Chapter XXV: High and Low Beech

THE families at High and Low Beech continued to prosper, after a fashion; that is to say, they worked hard, lived frugally for the most part, and made some money.

Matthew Wilson was an old man now. He was not young when we first made his acquaintance, and add twenty years or more to fifty and a little over, and we arrive at the threescore and ten, or going on for fourscore, in which not much remains of the human life.

Not that Matthew thought much of this. He was strong and hearty, he said. His teeth were sound, some of them at any rate; and he could stump about his farm as well, pretty near, as he had done any time in the last ten years. He was not made of such stuff as the young people of modern days; he was born before nerves came in fashion; he hadn't given in to bad habits like some—not he. He didn't go to public-houses as his brother Mark had done; and he didn't go about with a dirty pipe in his mouth all day long, as some others did that he could name, but he wouldn't. And about that nasty tobacco, it was his opinion that it was taking all the manliness out of people nowadays. Look at horses, they never smoked; the same with cows and sheep; and even hogs, though they did sometimes run about with straws in their mouths—but that was only when rough weather was coming—they didn't set a light to the ends and smoke them. They were a deal too knowing for that.

All this, or something very much like it, and a great deal more of the same sort, Matthew Wilson was in the habit of gravely going over with any old crony whom he could get to listen to him. And lacking this, he could propound it at his own fireside on a winter's evening, his wife and his daughter being now his principal listeners there.

For his sons had, years before, all flitted from under the parental roof-tree. George, the next oldest to Walter, was, as our readers may remember, married some twenty years before, and had settled on poor Mark's late holding at High Beech. There he still remained, with a large family growing up around him; but holding no intercourse (or very little, and that not of the pleasantest complexion) with his father and other members of his family. The truth is, George was charged, with how much or how little truth it does not concern us to know, with having, in some family dealings, been too sharp by half.

Now, Matthew liked sharpness well enough in general, and was always sufficiently disposed to sneer at and run down any one who, in his opinion, was deficient in that admirable qualification for getting on in the world, according to his view. But it is one thing to admire sharpness when practised on Number Two, and quite another thing to approve of it when it is brought home to Number One. And so, having been outwitted, as he imagined, by his son George, Matthew Wilson was too much in the habit of pouring out vials of wrath when the occupant of High Beech was mentioned.

"Brother Mark was bad enough," said the old farmer; "and I lost a good five hundred by him; but I don't know if George isn't the worse of the two—and he, my own boy."

Now, I am not at all sure that Matthew had any real ground of complaint against his "own boy." At the best of times, perhaps, the old farmer had been an avaricious man; and it is notorious that the vice of avarice grows as age advances. No doubt it is true that as we brought nothing with us into the world, so it is certain we can carry nothing out of it. But there is as little doubt that we (not you and I, reader, who don't love money at all, but I at this present moment identify myself with those who do) like to retain our hold of what we have got as long as we can, and to increase it if it lies in our power. So, I daresay, Matthew Wilson was altogether under a mistake concerning George's too great sharpness. Nevertheless, George lay under the stigma.

As to Alfred and James, they had stuck to the farming, as they had always said they would do; and had managed by this time to have farms of their own—wives and children also, no doubt. But as our history has not hitherto concerned itself about these scions of the Wilson stock, we may take short notice of them here.

The mother of these young men plodded on by her husband's side on the down-hill of life, not altogether without her troubles and vexations. Among these minor miseries of human existence was the completest conviction, amounting to certainty, that servant girls were good-for-nothing, that education had ruined them out and out, that all the learning people of that sort needed to be taught, if it didn't come by nature, was to know how to wash, and brew, and bake, and scour and scrub, and milk cows, and churn, and so forth from morning to night. If they wanted anything else by way of recreation, hadn't they got their clothes to mend and their stockings to darn? If they wanted any teaching of another sort, they could go to church on Sundays, when their mistresses could spare them, and get it there. As to their sitting down, Sundays or work-a-days, with a book in their hands, as they were let to do in some houses (not in hers, she was thankful to say), she hadn't patience with it. But she knew what would come of it: mistresses would soon be maids, and maids mistresses. She only hoped the world would last out her time.

