Chapter XVI: The Squire’s Arrival

Hetty drew her husband back into the cozy parlor, where they found Jennie waiting alone.

“Well, I have put the baby to sleep at last! Little witch! she wanted to laugh and crow and kick all night. Such a time as I had getting her quiet! But where have you two been? You look—just as if you had come from a circus!” said Jennie.

“So we have! or rather from a domestic drama!” exclaimed Hetty, laughing; and then she told her daughter all about the sudden return of Samson Longman, and the joy of his mother.

Jennie listened in sympathetic delight.

“And now, my dear, you may come in the kitchen and help me to bring in the tea. Elspeth has forgotten that there is any such thing as tea in the world. And who can blame her!” exclaimed Hetty as she left the room attended by her daughter.

It was, indeed, nearly an hour beyond their usual tea time.

The tea was drawn too much, and the muffins were baked too dry; nevertheless, father, mother, and daughter enjoyed the refreshment.

There was a good-sized dining-room in the rear of the house on the other side of the hall, but for reasons of economy it was not used in cold weather, as it would require another fire, the meals being served in the family sitting-room or parlor.

Now, however, as soon as the curate and his family arose from the tea, his wife said:

“Jimmy, we must be kind. The kindlings and coal are all laid in the grate of the back room ready for lighting a fire when required. Do, dear, go and start it; and Jennie and I will clear off this tea table, and set another in there for Elspeth and her big boy to take their tea comfortably; for it is not every day that a prodigal son returns.”

“And you just know how it is yourselves, don’t you, papa and mamma?” inquired the prodigal daughter, tenderly.

“Yes, we do; and I will go right off and do as you wish,” exclaimed the curate merrily as he left the room.

Hetty and Jennie went eagerly to work, and soon cleared away their own table, and then went and set one in the dining-room, where the curate had already kindled a good fire in the grate.

Hetty brought out from all the treasures of pantry and cupboard, and in addition to the substantial fare of cold beef and ham, cheese, bread and butter, she laid out cake, honey and sweetmeats.

When all this was done she made a large pot of fresh tea and set it to draw. Finally she returned to the parlor and sat down with her husband and daughter in pleasant expectancy for developments from the study.

She had not to wait long. Very soon came Elspeth into the parlor, her eyes shining with happiness, and said:

“If you please, sir, Samson—that is my boy—would like to thank you and say good-evening before he goes away.” Then noticing for the first time that the tea table had been cleared away, she started with a little look of dismay, and before anybody could speak again, she said:

“Oh! I am so sorry! I clean forgot! I——”

“Don’t say another word, dear woman. It is all right—quite right. Jennie and I did all that was necessary, and took pleasure in doing it. And as for your boy saying good-night and going away before he has broken bread with you, that cannot be permitted on any account. There! take him into the dining-room, where you will find a fine fire, and a tea table, and a pot of tea simmering on the hob.”

“Oh, ma’am, but you are too good!”

“Nonsense! I’m delighted—we are all delighted! And, Elspeth, when you have had your tea, bring your boy in to us while you go upstairs and make him up a bed in the little spare room next to your own. Do you hear?”

“Oh, ma’am, you are too good! Whatever shall I do to repay your kindness!” exclaimed the grateful creature, with eyes full of tears, as she lifted Hetty’s hand and pressed it to her lips.

“Do just as she tells you, Mrs. Longman. And say to your son that we should be pleased to have him remain here with you until after Christmas. He shall be most cordially welcome to us all,” added Mr. Campbell.

“God bless you, sir, for your great kindness; for indeed it will be a great joy to me to have my boy under the very same roof with me for a few days, now that he has come back,” said Elspeth, her wintry face in an April aspect of smiles and tears.

“And, of course, it is a delight to us to be able to contribute to your happiness, you know,” said Mr. Campbell cheerily.

Elspeth dropped her old-fashioned courtesy and went out.

