Chapter XVIII: At Haymore Hall

The whole party were up in the double darkness of a London winter morning before sunrise. They dressed and breakfasted by gaslight, and then entered a large carriage and drove to Euston Square Railway Station, where they were met by Mike, Dandy and Longman.

“Had you not better telegraph to your housekeeper before we start to let her know that we shall certainly be at Haymore to-night so that there may be no mistake, and she will be sure to have beds aired, fires built and dinner ready for us when we get there?” suggested Mr. Walling, who was always directly on the lookout for his own personal comforts, and, incidentally, for those of others.

Ran immediately acted on the suggestion, saying, when he rejoined his friends after sending the dispatch:

“She will think the message comes from the other fellow in Paris and that he is in London on his way to Haymore.”

“She will think, or rather she will see, that the telegram comes from Mr. Randolph Hay, and that will be enough,” replied Mr. Walling.

“When the other fellow comes on the fifteenth with his friends and finds us in possession——Well! I can’t help anticipating a rink, a circus, a hippodrome, a spectacular drama, an earthquake, a conflagration and the day of judgment all rolled into one!” said Randolph, with a laugh.

“And there will be nothing of the sort. Only at most a panic and a total rout. Come, we must take our seats,” exclaimed Will Walling, as he led the way to the waiting train, where a guide showed them into the middle compartment of a first-class carriage.

Mike, Dandy and Longman had taken tickets for the second class.

“Now is it not too bad that Ran cannot get our friends in here with us, Mr. Walling?” demanded Judy, as she settled herself in the luxurious corner front seat of their compartment and noticed that there were just six seats.

“My dear Judy,” muttered Ran, “your brother and his companions are able to take these three vacant seats with us if they please, but for prudential and very praiseworthy reasons they choose to economize and take the second class. I could not offer them a worse offense than invite them to take these seats at my expense.”

“Well, I do think there is a great deal of false pride in the world,” Judy pouted.

“So there is, darling; but we cannot cure it.”

“It is a wonder their high mightinesses consent to go with you to Haymore and be your guests there.”

“That is a different affair.”

“I don’t see that it is.”

“But they do,” laughed Ran.

The train started, and the conversation dropped.

It was still in the darkness before day that they left the station and sped off into the open country, where the world was scarcely beginning to wake up. In London the world seems never to go to sleep.

Our three travelers had had but little rest in the last twenty-four hours; and so, between the darkness of the hour, the motion of the train and their own weariness, they dozed off into dreamland, where they lingered some hours, until they were called back by the sudden stopping of the train, for an instant only, for before they were fully awake it was off again, flying northward as if pursued by the furies.

Judy shook herself up and looked out of the window on her right hand to see the eastern horizon red with the coming of the wintry sun above the moorland.

At noon they reached Liverpool, where they left their seats, got lunch and then changed their train for the Great Northern for York.

Late in the afternoon they entered the great cathedral city, where again they left their seats, took tea and a little later took train for Chuxton.

It was nearly sunset when they came to the end of their railway journey at the little market town.

There was no carriage waiting to take them to Haymore.

And then it occurred to Ran for the first time that by some strange oversight no carriage had been ordered by him or his attorney to come from the Hall to meet them at the station.

There were several vehicles around the place, but all seemed to be engaged by other parties.

Our friends walked together to the Tawny Lion Tavern, where Ran ordered refreshment and inquired for a conveyance to Haymore.

The Tawny Lion boasted but one—a large carryall drawn by two stout horses—but that was then engaged, and would not be available to our travelers for perhaps two hours.

These were passed by Ran and Judy, after they had finished their meal, in sauntering about the quaint, old-fashioned town and making acquaintance with its streets and houses.

“Here’s where we shall have to come to do our country shopping, you know, darling,” said Ran; “for I have been told that there is but one general shop at Haymore, where, though they keep everything to sell, from a second-hand pulpit to a soup dish, you can get nothing very good.”

“But I shall encourage the home trade, and deal at Haymore all the same,” replied Judy.

Meanwhile Mr. Will Walling spent his time of waiting over the fire in the inn parlor, with a bottle of port wine and a stack of cigars on the table beside him.