I should explain that this somewhat violent philippic was called forth on one particular occasion, when a Sunday school was started in the village by the successor of our venerable friend Mr. Rubric. For this worthy gentleman (who was aged when we first made his acquaintance) had departed this life some three or four years before the time in our history at which we have arrived. Another had entered on the scene of his labours, a younger man, and with a good many whims (I am using Mrs. Matthews expression, "a good many whims") in his brain, among which was the very old one that "for the soul to be without knowledge is not good."

Now, Mr. Rubric had held the same opinion, and had taught the people sound doctrine in his weekly ministration and his frequent visitations; and also in his careful supervision of the village national school, but he had not ventured so far as to "set up a Sunday school." (Mrs. Matthew's phrase again, not mine.) And this was going so far in advance of that good lady's ideas that she could not, at first, restrain her indignation. Mr. Newcome was, no doubt, a good man in his way—he could not be otherwise, seeing he was in the Church—and he preached good sermons, no doubt, if folks could only understand them. But, for all that, give her back her dear old Mr. Rubric. Ah! There were no parsons like the old ones that were dying out, stock and branch. She didn't know whether the railroads that there was such a talk about had anything to do with it. She should not wonder if they had; and if they had, it was no more than was to be expected; and it was all the worse for them. They had enough to answer for—taking away people's lives, as they were said to do—without having that!

Another sign of the degeneracy of the times, according to Mrs. Matthew, was that the cows didn't yield so much milk by half as they used to do; and that the milk, little as it was, did not produce so much cream; and that the cream didn't make such butter as when she was young. Moreover, the best sorts of potatoes were dying out, and the potato disease was coming in, which was a sign the world was in, or approaching unto, its last stage of decrepitude (not Mrs. Matthew's expression); and all she could hope was that it would last her time.

Now, all these fancies were harmless enough, though rather tiresome, perhaps, in their re-re-reiteration. And if Mrs. Matthews had remembered a certain piece of advice given in an old book about not saying that the former days were better than the present, she might have modified her views. But she did not remember this, and as it probably afforded the good old lady some satisfaction to dwell upon these imaginary grievances, I do not know that you and I, friend, need find fault with her.

We shall be old some day, if we live long enough; and then, perhaps, other story-tellers, now in their cradles, will be saying the same things of us.

Mrs. Matthew's troubles already mentioned were, after all, theoretical, and I am inclined to think she did not half believe in them herself. There was another nearer home which I shall only hint at, rather than dwell upon. Her daughter Elizabeth had become, more and more, a thorn in her side. Not that there was any positive unkindness of heart between the two, but there was much heart-burning at times. For one thing, the old farmer's wife had sometimes great difficulty in upholding her supreme authority at Low Beech, in all domestic affairs. And if it is true that two kings cannot sit upon the same throne, it is equally certain that a household does not get on at all times very amicably where there are two mistresses.

And so there were times when near approaches were made to disruption, for Elizabeth, as we have seen, was warm-tempered, and she declared, again and again, that she would go out to service, that she would, rather than be so put upon at home, and be looked upon as nothing and nobody. And though these passages of arms, or rather of tongue, ended in each party cooling down for the time, the burning discontent remained, ready to break out again on sufficient or insufficient occasion.

The truth, perhaps, is that the daughter's temper had not improved with her years, which my readers may reckon up with some approach to accuracy; and with the decrease of the hope which is said to have a place in every gentle bosom. Since the disappointment of that hope, of which I have told, no other admiring swain had ventured the offer of an arm in a country walk, or had breathed a sigh at the shrine of Elizabeth's beauty. Ah, well-a-day! And so the world goes round and round, and "that which hath been, is now; and that which is to be, hath already been."

There was one subject which, as I have already told, always produced discord at Low Beech Farm, when touched upon. And there was another so closely bordering upon it, that it had been almost dropped in conversation. This was the question, "What had become of Walter?" Eventually, it came to be generally concluded that Walter was dead, or something would have been heard of him. To this conclusion the old folks at Low Beech had settled down; and though the supposititious death of the first-born was felt by them as a kind of trouble, it was nevertheless borne with degree of composure which perhaps did not very much surprise those who were most intimately acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Wilson—or would not have done had they remembered that where the love of money is the supreme affection, all other natural feelings are inevitably deadened.