And very soon the three remaining in the parlor heard the mother and her son going down the passage to the rear dining-room that was behind the study.

Hetty and Jennie took their needlework, and Mr. Campbell picked up the morning paper, which no one had had time to look at all day long, and began to read to them items of news.

So an hour passed.

The reunited mother and son lingered long in the dining-room, but at length they came out and entered the parlor.

Longman went at once up to Mr. Campbell and said:

“Sir, I thank you very much for the hospitality you have so kindly proffered me, and which, for my mother’s sake, I am very happy to accept.”

“Don’t mention it, Mr. Longman. Have a seat. This is my daughter, Mrs. Montgomery,” said the curate, rising and handing a chair.

Longman bowed profoundly to the young lady, and then dropped into his seat.

Elspeth was speaking to Mrs. Campbell:

“Which room did you say, ma’am, he might have?”

“Any vacant one you please. The little room next to your own you might prefer, perhaps,” returned Hetty.

“Yes, ma’am, I would, thanky, ma’am,” said Elspeth, and she left the parlor.

“When did you reach England, Mr. Longman?” inquired Hetty, to make conversation and set the embarrassed colossus at his ease.

“Only about twenty-four hours since, ma’am. And I had the honor of traveling in company with the new Squire of Haymore and his bride, expected by the people in this neighborhood,” replied Longman, looking down on his own folded hands, so that he failed to see the effect of his words; for Mr. Campbell started, Hetty gasped, and Jennie turned pale.

And the conversation that followed was all at cross-purposes, for Longman came to speak of Randolph Hay, the only true Squire of Haymore, and his wife, Judith, and of their crossing the Atlantic Ocean together; while the curate and his family spoke of Kightly Montgomery, the fraudulent claimant, and his deceived bride, Lamia Leegh, and of their crossing the English Channel.

“The Squire of Haymore and his lady are in England, then?” was the remark with which the curate reopened the conversation.

“Yes, sir. I had the honor of coming over in the same steamer with them. We landed yesterday.”

“And you left them in London?”

“Beg pardon, sir, no. We traveled from London together. We reached Chuxton this afternoon about sunset. We had to wait there for a conveyance hither, and while we waited, and Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay and their party took luncheon, I went in search of my dear mother, expecting to find her there where I had left her, but I heard instead that she was living at the rectory with your family. So then I told Mr. Randolph Hay, and he very kindly offered me a seat in his carriage, and so brought me on here. I rode to the Hall with them, and there left them and walked on here.”

“And do you mean to say that the squire and his lady are now really at the Hall?” demanded the astonished curate.

“Yes, sir, as I said, or should have said, they arrived to-night a little after dusk.”

“But,” continued the deeply perplexed curate, “I don’t understand. The squire and—his lady were to have sent a telegram from London announcing their approach, and were expected to make quite a triumphal entry by daylight, amid the ringing of bells and singing of children, and flinging of flowers, and all the parade and pageantry that this season would permit. Prowt, the bailiff, has had his orders to be in readiness for weeks past, and for days has been waiting a telegram.”

“I don’t know how that is, sir. I know that Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay came home very quietly indeed,” replied Longman.

“But was it not a great surprise, not to say shock, to the servants at the Hall? And were they at all ready for the squire and—his lady?”

“I think so, sir. I know Mr. Randolph Hay sent a dispatch to the housekeeper at the Hall, with instructions to have rooms aired and fires built, dinner prepared, and everything in readiness to receive himself and his wife this evening. I know it, sir, for I carried the dispatch to the telegraph office myself,” said Longman.

“The people will be very much disappointed at missing the pageantry,” remarked the curate.

“I do not think Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay cared for display. I am a little surprised that it should have been thought of in connection with them,” said Longman, reflectively.

“Why, man alive, it was by the squire’s own orders, without the slightest suggestion from anybody here!” laughed the curate.

“It was not like him. A more modest and unpretending gentleman I do not know anywhere in this world!” persisted Longman.

