ... anyhow, I don't."
"Then we are not sweethearts. I shan't kiss you, and you must just leaveJim Bates alone."
Martin was humiliated. He remained silent and angry during the nextminute. By a quick turn in the conversation Angele had placed him in aposition of rivalry with another boy, one with whom she had notexchanged a word.
"Look here," he said, after taking thought, "if I kiss your cheek, may Ilick Jim Bates?"
This magnanimous offer was received with derision.
"I forbid you to do either. If you do, I'll tell your father."
The child had discovered already the fear with which Martin regarded thestern, uncompromising Methodist yeoman--a fear, almost a resentment, dueto Bolland's injudicious attempts to guide a mere boy into the path ofserious and precise religion. Never had Martin found the daily readingof Scripture such a burden as
during the past few days. The preparationsfor the feast, the cricket-playing, running and jumping of the boyspracticing for prizes--these disturbing influences interfered sadly withthe record of David's declining years.
Even now, with Angele's sarcastic laughter ringing in his ears, he wascompelled to leave her and hurry to the front kitchen, where the farmerwas waiting with the Bible opened. At the back door he paused and lookedat her. She blew him a kiss.
"Good boy!" she cried. "Mind you learn your lesson."
"And mind you keep away from those cowsheds. Your nurse ought to havebeen here. It's tea time."
"I don't want any tea. I'm going to smell the milk. I love the smell ofa farmyard. Don't you? But, there! You have never smelt anything else.Every place has its own smell. Paris smells like smoky wood. Londonsmells of beer. Here there is always the smell of cows...."
"Martin!" called a harsh voice from the interior, and the boy perforcebrought his wandering wits to bear on the wrongdoing of David in takinga census of the people of Israel.
He read steadily through the chapter which described how a pestilenceswept from Dan to Beersheba and destroyed seventy thousand men, allbecause David wished to know how many troops he could muster.
He could hear Angele talking to the maids and making them laugh. Acaravan lumbered through the street; he caught a glimpse of carvedwooden horses' heads and gilded moldings. His quick and retentive brainmastered the words of the chapter, but to-day there was no mysteriousand soul-awakening glimpse of its spirit.
"What did David say te t' Lord when t' angel smote t' people?" saidBolland when the moment came to question his pupil.
"He said, 'Lo, I have sinned; but what have these sheep done?'"
"And what sin had he deaen?"
"I don't know. I think the whole thing was jolly unfair."
"What!" John Bolland laid down the Bible and rested both hands on thearms of the chair to steady himself. Had he heard aright? Was the boydaring to criticize the written word?
But Martin's brain raced ahead of the farmer's slow-rising wrath. Hetrembled at the abyss into which he had almost fallen. What horror if helost an hour on this Saturday, the Saturday before the Feast, of alldays in the year!
"I didn't quite mean that," he said, "but it doesn't say why it waswrong for a census to be taken, and it does say that when the angelstretched his hand over Jerusalem the Lord repented of the evil."
Bolland bent again over the book. Yes, Martin was right. He was letterperfect.
"It says nowt about unfairness," growled the man slowly.
"No. That was my mistake."
"Ye mun tak' heed ageaen misteaeks o' that sort. On Monday we begin t'Third Book o' Kings."
So, not even the Feast would be allowed to interfere with the dailylesson.
Angele had departed with the belated Francoise. Martin, running throughthe orchard like a hare, doubled to the main road along the lane. In twominutes he was watching the unloading of the roundabout in front of the"Black Lion." Jim Bates was there.
"Here, I want you," said Martin. "You winked at Angele Saumarezyesterday."
"Winked at wheae?" demanded Jim.
"At the young lady who lives at The Elms."
"Not afore she pulled a feaece at me."
"Well, if you wink at her again I'll lick you."
"Mebbe."
"There's no 'mebbe' about it. Come down to the other end of the greennow, if you think I can't."
Jim Bates was no coward, but he was faced with the alternative ofyielding gracefully and watching the showmen at work or risking a defeatin a needless battle. He chose the better part of valor.
"It's neaen o' my business," he said. "I deaen't want te wink at t' youngleddy."
At the inn door Mrs. Atkinson's three little girls were standing withKitty Thwaites, the housemaid. The eldest, a bonnie child, whose fairskin was covered with freckles, ran toward Martin.
"Where hae ye bin all t' week?" she inquired. "Are ye always wi' thatSaumarez girl?"
"No."
"I heerd tell she was at your pleaece all hours. What beautiful frocksshe has, but I should be asheaemed te show me legs like her."
"That's the way she dresses," said Martin curtly.
"How funny. Is she fond of you?"
"How do I know?" He tried to edge away.
Evelyn tossed her head.
"Oh, I don't care. Why should I?"
"There's no reason that I can tell."
"You soon forget yer friends. On'y last Whit Monday ye bowt me a packetof chocolates."