Of course it was very wrong in Walter not to write home in all the years of his growing prosperity in Australia. But he is not the first man, nor will he be the last, who, having, under either real or fancied grievances, hastily cut the tie which bound him to the family circle, has felt it a matter of selfish pride, or some other bad feeling, to widen the breach thus made by haughty and obstinate silence.

This, Walter had done; and now, in his sorrowful bereavement and personal affliction, he felt a strange reluctance to renew his intercourse with them.

"I daresay they think me to be dead, as I soon shall be," said he to Tincroft on the day after the conversation we have recorded in the last chapter; "and I don't know why I should disturb their thoughts."

But John wouldn't suffer the subject to drop. "You promised me you would write to them," said he, persuasively. "And I would, if I were you."

And though nothing came of it that day, nor the next, nor for many nexts, the perpetual dropping of Tincroft's soft words and hard arguments at length wore into the hard stone of his friend's unwillingness.

"I tell you what I have been thinking, Mr. Tincroft," said he, one day, as they were together. "I feel stronger now than I did, and instead of writing, I'll go and see father and the rest while I'm able; that will be better than writing."

"Perhaps it will," said John. "I am inclined to think that it only needs for you all to be brought together again to wipe out anything of the past unpleasant to think about. And writing might stir up these remembrances."

"But you must go with me, Mr. Tincroft."

"Yes, if you wish it," said John, hesitatingly. "But would it not be better if you and your daughter were to see them first of all alone? I would travel with you, of course, if you wish it."

"I shall not take Helen with me," said Wilson. "They mightn't take to her, or she mightn't take to them. No! If you will go and help me through with it, well and good. If not, it must drop."

"Oh, it mustn't drop," said John, cheerily.

It might be a week or more after this conversation that as the small family at Low Beech Farm were seated at their midday meal, in the large stone-floored kitchen, a single gentle, not to say timid, knock was heard at the outer door of the adjoining hall or passage.

"Go and see who it is, Martha," said the old farmer to the servant-of-all-work, who sat at the same table with her master and mistresses, and drank her portion from the same general pewter pot which served for all dinner purposes: "one of those travelling tinkers, I guess; I saw old Ripley about yesterday. They're none too honest, I think, and their room is better than their company."

While thus discharging himself of his grumble, Martha had opened the door, and before she had recovered her surprise, the two strangers whom she had admitted walked slowly by her, and softly entered the kitchen.

They were a singular and yet not ill-assorted pair. One of them was a gentleman—rather lean-visaged and pale in complexion, partially bald, and what hair he had, inclining to grey. There was a kindly, half-pitying, half-inquiring glance in his dark grey eyes—that is to say, if the eyes expressed what was then uppermost in his mind. He was well-dressed, though plainly, in black.

The other stranger, who, like him, had entered bare-headed, was leaning heavily on his friend's arm, for he was very feeble. His face was masked in a dark beard, which, however, did not altogether conceal the strong muscular working of his lips as he, more than once, vainly attempted to utter the word which would not come. His dress was warm, though of a rougher texture than that of his companion.

For one moment, the old farmer and his wife and daughter sat suddenly transfixed, as it seemed, with astonishment at the intrusion; and then a gleam of intelligence lighted up Matthew's countenance.

"Mr. Tincroft, if I am not mistaken?" said he, without any great emotion.

It needed only this to convey quick intelligence to the mother's bewildered thoughts. The transition from Tincroft to Sarah and from Sarah to Walter was natural enough, no doubt.

"And 'tis Walter come back again!" she cried, shrilly, as she hastily rose, to be saved from falling only by the intervention of Elizabeth's stout arm.

"'Tis Walter, sure enough!" said the old farmer.

And there was a grasping of hands and a general embracing, for the over-surprised and startled mother soon returned to her normal condition.

"And where in the world have you been all these years, Walter?" demanded Matthew, when the confusion had a little subsided.

"And why haven't you written home all this time, my boy?" said Mrs. Matthew, plaintively.

