Princess Puck

The waiting-room of a railway-station is not usually selected as the best place in which to think seriously over a matter of perplexity. But if the waiting-room be attached to the station at a very small country town where trains are infrequent and passengers few, a worse place might be chosen; it has at least the merit of freedom from friendly advice. Moreover the fact of a person sitting there doing absolutely nothing for an hour or more creates no surprise, as it is to be presumed he is only waiting for the next train. On the January afternoon of Bill’s visit to Wrugglesby she found the waiting-room an admirable place for quiet thought. When she left Mr. Stevens’s office she went straight to the station and, sitting down with her back to the window, tried to think over the difficulties suggested by the lawyer’s words.

The difficulties resolved themselves into one and one only,—Mr. Dane. The other obstacles to the success of her undertaking might or might not prove insurmountable; at any rate Bill would face them undauntedly with a light heart and a clear conscience. But Mr. Dane was another matter; she could not wilfully, and with her eyes open, do what she felt sure would give him pain; and yet,—how could she give up this enterprise?

At this point two stout women entered the waiting-room. They were going to Darvel by the next down train in some twenty minutes’ time, and had walked in three miles from a neighbouring village; when one walks three miles the balance of a spare half-hour is not much to allow for catching a train. They were in “nice time,” they told each other, though they seemed flustered and annoyed when they found the booking-office still closed. Bill heard what they said without understanding, just as she saw them without perceiving; she sat looking straight before her though her true gaze was inwards. They glanced at her once or twice. “A natural, poor thing,” was the conclusion they came to. “They didn’t oughter let her be about alone like that,” was their final opinion as she rose from her seat and walked out of the waiting-room.

Bill left the station, turned out of the main street, and took the road to Ashelton. She had decided what to do: she would go to Mr. Dane, not to ask his permission to claim her connection with the Corby family and consequently to drag him and his past before the eyes of his neighbours, but to tell him her story and ask his advice. She loved him so well that she felt sure he would give his advice without prejudice; she was absolutely certain that he would not misunderstand or misjudge. She started on her walk with a comparatively quiet mind, not an absolutely quiet one, for she knew she must give a full confidence or none at all. She must tell all, even including that which concerned Kit Harborough, and the dream which was a dream no more.

At first Bill thought of nothing but what she had to tell, but bit by bit the solitude of the road and the exhilaration of the exercise soothed her so that she thought no more. Six miles of lonely road, a level country wide spread and bare on either hand, a silent wintry afternoon with the suggestion of twilight gathering before the village was reached,—what more could one ask to minister to a mind diseased? Nothing in Bill’s opinion, as she walked the six miles in something under an hour and a half, without a single doubt of her ability to walk them back again after dark and her pleasure in doing it.

But she did not walk those six miles back; the proprietor of the White Horse at Ashelton received a request during the evening for the little cart and old pony for Mr. Dane. And it is to be presumed he drove Bill to Wrugglesby in time for the eight o’clock train, for some sort of vehicle brought her to the station in time for that train, and a little after eight o’clock Mr. Dane rang at the private house of Stevens the lawyer.

Mrs. Stevens wanted very much to know what had brought Mr. Dane to see her husband at that time in the evening. She had a great opinion of Mr. Dane, of whom she knew little, and of his Family (with a capital F), of which she knew less. She and Mr. Johnson had conferred more than once on the subject of the relative who was a lord and the other relative who was a bishop, and the mystery why Mr. Dane himself was—if not a bishop or a lord—at least something more than a country parson. On that particular evening, after Mr. Dane had left, Mrs. Stevens naturally wished to know the reason of his visit; first she sought indirectly for information and learned nothing; then she asked boldly what had brought him there that night.

“A small pony-cart, my dear,” Mr. Stevens said amiably; “and the same vehicle has taken him away again. I hope he will reach his destination safely, for he is not as young as he was and the night is dark, though the pony, I must admit, looks a safe beast.”

