Chapter III

A YEAR had gone since Uncle Bernard's death, and Norman and I were looking forward to the coming Christmas season with happy anticipations.

My brother had wooed sweet Lucy Pemberton, my dear friend and old schoolfellow, and expected to bring his bride to King's Court early in the new year.

My engagement to Stephen Hastings had fulfilled Uncle Bernard's prophetic hopes, and I was waiting eagerly for news from my betrothed, who was a candidate for an Indian legal appointment. There were many competitors, but if Stephen were successful, our wedding was to take place on the same day as Norman's.

My brother and I had spent some time in watching and waiting for the all-important letter which was to decide whether this matrimonial programme could be carried out or no. In these days, when people "wire" to each other about comparatively trivial things, our patience would not have been called into exercise. But I am telling of what happened about twenty years ago, when King's Court was eight miles from the nearest telegraph office, and a special messenger had to be sent on horseback when a telegram came to Overford, our village, or the Court itself.

Our letters came to the railway station, which was also the post office, and were fetched thence by one of the servants. We were looking for his return, and Norman was pacing up and down and gazing from the window in turns, chafing at the delay.

"That mail train is always late!" he exclaimed.

"Like every other that calls at Overford," said I. "Did you ever know one arrive punctually?"

"Yes," replied Norman. "It was when I was going to town last spring, and, relying on its being at least regular in its irregularities, I reached the station two minutes after the time, and was left behind."

"When you ought to have met Aunt Bella at London Bridge Station, and she waited, bewildered and indignant, but firm in her determination to guard her luggage at the risk of her life."

Norman burst into a hearty laugh. "Shall I ever forget that scene?" he said. "Aunt Bella amid mountains of luggage, of which her parrot's cage formed the apex. She had guarded her belongings for two hours against all corners. She has never forgiven me, and never will. Here comes the train, thirty-five minutes late. I will rush across the park, get your letter myself, and save you at least ten minutes of suspense, Berty."

The train was only just in sight, a little puff of white vapour indicating its whereabouts, and my fleet-footed brother would reach Overford Station as soon as it would; but I implored him not to go.

"Parks will bring the letters," I said. "He took a trap down to convey the new housemaid and her luggage to the house. He will lose no time."

"But that stupid Frith will keep him waiting, if only to annoy me," said Norman, hastily; for a quick temper was my darling brother's besetting sin. He had fought and struggled against it, and often mourned with bitter penitence over its results; but the enemy was strong still, and the day of complete conquest seemed as yet in the distant future.

I cried to my brother as he was leaving the room, "Norman, do not touch the mail-bag, or you will get into trouble; and think how dreadful it would be for me to feel that I was the cause of it to you. Frith is not like old Joynson."

"He is a conceited fellow, who needs to be taught his place," returned Norman, his face flushing as he spoke. "But no fear of my being tempted to give him a lesson to-day. I shall be too late."

Norman darted across the hall, and, scorning the regular paths, quickly reached a short cut used only by our own family to facilitate our passage to the station when we walked thither. I knew that his impatience was all on my account; but I was not a little troubled about possible results. I hoped he might be late; for I dreaded a collision between him and our new station-master, Edward Frith.

Everybody knows what kind of position is occupied by the great man in an agricultural village—the squire who owns every foot of land for miles, and is literally monarch of all he surveys. He is generally beneficent and patriarchal, and there is a kindly familiarity between him and his people; but his sway was a pretty absolute one in my young days.

Such a position had Norman been early called on to fill, and through Uncle Bernard's generosity he had more talents to account for than those who preceded him, and less of the experience which comes with well-spent years than might have been desired.

Old Joynson, the first station-master at Overford, was a man who believed in the infallibility of the squires of King's Court. Had not his ancestors been tenants on the estate for ages? Did he not owe his post to their influence? And was not the word of him who ruled at the Court as law to the old retainer, in whom something of the ancient feudal spirit survived, despite the reforms and changes of the nineteenth century?

During the last years of Joynson's life, he allowed Norman to take liberties which no one in his position could permit without a gross breach of trust. If my brother were expecting letters of importance, he would seize the mail-bag, break the seal, open it, and select from its contents his own particular share.

It not infrequently happened that all the letters were for residents at King's Court, and though Norman insisted that old Joynson should look at the addresses, the man deemed it almost superfluous, remarking, often enough, "Of course, squire, you'd only take what is your own, or for the Court."

Joynson's successor was a man of another stamp; a smart, active, city-bred clerk, married to one of our Overford girls, but with none of his predecessor's feudal prejudices, and rather proud than otherwise of not exactly hitting it with young Mr. Savell. He would have scorned to call Norman "the squire."

Very unwisely, my brother attempted to continue his old practice; but the first time he lifted the mail-bag, Frith courteously but firmly requested him to put it down.

Norman did not heed this intimation, and would have proceeded to break the seals, but Frith seized the bag, wrenched it from him, and angrily desired him not to repeat what he must know was a breach of the law.

