Chapter I: A Business Transaction

IT was the second day of August, and a close, oppressive day. At this date the Cambridge colleges are supposed to be deserted, but still occasionally gowned figures might be seen in the High Street, or young men in summer suits, who had the unmistakable air of undergraduates. One such was loitering this afternoon on the pavement near the entrance to Trinity. He was a man of about four-and-twenty, with strong, well-knit frame, a dark complexion, which the sun had brought to a rich warmth of hue, and fine dark eyes. No one would have hesitated to call Arthur Seaton good-looking, and his good looks were of a kind that could not fail to please. The frank, kindly look of his dark eyes was not their least charm. The lower part of his face was finely moulded, the mouth being especially good, with delicate, clear-cut lips, certifying refinement, and perhaps some sensitiveness of nature.

Some of his acquaintance were wont to apply the epithet "aristocratic" to Arthur Seaton's appearance; but then they were aware that Arthur was heir to his uncle, the Hon. and Rev. St. Clair Seaton, rector of Trematon-in-the-Moor, and owner of a considerable estate in the neighbourhood, of which few persons could give a more definite account than that it was somewhere in the wilds of Dartmoor; for the rector was a bachelor of shy, retiring habits, content to remain buried in the country from one year's end to another.

Arthur Seaton was staying on at his college through the "Long" in order to read. He was destined for the Bar, a profession held eminently suited to youths who find their bread buttered, and thickly buttered too, without any exertion of their own. Truth to tell, the young gentleman was not of a studious disposition. He had suffered the days of the past term to slip by and yield him but a scanty gleaning of knowledge; and now he had to work hard in order to make up for lost time. But he was in earnest at last. He meant to satisfy his "coach," and fulfil the expectations of his uncle.

It cost him something to stay on at Cambridge during the brilliant summer weather. He had at this moment in his pocket a letter from his uncle, urging that it was time he should, for the sake of his health, exchange the warm, heavy atmosphere of the university town, for the keen, bracing breezes of Dartmoor. Surely, wrote his uncle, such reading he still needed to do could as well be done in the quietude of Trematon Rectory as in his rooms at college.

Arthur felt the truth of his uncle's words. The calm of the out of the world moorland village might, indeed, be held well suited to the student; but, as a matter of fact, Arthur had always found it well-nigh impossible to settle to books when at Trematon. He had a passion for life in the open air. The wild, heathery slopes, strewn with granite, and crested by craggy tors, were his favourite haunts. He loved to wander over them in almost any weather, save the blinding mist which renders such solitudes impenetrable. The happy days of his childhood had been passed at Trematon, and he knew every hillside, every crag, and every hollow for miles round. The neighbourhood had for him a fascination he could find in no other region. On horseback or on foot, with or without gun or fishing-rod, and with no companion save his dog, he could spend whole days on the moors and know no weariness. It was a strange freak of fortune that imposed upon a being so constituted the necessity for a university course.

The temptation presented by his uncle's letter was strong, but Arthur resisted it manfully.

"No," he said to himself, half pausing on the kerb, and striking his boot with the light cane he carried, as if to emphasize his resolve, "no, not yet, my boy. I'll grind on here for another fortnight, and 'then' I shall feel safe. After that, not all the 'coaches' in the world shall keep me another hour at Cambridge."

He looked up. A slight, trim, girlish figure was coming through the old gateway of Trinity. The appearance of the girl was familiar to Seaton, though he could claim no acquaintance with her. He knew that she was sister to Erith, a man who had taken his degree with high honours at the cost of his health, having been stricken with a dangerous illness immediately after the examination. He was now convalescent, and Seaton had believed him to have left Cambridge, till this meeting with his sister proved the contrary.

Arthur knew little of Erith. Their rooms were in different quadrangles, and Erith did not belong to Seaton's set. Yet he felt considerable sympathy for the poor fellow when he heard of his breakdown. He was interested, too, in what he heard some of the men say about the pretty sister, who had hastened to Erith as soon as he was taken ill, and was nursing him with devoted care.

Arthur glanced curiously at the girl as she passed him. He had never been so near to her before. Yes, they were right; she was pretty, but how pale and delicate she looked, and what a sad expression her face wore!

"He can't be worse, surely!" said Arthur to himself, as he walked on down the street, keeping in sight the neat little form, clad in rather shabby black. "I suppose she has worn herself out waiting on her brother, and he, brother like, cannot see that she is overtaxing her strength."

Having no sister of his own, Arthur could animadvert on the ways of brothers with an easy conscience. It sometimes made him indignant to see what a careless, offhand manner his friends adopted towards their sisters; and he was persuaded that, if he had had a sister, his conduct towards her would have been very different.