And Longman, accompanied by his shadows, Dandy and Mike, walked out in the direction of the Old Heath Farm to make inquiries about his mother, and, naturally, the nearer he came to the scene of his boyhood’s home the keener and the more intense became his anxiety. It had never seemed to him that his buxom, healthy, hearty mother could have sickened and died; nor had it seemed more than, barely possible that she might have married again. He rather hoped to find her where he had left her five years before, living on the farm. Still, as he turned from the Chuxton highroad and went into a narrow lane, overhung by the branches of the leafless trees that grew on each side the path leading to the farmhouse, all the dread possibilities of life seemed to threaten him ahead. He could not now speak of his feelings. He hurried on. The giant was as weak as a child when he passed through the farm yard and went up to the house. A man was approaching from another direction.

Longman leaned against the side of the house for support as he faltered forth a question.

“Eh?” demanded the farmer, looking fixedly at the stranger, as if he suspected him of being top heavy through too much drink. “Is it the Widow Longman ye’re asking about? No, she dun not bide here now. She hasn’t been here for these five years past.”

Another faint, almost inaudible question from the weak giant, which the farmer had to bend his quick, sharp ear to hear at all.

“Is she living, do you arsk? Oh, ay, she’s living good enough. She’s keeping house for the parson at the rectory, Haymore, about ten miles to the norrard of this.”

“I thank the Lord!” ejaculated Longman, lifting his cap, almost overcome by the sudden collapse of highly strung nerves.

“See here, my man, what’s the matter with you? You look to be used up! I thought it was drink when I first saw you. But now I see it isn’t. You look to be faint for want of drink, not heavy from too much of it. Come in now and take a mug o’ beer, home brewed. ’Twill do ye good,” urged the farmer.

“No, thank you. No, really. You are very kind, but I must get on,” said Longman, rising, and now that his tension of anxiety was relieved, gaining life with every breath he drew.

“I wouldn’t wonder now if you was that son o’ hern who went to sea long years ago and never was heerd on since?” said the farmer, calling after him.

“Yes, I am her son, and I am going to Haymore now to find her. Thank you, and good-day to you,” said Longman.

“I’m dogged glad on it! One widdy’s heart will sing for joy this night, anyhow! Well, good-day, and good luck to you, my lad!” were the last words of the kind-hearted farmer.

When Longman rejoined his two friends, who he had left waiting for him at the farm gate, his happy face told the “glad tidings” before his tongue could speak them.

“Hooray! It’s good news ye’re afther hearing!” cried Mike, throwing up his cap and catching it.

“Yes, I thank the Lord!” replied Longman reverently.

And then, as they walked down the lane and out upon the highroad leading to Chuxton, Longman told them all that he had heard from the farmer.

“So she’s housekeeper at the rectory itself! That’s where your niece, Miss Julia, will be at service, Mr. Quin!” exclaimed Mike; “that is, if she’s not married,” he added.

“Or dead, poor wench!” sighed old Dandy.

“Oh, bother that! Nobody’s dead, or going to die just yet, is there, Samson, man?”

“I hope not, Mike.”

“Anyways, we shall hear when we get to Haymore. Yes, that is so,” said Dandy, with an air of resignation.

He was not nearly so anxious to hear from his niece as Longman had been to get news of his mother. He did not, indeed, care much about her now, whatever he might come to care after he should have renewed his acquaintance with her.

When they reached Chuxton and turned into the street leading to the “Tawny Lion,” they saw the huge carryall drawn up before the door, with a crowd of idlers, mostly boys, gathered around it to see it start.

Longman and his companions went into the parlor, where they found the Hays and Will Walling waiting for them.

“Why have you stayed for us, Mr. Hay? This is really too kind!” said Longman.

“Kind to myself, friend! I did not want to go without you. Even if I had, Judy would not have allowed it. I see by your face that you have good news of your mother. I congratulate you,” said Ran, offering his hand.

“Yes, sir, thank Heaven!” replied the hunter. And then in a few words, as they walked to the carryall, he told all he heard at the farm.