There was truth in this. Martin quitted her sheepishly. He drew nearsome men, one of whom was Fred, the groom, and Fred had been drinking,as a preliminary to the deeper potations of the coming week.
"Ay, there she is!" he muttered, with an angry leer at Kitty. "Shethinks what's good eneuf fer t' sister is good eneuf fer her. We'll see.Oad John Bollan' sent 'im away wiv a flea i' t' lug a-Tuesday. I reckonhe'll hev one i' t' other ear if 'e comes after Kitty."
One of the men grinned contemptuously.
"Gan away!" he said. "George Pickerin' 'ud chuck you ower t' top o' t'hotel if ye said 'Booh' to 'im."
But Fred, too, grinned, blinking like an owl in daylight.
"Them as lives t' longest sees t' meaest," he muttered, and walked towardthe stables, passing close to Kitty, who looked through him withoutseeing him.
Suddenly there was a stir among the loiterers. Mrs. Saumarez was walkingthrough the village with Mr. Beckett-Smythe. Behind the pair came thesquire's two sons and Angele. The great man had called on the newvisitor to Elmsdale, and together they strolled forth, while heexplained the festivities of the coming week, and told the lady thatthese "feasts" were the creation of an act of Charles II. as a protestagainst the Puritanism of the Commonwealth.
Martin stood at the side of the road. Mrs. Saumarez did not notice him,but Angele did. She lifted her chin and dropped her eyelids in cleverburlesque of Elsie Herbert, the vicar's daughter, but ignored himotherwise. Martin was hurt, though he hardly expected to be spoken to inthe presence of distinguished company. But he could not help lookingafter the party. Angele turned and caught his glance. She put out hertongue.
He heard a mocking laugh and knew that Evelyn Atkinson was telling hersisters of the incident, whereupon he dug his hands in his pockets andwhistled.
A shooting gallery was in process of erection, and its glories soondispelled the gloom of Angele's snub. The long tube was supported onstays, the target put in place, the gaudy front pieced together, andhalf a dozen rifles unpacked. The proprietor meant to earn a few honestpennies that night, and some of the men were persuaded to try theirprowess.
Martin was a born sportsman. He watched the competitors so keenly thatAngele returned with her youthful cavaliers without attracting hisattention. Worse than that, Evelyn Atkinson, scenting the possibility ofrustic intrigue, caught Martin's elbow and asked quite innocently why abell rang if the shooter hit the bull's-eye.
Proud of his knowledge, he explained that there was a hole in the ironplate, and that no bell, but a sheet of copper, was suspended in the boxat the back where the lamp was.
Both Angele and Evelyn appreciated the situation exactly. The boy alonewas ignorant of their tacit rivalry.
Angele pointed out Martin to the Beckett-Smythes.
"He is such a nice boy," she said sweetly. "I see him every day. He canfight any boy in the village."
"Hum," said the heir. "How old is he?"
"Fourteen."
"I am fifteen."
Angele smiled like a seraph.
"Regardez-vous donc!" she said. "He could twiddle you round--so," andshe spun one hand over the other.
"I'd like to see him try," snorted the aristocrat. The opportunityoffered itself sooner than he expected, but the purring of ahigh-powered car coming through the village street caused thepedestrians to draw aside. The car, a new and expensive one, was drivenby a chauffeur, but held no passengers.
Mr. Beckett-Smythe gazed
after it reflectively.
"Well, I thought I knew every car in this district," he began.
"It is mine, I expect," announced Mrs. Saumarez. "I've ordered one, andit should arrive to-day. I need an automobile for an occasional longrun. For pottering about the village lanes, I may buy a pony cart."
"What make is your car?" inquired the Squire.
"A Mercedes. I'm told it is by far the best at the price."
"It's the best German car, of course, but I can hardly admit that itequals the French, or even our own leading types."
"Oh, I don't profess to understand these things. I only know that mybanker advised me to buy none other. He explained the matter simplyenough. The German manufacturers want to get into the trade and arecontent to lose money for a year or so. You know how pushful they are."
Beckett-Smythe saw the point clearly. He was even then hesitatingbetween a Panhard and an Austin. He decided to wait a little longer andascertain the facts about the Mercedes. A month later he purchased one.Mrs. Saumarez's chauffeur, a smart young mechanic from Bremen, who spokeEnglish fluently, demonstrated that the buyer was given more than hismoney's worth. The amiable Briton wondered how such things could be, butwas content to benefit personally. He, in time, spread the story. Germancars enjoyed a year's boomlet in that part of Yorkshire. With nearlyevery car came a smart young chauffeur mechanic. Surely, this was wisdompersonified. They knew the engine, could effect nearly all road repairs,demanded less wages than English drivers, and were always civil andreliable.
"Go-ahead people, these Germans!" was the general verdict.