Mrs. Stevens, being somewhat annoyed by this answer, condescended to no more questions and maintained a dignified silence for the rest of the evening,—a proceeding which it is to be feared did not greatly trouble Mr. Stevens, since he was so completely engrossed in his own meditations that he was not aware of it. After Mrs. Stevens had gone to bed he poked the fire into a blaze and observed to the crackling coals: “You were a fool, Wilhelmina the first, a fool! You threw away a very fine and noble gentleman for your gipsy lover.” And being a country lawyer of somewhat prosaic practice, and being also a man of genial sympathies, he once more gave himself up to meditations on the story which had been told him that night.

And Mr. Dane, having reached home in safety, also thought a little of the story which had been revived that night. But not for long; he resolutely put it away from him as he put away the diamond buckles Bill had left. She had left them on purpose and with a definite understanding. “You must keep them, Monseigneur,” she said. “I can reclaim them, if I ever have the money, and if you do not sell them before. I cannot have you undertake this great thing for me unless you will have them as a sort of guarantee; I would rather you kept them; it is better so.” So he kept them, for after he had seen how she carried them loose in her pocket and heard how she kept them in a hole in the kitchen-wall, he also thought that it was better so.

Bill went back to London without her buckles, but Polly was not aware of the fact. Indeed Polly did not hear anything much about the visit to Wrugglesby that evening, for Bill did not reach home till late, too late to tell all about it, she said, and put off the explanation till the next day, when she promised to tell Polly everything. Bella was rather disappointed by this arrangement for she would be out then,—at the dressmaker’s in the morning and at Mrs. James Brownlow’s in the afternoon. It must be admitted that, fond as Bill was of her cousin, Bella’s absence suited her well, for she wanted to have a long and somewhat difficult talk with Polly.

Bella went out early, and early also went the little oak box by rail to Wrugglesby, carefully addressed and properly insured as Mr. Stevens had impressed upon Bill it must be. Before it went she pulled off the chintz cover from the top and took one thing from the inside; not a document or deed, or even one of her mother’s recipes, only a fossil sea-urchin found on the beach at Bymouth on a sweet September morning. She hid it away among her linen; then she nailed down the lid of the box, tied a rope round it, and sent it away.

Polly did not know it had gone until later when Bill told her in the course of their talk. This talk did not prove so difficult as Bill had anticipated, for Polly was quick to grasp the possibilities of the case. It was true, Bill had acted without her consent and in a measure outraged her in her part of guardian; but Polly was not always playing that part, and she was, as the late Mr. Brownlow had said, a capital woman of business; when it came to plain facts apart from appearances, Bill’s conduct and communication wore a very different aspect. As Polly said: “You risk nothing; even if you lose you are no worse off than you were except for those diamond buckles—” (here, in spite of a previous and very eloquent statement of her opinion of Bill’s giving them up, Polly could not forbear from making a short digression and recapitulation of her sentiments)—“except for those buckles, you lose nothing since Mr. Dane is going to advance the money and take all the trouble. You are quite sure he means you only to pay if you win? You lose nothing if you fail and if you succeed—well!”

The prospect seemed almost too much for Polly, and Bill forbore to mention any of her own plans regarding the money, should she win it. Polly, of course, had something to say about the way in which she had not been consulted, though not much, for, as she admitted, Bill “had done very well”; moreover, she was somewhat mollified by the nominal share in future transactions which Bill assured her would be hers. Bill explained matters as clearly as she could to Polly’s great satisfaction and sufficient enlightenment. In a matter of this sort Polly was quick to grasp the essential points, and in a matter of any sort even quicker to accommodate herself to the part she was to play. There was one thing, however, which Polly did not understand, and which Bill would not explain,—the reason that had induced Mr. Dane to follow such an extraordinary course as he had, and not only to give his sanction to the proceedings but also to lend active and financial assistance.

“I can’t tell you,” was all Bill would say; “you would not understand. I hardly know myself and I certainly can’t explain. I can’t talk about him, he is,—he is too good.”