“That is splendid!” exclaimed Judy with enthusiasm, as she was lifted into the carryall by Ran and placed in the sheltered back seat.

“Dandy must sit back there with you, darling. He is old, and then the drive over the moor will be a very cold one. You won’t mind it, will you, Judy?” he inquired, as he settled her among the cushions and tucked her fur cloak well around her feet.

“Why, no, of course not. Especially if you will sit right in front of me so I can lean my head forward on your shoulder sometimes,” Judy replied.

Then Ran helped Dandy in and made him sit by Judy. The others followed.

Ran and Will Walling sat immediately in front of Judy and Dandy.

Mike and Longman on the third seat forward. The driver, a stout Yorkshireman, on the box.

The strong draught horses started at a moderate pace, such as might well be kept up during the whole journey across the moor.

It was a dark, cold night, and the two glass lanterns, fixtures, on each side above the driver’s seat, did little better than make “darkness visible.” But the road was as safe as a road by night could be, and the horses knew it as well as they knew the way to their own cribs.

Two hours of jog trot, safe and steady driving brought them to a great mass of dense shadows, like black mountains and forests against a dark gray northern sky.

The driver drew up his horses before this mystery and announced that they had reached the great wall of Haymore Park.

“How far from the lodge gates?” inquired Ran.

“About half a mile, sir.”

“Drive on then.”

“If you please, Mr. Hay, I would like to leave the carryall at the point nearest Haymore hamlet and rectory,” said Longman.

“Of course! Of course! Naturally you must hasten first of all to your dear mother. But remember, friend, you are my guest at the Hall, and bring your mother also if you can persuade her to come,” heartily responded Ran.

“Yes, do, Mr. Longman. And I will go to see your mother just as soon as ever I can,” warmly added Judy.

“I thank you both very much,” replied Longman, but he gave no promise.

“Remember, Longman, that you saved my life. But for you—under the Divine Providence,” said Ran, reverently lifting his hat, “I should not be here now.”

“No, nor I, either, for that matter,” added Judy.

“We both owe you a debt that we can never repay, Longman,” said Ran, with emotion.

“Never, except in love and gratitude. And we would like to put ‘a body’ in our sentiments to make them ‘felt,’ Mr. Longman. You will come and stay with us at the house, will you not?” pleaded Judy.

“You make too much of my service, a service that any man worthy of the name would have done for any other. I do not know what my plain old mother would say to you.”

“I am plain myself,” said Judy; “a child of the people. Less than that, for I never knew father or mother—a child of the planet only! My only worth is being the wife of my dear Ran here!”

“Yes, madam, you are the wife of Mr. Randolph Hay, of Haymore. You are the lady of the manor. And in this country a social abyss divides you and yours from me and mine as deep, as impassable as that ‘great gulf’ that lay between Dives and Lazarus,” said Longman solemnly.

“It is not so! It shall not be so! I will not have it! Nothing but the will of Heaven shall divide us from our dear friends!” said Judy passionately.

“No!” added Ran with earnest emphasis. “No social gulf shall separate us, Longman, dear old boy!”

“Here we be at the lodge gates, sir. And this is the nearest point we pass to the rectory. We turn in here to go by the elm avenue up to the Hall. And the road continues right straight on under the park wall up to the rectory and the church, which is on the other side of the road,” the driver explained, drawing up.

“Well, Longman, I should like you to go on to the house and dine with us, but I know it would be wrong to ask you,” said Ran, as the hunter got up to leave the carryall.

“I will see you early in the morning, sir,” said the giant. And then he shook hands all around, jumped from the carryall and strode on up the road to the rectory on that visit to his mother which we have already described.

A woman came out of the porter’s lodge on the right-hand side, swung open both broad leaves of the gate and stood courtesying as the carryall rolled through.

“The old porter’s daughter—a worthy dame,” said the driver, in answer to a question from Ran.

The carriage rolled on through an avenue shaded by great oaks, whose branches, however, were now bare. In the turns of this drive they caught glimpses of the house through the trees, with lights sparkling here and there from the many windows into the darkness.