The curate repressed an inclination to utter a long, low whistle; but he did say to himself: “So much for the blindness of prejudice.”

“Oh! I have just thought of it! I will tell you why I think the triumphal entry was abandoned!” exclaimed Hetty.

“Why?” inquired her husband.

“Why, on account of the death of the rector.”

“Oh! to be sure! that was it; though it was a more gracious thought than I should have given the man credit for,” added Mr. Campbell.

At this moment Elspeth came in, smiling. She had been absent much longer than they had expected her to be; for she had not only prepared the little spare bedroom for her son, but she had washed up all her dishes and done all her usual evening work. She carried a lighted candle in a low, broad brass candlestick. She courtesied to the ladies and gentleman, as was her custom, and then she said to her boy:

“And now, Sam, the room the kind master has given you is all ready, and I will show it to you if you will come.”

And Longman arose, bade good-night to his hosts, and turned to leave the room, when Mr. Campbell said:

“But perhaps you would like to join us in our evening service.”

Longman bowed in silence, and resumed his seat.

“Yes,” said Elspeth brightly. “Every night and morning since I have been in this house has the minister prayed for my wandering boy’s return, and now that he has come we will give thanks.”

Jennie arose and got the Bible and prayer book and laid them before her father.

And the evening service began.

In the course of it Mr. Campbell did return “earnest and hearty thanks” for the restoration of the widow’s son, and prayed that all wanderers from the spiritual fold of the Lord might likewise be brought back.

When the service was over, Elspeth, after bidding good-night to her friends, took up her candle and showed her boy the way to his bedroom. And soon after the minister and his wife and daughter retired.

The next day was one of those benign autumn days that sometimes revisit us even late in December, to encourage and help us through the winter. The sky was radiantly clear and the sun dazzlingly bright. The many evergreen trees around the parsonage had something like the fresh verdure of early spring upon them. It was a day that any healthy person might have enjoyed the outdoor air without much extra clothing.

After breakfast Longman went over to the Hall to see his friends.

Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, standing together at the door, watched him walking down the walled road that led to the park gates.

“It is astonishing,” said the curate, “that so honest a man as Longman should have such a respect for that villain Montgomery as he appears to have.”

“I suppose the young fellow has never seen the villain’s cloven foot, and men have no intuitions to guide them as we have, you know,” replied Hetty.

And then, though the splendor of the day invited them to remain outdoors, they went inside, each to his or her own work.

The minister went to his study to work on his next Sunday morning’s sermon. Hetty to her linen closet to look over her stores for mending. Jennie, well wrapped up, to take her baby, also warmly clad, through the garden walks. Elspeth to her kitchen to wash up the breakfast service.

The minister, however, had scarcely got under way with his manuscripts before the doorbell rang, and he sprang up to answer it.

Prowt, the bailiff of Haymore, stood there.

“Could I speak to your reverence a moment, sir?” he inquired.

“Certainly. Come in,” replied Mr. Campbell, and led the visitor into the study.

“Well, minister,” said the bailiff, as soon as they were both seated at the writing-table near the window, “it has come at last. I have got a dispatch from the squire, announcing his immediate arrival with his bride and his brother-in-law, though not with the expected party of friends.”

The curate started, and then passed his hand across his forehead, as if to clear away a cloud of perplexity. Had not Longman told him that the squire and his lady had arrived the night before? And he could not have made a mistake, because he came with them, and left them at the Hall. And now the bailiff tells him that he has received a dispatch, announcing the immediate arrival of the squire and his party. What did all this mean? At length an explanation suggested itself, and he spoke upon it.

“Has not that dispatch been delayed? Should it not have come yesterday?” he inquired.

“Oh, no, sir! It was dated this morning, and came an hour ago!” exclaimed the bailiff.

“Have you got it about you? Would you mind letting me see it?”

“Here it is, sir.”

The bailiff drew the paper from his vest pocket and put it into the hands of the minister.