Arthur kept his eyes upon Miss Erith, and presently saw her enter a shop. It was a watchmaker's shop, and one much patronised by the students, for in addition to his more ordinary stock, the shopkeeper dealt largely in curios, and there was rather a rage for his quaint metal-work and rare ornaments amongst the wealthier undergraduates. Arthur Seaton knew the watchmaker well. He had been drawn to the old man by the discovery that he came from Devonshire, and he would often pass an idle quarter of an hour in his shop, turning over his curiosities and chatting to him the while.

Arthur halted now outside the shop, and stood gazing at the strange medley of articles displayed in the window. A quaintly carved tobacco-box met his eye, and he decided to enter and ask its price. He believed that he would have done so in any case, but certain it is that a desire to look again at Erith's sister prompted the impulse.

The door of the shop stood open, and he entered noiselessly. The watchmaker's eyes were examining, through their big, thick-rimmed spectacles, a large, handsome gold watch which he held in his hand. The girl was watching his countenance with an intent, anxious glance. Neither was aware that another customer had entered. Arthur turned aside to examine a Japanese gong. The next moment he felt almost like an eavesdropper as he stood half hidden by a glass screen, for he perceived that Miss Erith's business was not that of a purchaser, but of a seller.

"It was my father's watch," he heard her say. "I would not part with it if I were not obliged. I feel sure I can rely on you to give me what is right for it."

"Ay, that will I. Mr. Erith knows I'm an honest dealer. Too honest for my trade, I think sometimes; for though honesty may be the best policy, it does not bring in large profits nowadays. But how is Mr. Erith getting on? Did I see him driving past here the other day?"

"Yes, we have had one or two drives. He is better, but very weak still. The doctor says all he wants now is bracing air. We must get away somehow, but it is so difficult to arrange. To tell you the truth, Mr. Shears, my brother's long illness has drained our funds, and that is why I need to sell these things. Would you look at this necklet? It was my mother's, and I know it is good."

The colour deepened in Arthur Seaton's face as he listened. He wished himself out of the way, and yet he was deeply interested in what was passing. He had heard it remarked that Erith was as poor as a church mouse, but he had not known till now what that meant. It is difficult for one with ample means to realize the shifts and straits to which refined poverty may be reduced. It touched him to see the young girl laying out her few valuable possessions, and waiting anxiously to hear what they would fetch. Yet he admired her the while.

He was struck with the noble simplicity with which she spoke of their difficulties. Apparently she was too proud to be ashamed of her poverty. And again he was struck with the appearance of the pale, delicate face, shaded by brown wavy hair, and the clear gray eyes, that had so sad a look. He fancied they were eyes not meant to be sad. He would like to see them laugh and flash with mischief. The young face was wronged by its shadow of anxiety.

It was impossible to move now without attracting notice, so Arthur waited and heard the bargain finally settled, and saw the money handed across the counter. The young girl put it into her purse with an air of relief. But she had yet another matter to discuss ere she quitted the shop.

"Mr. Shears," she said, "my brother tells me that you know Devonshire."

"To be sure. I'm Devon born and bred. Ashburton is my native place."

"Is it, really? That is strange! My mother lived near Ashburton before she married—but I have never been in Devonshire."

"Indeed, miss, then more's the pity. There's no county like it, to my mind."

"I want to go there. My brother and I have been talking about it. The doctor has suggested Dartmoor for him. I was wondering whether you could tell me of any place where we might get lodgings which would not cost much. I thought we might perhaps get taken in at some farmhouse. We would not mind how humble the accommodation was, and the more out of the way the place, the better."

"I see," said the old man. "Now, if you'd asked me a few weeks ago, I could have told you of the very place. I have a cousin who lives in a cottage near Ashburton, and I know you'd have been comfortable with her, and have found her terms reasonable. But then her rooms are let for the whole of August, I know, and so I believe are all the lodgings round Dartmoor by this time."

"Are they? What a pity!" said the girl, with a look of disappointment. "Well, then, I suppose we must think of some other part."

"Ay, it is a pity," returned the watchmaker. "It would have done Mr. Erith a sight of good to go to Dartmoor. There's no air like Dartmoor air. Well, I'll turn it over in my mind, miss, and if I can think of anything likely, I'll let you know."

"Thank you; I shall be much obliged to you," said Miss Erith, as she turned and walked out of the shop without catching sight of Arthur Seaton.

He advanced to the counter.

"Good-day, Mr. Shears."

"Good-day, sir," said the astonished shopkeeper. "Have you been waiting long? I never saw you till this moment."

"Only a few minutes. I would not disturb your business with the lady. I heard her enquiry about Dartmoor lodgings, and I believe I know of a place that would suit her."

"Do you really, sir? To be sure you know Dartmoor as well as I do myself. But what kind of lodgings are they? She wants something very cheap."