"And how ill you look, Walter," said softened Elizabeth; "and you are ill, too, aren't you?"

"I'll tell you all about it, father, mother, sister," said Walter, feebly, "if you will give me a moment to rest in."

"And a chair," thought John, placing one in position. And then he added, inwardly, "I think I am not wanted here any longer. Walter will settle down more comfortably without my help. And though these family transports are very touching to all concerned, they are carried on better, I daresay, in the absence of outsiders."

And so, with commendable consideration, Tincroft quietly withdrew himself from the kitchen at Low Beech. We shall imitate his example, and accompany him on his way to the Manor House, where he felt sure of a hospitable welcome from Mr. Richard Grigson, in the character of an uninvited guest.

For he and Walter, without giving notice of their intention, had travelled straight from Tincroft House to London by the Trotbury coach; and thence on and on by the old Tally-ho, not yet discarded, though the railway era had commenced, till they reached the little town where, so many years ago, John had alighted from the same public conveyance to make his first entrance on enchanted ground.

In the best inn's best room they had rested awhile and refreshed themselves after the fatigues of the journey, and then had taken a post-chaise to convey them to their destination. This last mentioned time-honoured vehicle was now deposited in the stable-yard of the White Hart, formerly so well-known to, and acquainted with, poor Mark Wilson; while its pair of hacks were munching corn in the stable, and the yellow jacketed, many-buttoned, and jack-booted postillion was partaking of creature comforts in the taproom, and awaiting further orders.

For John had had forethought enough to retain for Walter and himself a way of retreat, supposing the doors both of Low Beech and the Manor House should be respectively closed against them.

"I have no doubt Mr. Richard will make me welcome, though, for an hour or two, at all events," thought John, as he stole away; "and then I'll come back and see what else is to be done."

Revolving these thoughts in his mind, John walked on, not sorry, perhaps, to find himself alone amid the scenes which, so many years before, were pregnant with such important consequences to himself, and not to himself alone. He could think of these things calmly now—more calmly, and thankfully too, perhaps, than he could have thought them over, say a year ago.

For, after all, his infatuation and folly of that back-dated period had been so overruled as to have turned out—well, to say the least of it—better than might have been expected, and much better than he had deserved.

He himself had not been unhappy in his married life—in any part of it, except when, now and then, it had occurred to him that poor Sarah would have done better in many another position than that of mistress of Tincroft House. But now this feeling was removed. It had taken a long time to do; but he had hoped on and hoped ever, and he had won his wife's love at last; not her respect and reverence, for these he had always had, but her right down, real hearty affection. He was as sure of this now as he was of his own existence. And with this new-found affection had come such a brightening up of the whole moral atmosphere surrounding his married life that he could afford to smile at the folly of his young days at High Beech Farm and thereanent. And oh, how thankful he felt—how increasingly thankful—for his determination then, that though he had played the fool, he would not act the knave!

He could think calmly, and quietly too, of those past scenes of his history, even so far as his friend (friend now, but once self-constituted rival) Walter Wilson was concerned. For he had had more than one long and confidential conference with Walter respecting those past passages in their several histories which had led to such important results.

And the full persuasion on the minds of both, was that Walter had been happier in his whole life than he might have been, had the course of his first love run ever so smoothly. He had, at any rate, prospered in the world, though to what extent John was ignorant; he had lived the kind of life that best suited him; and he had been happy in a marriage union which had also and above all, as John hoped, introduced him to a higher and more enduring happiness than anything on earth can impart. True, he had suffered bereavement, but this was a contingency from which no condition in life is exempt; and he had come home in ill-health, perhaps to die; but John did not think this event was near at hand, because he was determined not to believe it.

"Doctors are as often wrong as right," quoth he to himself, "and there is life and health and comfort in store for Walter Wilson yet. He has picked up famously since he has been in England, and we shall bring him round again, no fear, God helping us," said he, joyfully.

And so John Tincroft went on weaving his fancies so industriously that he lost himself in his reveries, till, without knowing it, he instinctively entered the precincts of the Manor House, and was approaching its hospitable doors.