Mr. Campbell opened it and read:

“LANGHAM’S HOTEL, LONDON,
“December 15, 18—.

“TO MR. JOHN PROWT, Haymore Lodge, Haymore, Yorkshire: I shall arrive
with my wife and brother-in-law, the Rev. Cassius Leegh, by the
one-thirty train, at Chuxton. Send one comfortable carriage to meet
us.

“RANDOLPH H. HAY.”

Mr. Campbell returned the slip of paper to the bailiff and fell into silence. He could make nothing of it. He was dumfounded.

“So you see it is all right, sir,” said the bailiff. “I shall send the open barouche, as the day is so fine, and with two footmen, besides the coachman. I suppose they will enter this town about half-past two o’clock.”

“Well,” said the dazed curate, “what do you wish me to do?”

“If you would give orders to the bell ringers, sir, to be at their post, and also have the parish school children drawn up each side the road leading to the park gate——”

“It is rather an unfavorable season—December—for children to be parading outdoors,” suggested the minister.

“Of course, sir, the kids can’t wear the white frocks and pink sashes and wreaths of flowers on their bare heads, as they could have done three months ago; but they can wear their picturesque winter uniform of red cloaks and hoods, and black woolen stockings and gloves; and as the weather is so remarkably fine, and the hour just after noon, in the warmest part of the day, I do not think the exposure will hurt them. Do you?”

“N-oo! I do not suppose it will.”

“Then will you kindly see to it, sir, that they are drawn up in proper array, to sing their songs of welcome and throw their flowers before the bridal pair?”

“Where will they get flowers at this season of the year?”

“Oh!—a—from the conservatories of the Hall, if from no other place. I will see that they are sent over to the schoolroom. I think, also, that many of the cottagers have a few late flowers in their gardens, such as chrysanthemums and dahlias and——”

“And do you think, Mr. Prowt, that because a newly married pair happens to be happy and prosperous, that living and blooming flowers should be torn from their warm conservatories and sunny gardens, to be thrown down in the dirt to perish under carriage wheels, in their honor? I don’t.”

“Why, minister, I never heard of such an objection!” said the astonished bailiff.

“Well, you hear it now. And it might be well for you to think of it. The custom is a barbarous one, suitable only to prehistoric savages.”

The bailiff stared.

“And now, Mr. Prowt, I wish to say this to you—with the kindest feelings toward yourself, and with sincere regret that I must disappoint you—that I cannot and will not allow the church bells to be rung, or the parish children to parade, or any single movement to be made in honor of this incoming bridal pair which it is in my power to prevent,” said the minister, all the more firmly because so quietly.

The bailiff stared in silence, too astonished to speak for a minute. Then he demanded:

“But why, in the name of Heaven, reverend sir, would you put such an affront upon the new squire and his bride?”

“I put no affront upon them. I simply decline to show them any honor whatever, or to allow any one under my authority to do so,” emphatically responded the minister.

“But this is most amazing, sir. Why, if you please, do you refuse to honor them?”

“Because I cannot and must not.”

“Yet, about three months ago, when there was first a talk of the new squire bringing home his bride, there was no one more interested than yourself.”

“That is true. But since that date circumstances have come to my knowledge that have changed all my views, and must change all my actions, toward the incoming squire and his—lady; circumstances that quite justify me in my present course of conduct.”

“May I ask your reverence what those circumstances are?”

“Not yet, Prowt. I cannot tell you. To-morrow or next day the whole parish may know.”

“Well, I am perplexed. But, reverend sir, I must at least do my duty, and go over to the Hall to give directions there for the proper reception of the new squire, and send the carriage and servants to meet them. It is nine o’clock now, and they really ought to be off. I hope you do not blame me, sir, for doing my part.”

“Certainly not. You must do your duty by your employer,” said Mr. Campbell kindly.

“Good-morning, sir,” said the bailiff, taking up his hat to go.

“Good-day, Mr. Prowt,” replied the minister.