"Oh, she might have these for—I mean, they would be very cheap."

"Ah! That's right; for, between you and me, they have very little money, poor things. That long illness has been a great strain on them, and I fancy they are almost friendless. I knew their mother well by sight when I was a lad. She was an orphan, and the adopted niece of a wealthy squire, who, it was believed, would provide handsomely for her. But she offended him sorely by insisting on marrying an Irish officer, with nothing to depend on but his pay; and the old squire washed his hands of her. And when he died, there was nothing for her in his will."

"Poor woman! That was hard lines for her."

"Ay, it was, though many said it was no worse than she deserved. Such a bright, dashing girl she was, and so indulged and petted, that it was little wonder she could not bear to have her will crossed. I always felt sorry for her myself. She has been dead now many a year, and the father is dead too, I understand."

"Where is Miss Erith's home then, I wonder?"

"She lives somewhere in London. She was a music-teacher in a school, I believe, but she threw up her situation in order to come to her brother. They say she plays beautifully. But there, I ought not to repeat these things. I only heard them from Mr. Erith's gyp."

"They are safe with me," said Arthur Seaton. "Mr. Shears, I wish you would let me look at that watch you have just purchased. I believe it is one of the kind I have been looking for."

The watchmaker was at a loss to understand what there was in the old-fashioned hunting watch to attract a gentleman like Mr. Seaton, but he was used to the vagaries of rich young men, and showed no surprise as Arthur proceeded to examine the timekeeper with the air of a connoisseur. But when, having made a fair bargain for the watch, the gentleman began to negotiate for the necklet also, an amused, knowing twinkle appeared in the old man's eyes.

"You won't forget the lodgings, sir," he said, as Arthur took up his purchases, and was about to quit the shop. "Could you give me the address?"

"Hum—ha—not at this moment," replied Arthur, with some slight embarrassment. "I must think—I must make enquiries. You shall hear from me about it."

"Thank you, sir."

Arthur stepped into the street with his gayest air. As he walked quickly towards his rooms, he looked like a person who had heard good news.

"What a happy thought of mine," he said to himself. "My godmother's bequest will be of some good to me at last. That old farmhouse will be the very place for them. But how can I manage, without hurting their pride, to make them understand that no payment is necessary? I have it. Miss Erith plays beautifully, he said. Then of course—yes, that will do. What a grand idea! I'll write to my uncle at once."

Arrived at his rooms, Arthur Seaton set to work to carry out his grand idea without loss of time. Sitting down at his writing-table, he dashed off a letter to his uncle. After excusing himself from yielding to his uncle's wish that he should return to Trematon forthwith, and giving excellent reasons for remaining, though sorely against his inclination, yet another fortnight at Cambridge, Arthur approached the subject that filled his mind.

"Now, dear uncle," he wrote, "I want you to help me to 'do good by
stealth' for once in my life. Your reward will be, I trust, relief from
the difficulty with respect to the organ playing in which you have been
placed by the departure of Miss Anstey from the parish. There is a
man here just recovering from a long illness, the result of overwork.
He broke down after his exam., and his sister, a hard-working music
governess, had to be summoned to nurse him. I have not the pleasure
of their acquaintance, but I feel much for them, as I understand that
they are very badly off, and that whilst the doctor has ordered him
away to bracing air, the difficulty of meeting the expense makes it
almost impossible for them to obey his orders. I have been thinking
of Torhill, my godmother's old home. Her rooms have not been occupied
since she died. Why should not these two have the use of them? The
situation is splendid. It seems a shame that the dwelling should be
tenanted only by Sparks and his wife whilst those to whom it would be
new life to sojourn there for a while languish in town.

"You will understand that I could not bear to receive payment for the
rooms; and yet, being unknown to these two—their name is Erith—I do not
feel myself in a position to offer the free use of them.

"Could you not write to Miss Erith, saying that her name has been
mentioned to you as a skilled musician, and asking if it would be
agreeable to her to spend six weeks at Trematon, and undertake to play
the organ at your Sunday services? You could offer her the tenancy of
Torhill in lieu of payment, and I am sure she would thankfully accept
your offer.

"Please do not pooh-pooh the idea, or dismiss it as absurd, till you
have reflected upon it. I rather pride myself on its astuteness. Hoping
soon to hear that you have written to Miss Erith,—

"I remain,—

"Your affectionate nephew,

"ARTHUR SEATON."

"That will be all right," thought Arthur, smiling, as he closed the envelope. "I can trust uncle to do as I wish. There is but one point at which my little scheme can break down. It would be deplorable if the organ should not be Miss Erith's instrument. But she can surely play it a little. I wish I had told uncle to hint that there are no musical critics to be found in the Trematon congregation."