Then, all at once, a loud joyous shout of surprise rang in his ears; and before he had quite recovered his senses, he found himself clapped on the shoulder, hugged by the arm, and otherwise pleasantly assaulted, not by Richard Grigson but by his old friend Tom; while close by there stood young Tom also, with whom John had made some acquaintance on one of those flying visits to Tincroft House of which I have spoken in a previous chapter.

"Why, Tom, my dear friend, who would have thought of finding you here?" gasped John, when a hand-shaking all round had been performed.

"Well, there's nothing wonderful in that, is there?" said the senior Tom, laughing. "Nothing strange in my liking to see the old place now and then, eh? Dick and I have not quarrelled, have we?"

"No, no, of course not. But for all that, it is an unexpected pleasure to meet you when I should have thought you were two hundred miles away, on the banks of the Thames."

"Where you never came to find me at home," put in Tom.

"And don't you think it is quite as unexpected a pleasure to me—and Dick too—to meet you here, when we might have thought you to be three hundred miles away? You see, the odds were against your being here, after all," added Tom Grigson. "But how I came here is easily explained. I got hipped and fagged with business, and young Tom here wanted a run, he thought, and so we have been quartering ourselves on Dick for a week or two, leaving Kate and the girls to keep house while we are away."

"But room enough for you, and half-a-dozen more like you, if they could be found, John," added Richard Grigson, once more clapping Tincroft on the shoulder. "And you are come to stay with me, of course—a month at least. But why didn't you bring Mrs. Tincroft with you? And where's your luggage? But never mind; we'll talk all about that when we get indoors; and Tom, young rascal, you run in and tell Mrs. Harris—(my old housekeeper is dead, but I have got another, pretty nearly as old, and almost as good as she was when you knew her, Tincroft)—" this by way of parenthesis—"tell her, Tom, to get lunch out at once; for here's a poor half-starved loon come to eat us out of house and home."

And so exit young Tom.

"And now that young fellow is gone," continued Mr. Richard, in another tone, "tell us all about it, dear friend—that is, if speaking will relieve you. What is the matter? For I am afraid there is something on your mind; you look so serious."

"Do I?" said John, smiling. "Then my looks are false witnesses, if you mean by something on my mind, something unpleasant. For the truth is, my errand here is rather pleasant than otherwise."

And then he went on to tell, what I have already told, about Walter's return to England, and of his having been persuaded by him (John) and Walter's cousin to pay a visit of reconciliation to his old home.

"And I have just left him at Low Beech," continued Tincroft. "I thought it best to leave them when the ground was cleared. And, to tell the truth, I thought perhaps you would take me in for a night or two, Mr. Richard."

"A night or two! Ay, a month or two, if that's all. But you tell us strange news. And you have kept it all to yourself, all this while."

"I should have written," said John, "but Walter didn't want it known that he had come back till he had made up his mind what to do. So I couldn't very well write without making a secret of it, which I didn't care to do."

"Ah well, that's all right. And now the first thing that you have to do is to go in and make yourself comfortable. And the next will be to send down to the White Hart and get your luggage up here—"

"There's only a carpet-bag of mine, and another of Walter Wilson's," said John.

"Well, we will get them up here; and then if the prodigal son has not received a proper sort of welcome at home, we'll have him up here too."

And so walking on as they talked in this fashion, John Tincroft and his two old friends entered the house. And after this, all was done as had been thus hastily sketched—the post-chaise was sent back empty; the luggage was removed, first to the Manor House, and then, later in the day, Walter's portion of it was sent to the farm, John having ascertained, by ocular and oral demonstration, that Walter had been received with kindness, and that he had made up his mind to stay, for a few days at least, at his old home.

John truly declared, in further conversation with his friends at the Manor House, that he was not at all aware of the extent of Walter's possessions; for, in all their intercourse, the returned emigrant had avoided entering upon that question, except by saying that he had enough to enable him to pay his way, he hoped, and to leave a little something behind for his daughter when he was gone. Our friend was rather surprised, therefore, when Tom Grigson repeated to him what he had heard the year before, of Walter Wilson.