Even when the visitor was gone and the curate was alone he could not return to his manuscript sermon. It was impossible to concentrate his thoughts on the subject.

“Ah, well,” he said at last, “I shall have to take out one of my old Medge sermons for Sunday morning. It will be new to these parishioners at least.” And then he closed his desk, sat back in his armchair and gave himself up to the problem that was disturbing his mind.

The dispatch from the squire lay on the table before him.

The bailiff had inadvertently left it behind him.

Mr. Campbell took it up, again read it carefully, and again passed his hand slowly over his forehead to clear away the thick cloud of confusion.

The situation seemed inexplicable.

There was no doubt that this dispatch, dated this morning, signed Randolph Hay, and announcing the arrival of the squire and of his wife and brother-in-law on this day, was a perfectly genuine article and a very hard fact.

There was no doubt, either, that another Randolph Hay, with his wife and friends, had arrived at Haymore Hall in company with the indubitable traveling companion and eyewitness who had reported the fact to the minister’s family.

Now what on earth did it all mean?

One Squire of Haymore and his wife at Haymore Hall, and another Squire of Haymore and his—lady on their way there!

Would the two parties meet to-day, and if so, what then?

The only possible theory of the situation, as it presented itself to the minister’s mind, was this, upon which he finally settled—that the Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay who had arrived on the preceding evening and were now at the Hall were the real lord and lady of the manor, and that the so-called Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay who were expected to arrive to-day were the fraudulent claimants whom he had taken them to be.

He had not breathed a syllable of the first arrival to the bailiff, preferring to keep the matter to himself until he should see Samson Longman, who had walked over that morning to Haymore Hall, but would return to the rectory by midday.

But the backwoodsman came in a little sooner than he had been expected. He came at once to the study door and rapped.

Mr. Campbell bade him enter.

Longman’s face was radiant with merriment, and in his hand he carried a letter, which he fondled playfully.

“Well, Longman, you have been to see your friends at the Hall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please sit down and tell me all about it.”

Longman settled himself in the largest leather chair, put his fur cap down on the floor beside him and fondled his letter.

“You found the young squire and his wife quite well after their journey?”

“Quite well, sir. And also very much delighted with their new home, which they saw for the first time by daylight this morning.”

“Longman, you are sparkling all over with repressed amusement. What is the matter with you?”

“Anticipation of an entertainment at the Hall to-day, sir.”

“I think I understand. Do your friends know that there is another Mr. Randolph Hay and his—lady expected at the Hall to-day?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” exclaimed the giant, now bursting into a storm of laughter, which had to have its full vent before he could go on with his words. “Yes, sir. The bailiff came there an hour ago, full of importance, to announce the fact. He was somewhat amazed to find the young squire and his wife already in possession. But they are quite ready for the reception of the newcomers, sir, and that is the entertainment I anticipate. Here, sir, is a letter the young squire has intrusted to me to hand you.”

The minister took the missive, broke the seal and read:

“HAYMORE HALL, December 15, 18—.

“TO THE REV. JAMES CAMPBELL, Reverend and Dear Sir: Although I have
not the honor of your personal acquaintance, yet I have heard enough
of you to engage my sympathies and compel my respect. Therefore, I
hope that you will forgive me for asking you to do me the favor to
come this evening to the Hall to discuss with me the subject of the
living of Haymore, which it is my privilege and pleasure to offer you,
in the hope that you may do me the honor to accept it. May I presume,
also, to ask you to waive ceremony, and bring your wife and daughter
with you on this occasion? I have a special reason for this request,
which, when you shall have heard from me, you will find to be
perfectly satisfactory.

“I have the honor to be, reverend sir,

“Very respectfully yours, RANDOLPH HAY.”

The curate rushed out of the study and into the room where his wife sat sewing in an avalanche of infirm linen and exclaimed:

“Hetty, we need never leave the rectory! I have got the Haymore living! Read that, and thank the Lord!”