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Chapter XIV.

‘The dreams of ease are clouds that lie
On mountain peaks where none can stand;
Toil's golden fruit is ripening by
The sweet streams of the Promised Land.’

As he had promised, Palmer provided work in abundance for Randall. Even at night there was often much to be done: accounts to be looked into, letters to be written, or calculations made for some new work. Palmer's business was extraordinarily comprehensive. He would contract to do anything which seemed likely to be profitable. Clearing and breaking up new land, fencing, putting in crops or taking them out, road and bridge making, were all useful and lucrative occupations in which he had made himself conspicuous. He was thought to be rich because he was always working. No one but himself knew how many irons he might have on the anvil at one time, or how many men in his employ. Palmer's men became a by-word. One could not ride far into the country without seeing a gang of them, working hard when their master was on the spot, and very gently exercising their muscles when he was absent. Palmer was aware that his men page 190 had this failing, and consequently was perpetually galloping from place to place to look after them, and emulating Hercules in his attempts to show them how a man of spirit ought to work. ‘No wonder,’ the sympathising Mrs. Sligo would say, ‘that he's worn to a transparency.’ Palmer had, without doubt, found as effectual a way of mortifying the flesh as the most rigid ascetic could attain to with fastings and vigils.

Mrs. Sligo tormented him. He was almost afraid of her. To avoid meeting her or being entrapped into her company he took by-paths across fields when he went to church, or circuitous roads that seemed to lead anywhere but to the church. He came in at the last moment, and left hastily before any of the congregation could get out of their seats. It was said that in one desperate emergency, when Mrs. Sligo had lain in wait for him in the aisle, he had escaped by the vestry door, to the astonishment and indignation of the officiating clergyman. Palmer strenuously denied this; but he did not scruple to add that he would not have hesitated a moment in fleeing through the vestry had Mrs. Sligo been in pursuit and no other way open to him. He had changed his pew three times, and had at last secured one in which the basilisk glances of his persecutress could not reach him unless she craned her neck more than was becoming or convenient. But although she could no longer look at him, another person, almost as interesting just now, came within page 191 the line of her visual rays. A fierce curiosity was torturing Mrs. Sligo, and Randall was its object. She was not the only one who was curious because the unsociable Palmer had taken unto himself a companion. Mrs. Everard Palmer was much exercised in mind. She wanted to know, and could not get to know, and in this unhappy condition passed several weeks. Every Sunday she made an attempt to accost her brother-in-law, and failed; the fear of Mrs. Sligo making him too active in leaving the church. She had no chance of seeing him at other times, unless he came to her house, which, as it happened, he neglected to do. In this difficulty she bethought herself of Mrs. Hickson, his labourer's wife, the only woman who was admitted into his house. She ought to know if she had the sense to use her opportunities. Mrs. Palmer did not think it beneath herself to go to Mrs. Hickson's, and there to her disgust she found Mrs. Sligo, who had come on the same errand.

Mrs. Palmer had a pretext for her visit. The children in the cottage had been ill with whooping-cough, measles, or influenza (she had forgotten which), and she had kindly and condescendingly come to visit the family in their affliction, bringing some strengthening jelly for the invalids. She had not forgotten that her marriage had lifted her above the heads of these humble people. She had once lived in just such a little cottage as theirs, but that was a long time ago. To mark the difference page 192 between herself and them, she assumed with her smartest dress her most affected manner. Mrs. Slice's fine flow of gossip was frozen hard and fast, and Mrs. Hickson dared not sit in the presence of her visitor, to say nothing of speaking.

This would not do at all. Mrs. Palmer wanted information, and rather than go home without it would sacrifice a little dignity. She began to unbend after producing the jelly and inquiring after the health of the children, who were making sufficient noise in the backyard to testify to strength of lungs and soundness of limb. Mrs. Hickson made tea, and a thaw set in. She and Mrs. Sligo began to feel that after all the visitor was very like themselves, in which indeed they were not mistaken.

‘With minding your children and seeing to Mr. Palmer's house you must have plenty to do, Mrs. Hickson,’ said Mrs. Palmer, sipping her tea. ‘But, very likely, now he has this young gentleman staying with him, he may get a housekeeper.’

Mrs. Sligo looked interested. ‘Ah, ma'am! ah, Mrs. Palmer! if you would only advise Mr. Palmer, for his own good, to have some one to look after his comforts. It may seem strange for me to mention it as I've been keeping house for him so lately; but I know what's needed, if anyone does.’

‘My good Mrs. Sligo, I have no influence with him. Of course, I've often said he ought to live in a more comfortable style.’

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‘Yes; he ought, if I may make bold to say so,’ said Mrs. Hickson.

‘So lonely as he must feel,’ said Mrs. Sligo.

‘Well, he's not alone now,’ said Mrs. Palmer.

‘You will know all about this young man—or is he a gentleman—Mrs. Hickson?’

Mrs. Hickson knew next to nothing, but she had not the heart to say so. She answered, ‘Well, yes, ma'am. He's quite the gentleman.’