"I am afraid your informant was drawing the longbow a little," said John; "for there's no appearance of that state of affairs about my wife's cousin. Of course, being a farmer out there, as he was, he had his land and stock, and all that sort of thing. But from what he tells me, land and stock don't fetch much money in that part of the world when it comes to be sold. And it was nothing but a rough sort of log-house they lived in up to the time of their coming away."

"I daresay you are right," said Tom. "Those fellows who come home for a spree, or for business, as Brooks did, are apt to crack up one another. And it doesn't matter to us whether Wilson is rich or poor, does it?"

"Not a bit," said John; "only if he has got enough to start himself in some sort of way, when he gets well enough to attend to business, it will be a good thing. And if not, why, I must lend him a helping hand."

"You had better take care what you are about, though," said Richard Grigson. "I have nothing to say about Walter Wilson, for I know nothing about him more than I knew twenty years ago, and he was a fine, straightforward enough young follow then, only more than a little pigheaded. But about the Wilsons generally—well, they know how to get their pennyworth for their penny. I am speaking of Walter's father and brothers, mind; not of Walter himself."

Now this conversation, and the further insight into character that it gives, will, perhaps, partly account for certain anxiety which evinced itself in Matthew Wilson a day or two afterwards, when he made it his business to call upon our friend Tincroft at the Manor House.

In those two or three days, John, with commendable delicacy, had abstained from intruding himself upon the family at Low Beech, excepting so far as to be assured that his friend Walter was comfortably domiciled in his old home, and had all the attentions paid him that were rendered necessary by his state of health, or rather of unhealth. He knew, too, that there had been meetings between Walter and his brothers, both at their own homes and at a family gathering at Low Beech, to which even the offending George had been admitted, where, if not the fatted calf, several plump fowls were duly sacrificed in honour of the reunion. All this John knew, but he was not exactly prepared for the visit he received one day, when the following colloquy, or something like it, took place.

"You keep yourself pretty much to yourself, Mr. Tincroft," said the farmer, when he had ensconced himself in the old arm-chair in Mr. Richard's library, of which John had naturally taken possession for the time being, and in which he had free range.

"Oh, I knew Walter was in good hands," said John. "He has his mother and sister to look after him; and he must have a great deal to talk about with you all; and—and, in short—I didn't wish to intrude."

"No intrusion at all, Mr. Tincroft; it wouldn't have been any intrusion. Aren't we a sort of relations? It's your wife's—Sarah's—uncle I am, you know."

"True," replied John; "and if I thought it would have been any pleasure or gratification, I would have called oftener. But I didn't know, you see; and under the circumstances, you understand, I felt convinced you would prefer having Walter's company alone."

"Ah well, I have nothing to say against that, nor against having Walter's company. But we are relations, you know; and wife and I have been saying that we think it odd that you should fight shy of us."

"I am sorry, I am sure, Mr. Wilson, that you should think so of me. I only thought it would be more agreeable to you—"

"Yes, yes, no doubt. But I was going on to say that we should have been uncommon pleased if Sarah—that's Mrs. Tincroft, you know—had kept up knowledge of us, as one may say. She has never been near the old place since she left it, twenty years ago. There's no offence, sir, in minding you of it, I hope."

"O dear, none at all," said John, one of whose harmless peculiarities it was never to take offence if he could avoid it. "But there were circumstances, you know, sir, which would, perhaps, have made it a little awkward to my dear wife—" John said this with unction, and repeated it—"to my dear wife, in revisiting the scenes of her younger days."

"Possibly," said the old farmer; "but we ought to forget and forgive, you know, sir. And, for my part, I have long ago forgiven that five hundred pounds that brother Mark robbed me of, as one may say; for I never got a penny of it back. But I didn't come to speak about that, Mr. Tincroft, I most wanted to say to you, we are relations and friends, aren't we? And when I say friends, 'tis friends I mean," added Matthew, with a knowing nod.

"Truly I hope so, sir," said John, wondering whereunto all this preamble was to tend.

"And now," continued Farmer Matthew, in a lower tone, and looking round to make sure that the door was fast closed against hypothetical listeners, "I reckon Walter has told you all, hasn't he?"

"All what, Mr. Wilson?"

"All about himself, and whether he has come home empty-handed, or full. You understand."