"Nonsense, Frith," said Norman, "I have opened the bag scores of times, and you may be sure I should only take what belongs to me."

"Probably not, but your act is unlawful, and whatever others may have done, I shall do my duty."

For the moment, Norman forgot himself. He was so little used to contradiction that his next words were wanting both in good sense and good temper. "Do you not know that I own all Overford, and am master here?" he asked.

"You are not my master, I am glad to say," was Frith's cool reply. "Neither do you own this railway station. I am answerable to my employers of the Post Office and the railway; and if you hinder me in the performance of my duty, you have to answer to them—not to me."

Frith waited for no reply, but passed into the little office, and subsequently handed Norman his letters through the usual aperture, with an unmoved face.

My brother came home angry both at Frith and himself. He related what had passed, and continued, "How I do hate myself for uttering that foolish boast about owning the whole place! It was a piece of idle self-assertion, and Frith put me down in the coolest way, by proving that I had no authority over him. I hardly know whether I am most vexed at myself or him."

"At yourself, I hope," said I. "You forget your place, dear, and Frith had right on his side. Were I you, I would never repeat the offence, and I would make Frith respect me, by frankly owning that I was in the wrong."

"What! Apologize, and promise not to do so any more?"

"Not exactly. But, Norman, dear, there is true dignity in owning a fault, especially one committed against an inferior in position. It shows that we do not wish to take advantage of our own, but would act simply as man to man."

Norman could not at once agree to this, or shake off the long-received notion that the owner of Overford ought to receive unquestioning homage from all around him. He was not free from class prejudices, and he showed his displeasure by entirely ignoring the young station-master.

Frith was not above feeling some exultation at having "taken down" Mr. Savell. He remarked to his wife that he had taught that youngster a lesson.

"If he thinks he can ride rough-shod over me, or play the tyrant because he owns King's Court, and all the Overford clodhoppers are cap in hand to him, he is mistaken. Let him beware of touching Her Majesty's mail-bags again, or he will pay for his obstinacy."

"He may be a little hasty, but he is kind and generous. Everyone gives him a good name, Edward," replied Mrs. Frith, anxious to act as peacemaker, while conscious that her husband's temperament was only too much like Norman's.

Weeks passed on, and my brother waited for the delivery of the letters at the Court. But when the day came on which we expected the all-important news from Stephen, his patience was sorely tried by the tardiness of the train.

At the station a further delay had to be faced. The train must be shunted for the express to pass it.

Frith and the one porter were engaged in effecting this, and the letter-bag lay on the platform. Norman felt waiting very hard work, and a half-threatening glance from Frith made it harder still.

The shunting had only just been completed when the express dashed through, and then the tardy train had to be brought back to the platform and started on its way.

Everything was against Norman. Frith's look worst of all. He determined to brave the consequences, and, snatching up the letter-bag, he broke the seal just as the starting of the train set Frith at liberty to attend to post office duties.

"Put that bag down!" he shouted.

Norman did not obey, but seizing the looked-for letter, he turned away with a light laugh, then said, "I have only helped myself to one. You may look at it, and my servant will bring any others."

Frith's reply was addressed to the bystanders. Pointing to the broken seals, he said, "I call you all to witness that Mr. Savell has unlawfully opened and abstracted a letter from the mail-bag. He will hear further about this act, and you will be called to prove my charge."

The persons spoken to included Frith's wife, who stood in the doorway, the porter, Parks, our servant, and the new housemaid he had come to meet, with two or three of the village people.

Then Frith sorted the remaining letters, counted their number, which would have been correct with the addition of the one taken out by Norman, and, having copied out all the addresses, sent them to their several destinations, and completed his task by writing an account of the affair to the Postmaster-General. Later in the day he said to his wife, "Mr. Norman will get a lesson he little expects."

"About taking that letter? Well, it was his own. He would never touch what belonged to any one else."

"That makes no difference, as he will find out to his cost."

"Don't send a report to head-quarters. Mr. Norman will be sorry, I know, and will tell you so. Just think of Miss Bertha, and pretty Miss Pemberton. She is to marry Mr. Savell after New Year. Why, if this foolish affair caused trouble, it would break the dear young ladies' hearts, and I do think it would break mine."

"The letter is gone, Mary. I could only do my duty, and I am afraid there will be no choice between a very heavy penalty and acquitting Mr. Savell. They could not acquit him in the face of such evidence, so he will have to pay."

"It was very hard of you to write, Ned," sobbed Mrs. Frith, who was very pretty, and a bride of only three months' standing. These were the first tears her husband had made her shed, and in spite of an approving conscience, Frith felt anything but comfortable. He paced the platform to get out of sight of Mary's sorrowful face, and could not help thinking that he might have done his duty without painting Mr. Savell's conduct in quite such dark colours. There are different ways of putting things, and if only he had not written when he was angry, Frith realised that the truth might have been told in a milder way.

As to Mrs. Frith, she consoled herself with the thought that the young squire had plenty of money, and would not feel the fine as a poorer man might. She never dreamed that a far heavier penalty had been incurred which money could not pay.