‘So I always thought,’ said Mrs. Sligo. ‘First there's Mr. Palmer making a friend of him, which, of course, he wouldn't have done with a common man, and then there's his looks. He has quite an aristocratic face. I'm sure, Mrs. Palmer, there's a romance about that young gentleman, and Mrs. Hickson here has seen enough to be sure of it, only perhaps she wouldn't like to repeat everything she may have got to know.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Mrs. Palmer. ‘In your position, Mrs. Hickson, you are called upon to be very careful. I have no doubt Mr. Palmer has chosen you to wait on him on account of your faithfulness, and he depends on you not to repeat everything you may see or hear.’

‘I'm sure, ma'am, I wouldn't, not for riches untold,’ said poor Mrs. Hickson, striving to recollect if she had ever heard anything that was worth repeating.

‘That you wouldn't!’ emphatically declared Mrs. Sligo. ‘And if there should ever be such temptation page 194 set before you, I say to you, 'Liza, don't tell, don't do it.’

‘I won't,’ said Mrs. Hickson.

‘What do they call the young gentleman, Mrs. Hickson?’ said Mrs. Palmer, striking out with vigour into the desired subject.

‘Mr. Palmer calls him “Randall.” I don't know whether its a christian name or surname.’

‘They're very friendly, aren't they?’ asked Mrs. Sligo.

‘Uncommon. Hickson says they're more like brothers than anythink. I don't know what they can find to say to each other, sitting up so late together. I hear the piano often. Mr. Randall can play as you never heard the like, all off too, without a book, when he pleases.’

‘Well, really!’ exclaimed Mrs. Sligo, ‘and Mr. Palmer would never let me play on that piano, he said it split his ears.’

‘Well, you know, there's a difference in playing,’ said Mrs. Hickson, innocently. ‘But they've made that old piano sound like silver bells. Mr. Randall's had the front opened, and all the keys off, and he strung up the wires with something like a screwkey.’

‘Oh, a tuning-fork,’ said Mrs. Palmer, with the calmness of superior wisdom.

‘Then what does he do all the day, this Mr. Randall?’ said Mrs. Sligo.

‘Do? Why, he rides about like Mr. Palmer, to page 195 oversee the men, and he has to keep account of everything. He just helps Mr. Palmer in whatsomever he has on hand, and Hickson says he's no soft one to deal with; he keeps the men up to the mark.’

‘And he hasn't been a working-man himself?’

‘Well, some says he has, and some says he hasn't,’ oracularly responded Mrs. Hickson. ‘Some is certain he worked for Mr. Palmer in the harvest, but others seeing him so gentlemanlike, says it wasn't him, but another man very much like him. But Hickson says he did, and that he's some gentleman doing all this for a wager.’

‘I shouldn't wonder!’ gasped Mrs. Sligo, gurgling over her cup of tea in her excitement. ‘I've heard of such things. There was a nobleman made a bet he'd walk through the streets of London dressed like a mendicant, and there was another wagered he'd grind a barrel-organ for a year.’

‘Oh yes, such things are quite common,’ said Mrs. Palmer confidently.

‘Well, I'm sure I wouldn't leave a nice house and everything that's grand and fine to rough it like that unless I was obliged,’ said Mrs. Hickson. ‘They must be simpletons that do it. Mr. Randall doesn't look simple. He's a melancholy look, though.’

‘Ah, poor gentleman, perhaps he's had some great affliction or disappointment, and has changed to rough work to distract his thoughts,’ opined Mrs. Sligo.

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‘Does he dress well?’ asked Mrs. Palmer.

‘When first he came he wasn't dressed over well; at any rate his clothes looked as if they'd been worn long enough. He doesn't dress up much now; though, of course, he's decent things on. I mean, ma'am, on Sundays; when, as you know, a gentleman will go to church in a good black coat if he goes at all. Hickson always keeps one for Sundays; but Mr. Randall and Mr. Palmer seem to go in all kinds of colours, and I've actually seen Mr. Palmer with a soft felt hat on!’

‘Mr. Palmer never would attend to that when I was keeping house for him,’ said Mrs. Sligo. ‘I could not get him to keep a suit for Sundays only.’

‘Mr. Palmer, I know, undervalues the advantage good dress is to a person,’ said Mrs. Palmer.

‘I think,’ said Mrs. Sligo, taking a new view of the case, ‘that's one sign of a gentleman. Common people like to be smart’ (Mrs. Palmer felt uneasy at this remark, and glanced downwards at her beruffled and puffed skirt); ‘but a gentleman's above such things, and generally, you may notice, has a pride in being rather rough and plain, to show that he can do without finery.’

‘Yes. There's nothing rough about Mr. Randall, though,’ said Mrs. Hickson. ‘I declare his manners are enough to make one wish he could be set up somewhere for a pattern.’

‘I've noticed nothing remarkable,’ said Mrs. Sligo, who felt jealous of this praise, lest Palmer should be page 197 eclipsed by his satellite. ‘People who've not been used to good society might think them so.’