"Excuse me, sir," said John, rather reservedly; "I should think that your son is more likely to have taken you than me into his confidence."

"Ah, but he hasn't," returned Matthew; "I tried to get it out of him, too. But when I happened to say to him 'I reckon you have come home with your pocket pretty well lined?' he drew in his horns, and said he supposed he had got enough to last him as long as he lived. So I thought, maybe, you could tell me a little about it."

John did not reply, and the old man went on.

"You see, 'tis likely that Walter won't last long; he may and he mayn't. But say, suppose he shouldn't—and he looks mortal bad at times—there's his girl that he has brought over with him. Now, she's kith and kin to me and my dame—there's no denying it. And say that there's something to come to her afterwards, why, I reckon I am the proper one to look after it. You see that, Mr. Tincroft?"

"Yes, I see, I see," said John, shutting his eyes notwithstanding, which he sometimes did when he had a hard problem to solve.

"And as I thought, and so did my dame, that mayhap you could give us a little insight into it."

"Look you, Mr. Wilson," responded John, who had by this time opened his eyes again, the problem being solved; "your son and my friend Walter may be as rich as Crœsus, for anything I know to the contrary."

"Crœsus? Oh, you mean old Creasy of Rick Hall; I didn't think you knew him. Well, to be sure, people said he was rich; but when he died they found out their mistake, just as I always said they would," said old Matthew.

"Well," continued John, despairingly, "your son may be as rich as old Creasy was thought to be, or as poor as Lazarus; but all I can say is, I know very little about his circumstances. And it strikes me—does it not you, Mr. Wilson?—that Walter is the proper person to speak to on the subject."

Manifestly Matthew did not think so. At any rate, he went on: "I am a plain man, Mr. Tincroft, and have worked hard all my life—so has my dame—to get together what little there is to keep us going, and against a rainy day, maybe. We have got other boys, too, besides Walter, though one of them has not behaved as he ought to have done; he did me out of High Beech, George did—or his wife did, by putting him up to it, as my mistress says; but, any way, it was done by him. And then there's Elizabeth, and she not married, and not likely to be. You understand what I mean, Mr. Tincroft?"

John didn't understand; and he hinted as much.

"Why, aren't they all on my hands, more or less, Mr. Tincroft?" said the old farmer. "And what I mean is, that if Walter is come home well-to-do, well and good; but if he isn't, it doesn't stand to reason that I should have the keeping of him and his girl, and he not fit to do a day's turn, and perhaps not likely to be."

"And you wish me—let us understand one another, Mr. Wilson—you wish me to furnish you with information which your son withholds?" John said this with a quickened pulse, and a slight colour on his cheek, I daresay; but otherwise, he kept his temper, and spoke quietly and calmly.

"It would be only friendly in you to speak the word, if you can," said old Matthew.

"Then I am very glad that I cannot. But there are a few words I should like to say, Mr. Wilson; and then we had better close our conference, on this subject at least. You are anxious, and naturally so, I daresay, to avoid having fresh and unexpected expenses cast upon you."

"Being getting old, you see, Mr. Tincroft; and having enough to do, so to speak, in holding my own," said the farmer, insinuatingly.

"Yes, exactly so. Well, then, let me tell you in confidence, if you prefer it, or otherwise, as you please, that I am ready and willing to take all care and responsibility off your hands. Your son has done me the honour and pleasure of making my house his home. It will be his home as long as he pleases, and I hope until he gets well again. When he does, it will be time enough to know what his prospects are and what will be best for him to do; and as far as I can, I shall help him, if he needs help."

"That's very good of you to say so, Mr. Tincroft," interposed the old farmer, brightening up.

"Until then," continued John, without heeding the interruption, "I will promise on my wife's part as well as my own, that he shall have all possible care bestowed upon him. But if it should be otherwise ordained, and what you seem to anticipate should come to pass, I promise you that your orphan grand-daughter shall have a home, as long as she needs one. I say this to set your mind at rest, Mr. Wilson; and now we will drop the subject, if you please."

"But no offence, I hope, Mr. Tincroft?"

"No offence at all, sir," said John, shaking hands with Matthew, as he escorted him to the door.