After several sweeping turns the avenue passed in front of the house, and the carriage drew up before a huge, oblong gray building, with turrets at each corner, bay windows on the first floor and balconies above.

As the carriage stopped the hall door was flung wide, and several men and women servants appeared in the lighted hall.

The butler stood in the door. Two footmen came down the steps to attend their master and mistress.

Ran lifted Judy from the carriage, whispering:

“Welcome home, my darling,” and led her up the steps and into the hall, followed by his friends.

The butler, with a low bow, made way for them to pass.

The housekeeper, a very aged woman, dressed in a brown satin gown and a lace cap, came forward to meet them.

“Welcome home, sir and madam. We have waited for you long, and greet you gladly,” she said in a tone of exaggerated reverence and with a deep courtesy.

Ran held out his frank hand, and Judy said:

“Thank you, Mrs.—Mrs.——”

“Basset, madam, and been in the family all my life, as mother and father were before me. Your old butler, sir, is my son, getting older every day, but not yet past service, either of us, I thank Heaven. Will you go to your room now, madam?”

“Yes, if you please,” said Judy. “I would like to take off my bonnet and cloak.”

Mrs. Basset looked all around, and then said:

“I do not think that your maid has come in yet. Shall I send one of the men out to hurry her? I suppose she is busy with the parcels in the carriage.”

“I—I—I—have no maid—yet,” replied Judy, blushing deeply, for she was rather afraid of this fine ruin of an old-time housekeeper, even though the aged woman was evidently falling a little into her second childhood.

“Oh, I see! I beg your pardon, ma’am. You will be waiting to take some good girl from the estate. That has been the way with the ladies of Hay from time immemorial.” She paused suddenly in her babble and looked fixedly, though still very respectfully, at Mr. Hay.

Now Ran was just a little sensitive about his personal appearance. He was not a handsome, soldierly blond, but a beautiful, dark brunette; graceful as a leopard, sinuous as a serpent. He was in the habit of humorously stigmatizing himself as “a little nigger.” So when the aged housekeeper regarded him with her wistful gaze, he thought she was saying to herself, how little like he was to any of the Hays. He laughed a little and said:

“You do not find much resemblance in me to my tall and fair forefathers, Mrs. Basset.”

“Sir,” she replied solemnly, “you are the living image of your honored grandmother.

The young man burst out laughing, and was joined by Mike and Judy.

But their mirth ceased as the aged housekeeper added:

“She died at twenty-three years old. She was the best, the brightest and the most beautiful being that my eyes ever beheld! And, yes, she died at twenty-three years old! And you are her living image, as nearly as it is possible for a gentleman to be. That was the reason why I looked at you so, sir. I beg your pardon; I forgot myself.”

“Don’t speak of it, Mrs. Basset,” said Ran kindly.

“Thank you, sir. You can see the portrait in the picture gallery to-morrow and judge for yourself—or even to-night if you will,” said the housekeeper.

“Thank you; not to-night; we are too tired. To-morrow you shall show us over the whole house, if you will.”

“That I will with pride and pleasure, sir. And now, madam, shall I attend you to your room?”

“Thank you, yes, please,” said Judy; and she followed her conductress up the broad staircase to a vast upper hall.

The housekeeper opened a door near the head of the stairs and admitted her charge into a spacious, sumptuous bedchamber, upholstered in ebony and old gold, and in which burned a fine open coal fire.

The aged woman, much against Judy’s will, insisted upon waiting upon her; took off her heavy cloak and hat and hung them in the wardrobe, drew a luxurious easy-chair to the fire and seated her in it, and hovered around her with affectionate attentions until Mr. Hay came in, when, with one of her quaint courtesies, she withdrew from the room.

Again Ran took Judy in his arms, folded her to his heart, kissed her fondly and welcomed her home.

“And to-morrow, my darling, we shall have to prepare to welcome Gentleman Geff and his—lady. I shall send in the morning for Mr. Campbell and his daughter, that the villain may be confronted with his wronged wife, as well as his betrayed friend,” said Ran, as he gave his arm to Judy to take her down to the dining-room, where dinner waited.