‘Have you ever heard him say anything to prove he was doing all this for a fancy or some wager?’ said Mrs. Palmer.

‘Well, not exactly; but one morning when I took the breakfast over myself I heard Mr. Palmer ask him if he didn't look forward to going home some day, and he said, at times he thought of it, but a deal would have to be gone through first. He said he'd never go back till he'd done it; what it was I couldn't gather.’

‘That seems to prove it,’ said Mrs. Sligo. ‘I may tell you, too, Mrs. Hickson, that Smithers, who's engineer for Mr. Palmer, says he knows it's so, and he knows the reason too. There was a young lady to whom this Mr. Randall was engaged, and she broke it off because his father had made his money in trade; so to show her he didn't care for her pride he's gone and made himself as much like a workingman as possible.’

‘Why, but what a spooney!’ said Mrs. Hickson. ‘If she wouldn't look at him before will she have anything to do with him now? Why, I've seen him myself taking the machines to pieces; I've seen him oiling and setting them right, or driving that engine, as black about the hands as a sweep. And I've seen him gardening with Mr. Palmer, or grooming and saddling his own horse. He does all kinds of things.’

‘A man who's been up pretty high sticks at page 198 nothing when he's made up his mind to come down. You can see he's a determined man, Mrs. Hickson, by the look of his chin.’

‘I haven't noticed it,’ said Mrs. Hickson. ‘Deary me, bless us all! there's Mr. Palmer a-hammering at the door.’

Mrs. Palmer fluttered from her seat into a corner where she could not be seen from window or door. Mrs. Hickson, nearly dropping the teapot in her agitation, flew to answer the summons. ‘I've forgotten all about his dinner,’ she cried, ‘and it's past six. The potatoes are not warmed through! Deary, deary me!’

Mrs. Sligo alone preserved her composure. She smoothed her hair, settled her white tulle cap, spread out her voluminous train, and moved her chair to where she could be seen.

‘Now, Mrs. Hickson, do you want me to fast after riding fifteen miles?’ demanded Palmer. ‘I've rung the clapper out of my bell and got neither dinner nor answer. I could see you, my good woman, all the time, gossiping away with two old busybodies instead of minding your work.’

Two old busybodies! Mrs. Sligo was almost purple with indignation. She might be a poor lone widow whom people were ready enough to scoff at, but she wouldn't be old just yet. Mrs. Palmer, too, bridled and chafed at the insult in the seclusion of her corner, and registered a vow that her brother-in-law should be fully repaid for it.

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‘I don't know, Mr. Palmer,’ whimpered Mrs. Hickson, ‘how I made such a mistake. It comes from trusting to that old clock of ours, which is always late when it isn't fast.’

‘I should think you know what's o'clock when the sun goes down. Come now, don't waste time in talking, get the thing done. You may send over about twice as much as usual. I can tell you I've an appetite after waiting so long.’

Palmer went back to his house. Mrs. Palmer thought she had better escape while he was out of the way. She did not wish her brother-in-law to know that she had been one of the busybodies referred to. Perhaps she had lowered herself by joining in the tea-table tattle of her inferiors. It Everard should hear of it! Better get home at once, and to be secure from observation take the back way across the fields. She took her leave with dignified hauteur, for now it seemed to her that she had been too condescending. Mrs. Sligo and Mrs. Hickson were chilled and overawed again. Their tongues were loosened as soon as she had crossed the threshold, and they were beginning to comment with great freedom of speech on her dress, manners, and conversation when the appearance of another person diverted them from this pleasing theme. There was a stranger on the road—a tall, ill-clad, and disreputable-looking man, whose tattered Mackintosh and brimless hat would have disgraced a scarecrow. He did not appear to be ashamed of his habiliments. page 200 He came on with a bold carriage, and with the step of one who knew how to walk, an accomplishment rarer than most people imagine. He neither shambled, nor stooped, nor shrunk away from well-to-do passers-by, as a shamefaced tramp might have done, but kept the middle of the path, looked every one full in the face, and whistled melodiously.

‘There's a pretty kind of a fellow,’ said Mrs. Hickson, ‘going about as bold as brass; a man who'd as soon pick your pocket as look at you. And, bless us! Mrs. Sligo, he's gone into Mr. Palme's; just opened the door and stalked in as if he was lord of all.’

‘He'll come out again quicker than he went in,’ predicted Mrs. Sligo.

But he did not come out again that evening. ‘Well, Mr. Palmer's taking up with queer folk now,’ Mrs. Hickson remarked. ‘That Mr. Randall is a mystery to me, and this man looks no better than the offscourings of the streets.’

‘And him so particular too!’ cried Mrs. Sligo. ‘There's something strange about it, 'Liza.’

‘To sit down to dinner with a man dressed worse nor a mawkin!’ said Mrs. Hickson. ‘But I'll tell you how it is. These two are his relatives, and he's ashamed to own them.’