Polly was not satisfied, but she could get no other explanation, and when Bill left her after some rather able though unsuccessful cross-examination, she hurled after her as a parting shot: “It is a very peculiar thing, Bill, very peculiar indeed, the way in which elderly gentlemen do things for you. One gives you a pair of diamond buckles, and another is undertaking a law-case for you. It is most peculiar, not to put too fine a point upon it,—most peculiar!”

And though Polly went to the kitchen-door and raised her voice so that Bill, who had gone up-stairs, should not lose any of the remark, she still contrived to throw a vast deal of meaning into the last words and the sniff which followed them. But Bill, if she heard, did not answer, which was wise; and Polly, who was too satisfied with the results of Bill’s “peculiarity” to trouble very much about explanations, went back to her work and asked no more unanswerable questions.

Bella and Theresa had to be taken into confidence of course, but neither of them thought the matter so important as Bill and Polly did. It was interesting to know all about Bill’s people, but the substantial benefits to be reaped from it seemed uncertain and shadowy. “It was all rather improbable and unwise,” Theresa said, while Bella, being full of her own concerns, hardly understood what was being discussed; and both sisters entirely failed to realise the value of success should it ever be attained.

“They are so stupid,” Polly once said impatiently; “they don’t grasp anything out of their own groove. I’ve no patience with either of them; they are thorough Brownlows, without an ounce of vitality between them. They’re all right so long as you put them in ordinary circumstances,—a decent house with a decent servant, decent meals at regular hours, and a decent husband to come home at regular times and provide the money. But as for striking out a line for themselves, or saving a situation, or doing or even understanding anything which is out of their ordinary rut or wants a small amount of enterprise, they simply can’t do it!”

Bill laughed a little, though she could not deny the truth of at least part of the indictment. She could not deny to herself either that this same characteristic of the sisters made it easier for her to carry through, unquestioned and undisturbed, the enterprises which they could neither undertake nor understand. However, she did not remark on this to Polly, but merely said: “I think Bella and T. are both rather occupied with their own concerns just now.”

Polly would not allow this excuse to Theresa, though she admitted it might hold good for Bella, whose wedding-day was so near. Bella’s wedding occupied all their minds about this time, Polly being determined that it should be of suitable though quiet magnificence. “Of course we are still in mourning,” she said, “or at least we can reckon we are; Aunt was almost like a mother to us, besides an out of mourning wedding would cost so much. As it is, we can make a very good show indeed at a reasonable price. And I mean to do it too, Bill; we are quite as good as the Dawsons, and I’m not going to let them think we are not.” And Polly made all the preparations in her power; her chief cause of trouble being that, since Bella was to be married at Ashelton, she herself could not be at the base of operations very long beforehand.

Bella left town early in February, in the company of Jack, who had come to town on business. When Polly heard of his coming she regretted that she could not offer him the hospitality she had offered Gilchrist, but her house was too full now to allow of it. However, Jack came to see them and stopped some time, and was, as Polly said, “as pleasant as possible and quite different from Mr. Gilchrist Harborough.” Indeed, Jack, instead of disapproving of Bill’s working, insisted on helping her to clear the table, making much fun over it. He always seemed to regard Bill as a jolly little school-girl not to be taken seriously; that day he teased her about the apples she took to eat in the train on her journey to Bymouth. Bill told him they were Polly’s, but he would not believe her, and they laughed over it for some time. Later on, however, she became serious and asked him some questions about the Harborough lawsuit. Of late Jack had become somewhat intimate with Gilchrist; Bill had gathered this from Bella’s talk, and thinking that, if anyone could tell her of the present condition of the Harborough case, Jack could, she questioned him on it.

“Why, Lady of Law,” he exclaimed when he found out how much she knew of the original claim, “you seem to know a good deal about it already!”

“Yes, I heard all about that part,” she told him; and he remembered that Gilchrist had been very often to Haylands during the summer, so often that he had once thought there was some sort of an understanding between Bill and the Australian, though latterly he had begun to doubt it. “I am afraid,” he said, thinking her interest in the case was on Gilchrist’s account, “I am afraid your friend won’t get this affair settled in a hurry; there seem to be a hundred and one things to prove.”

“Yes? What? Tell me.”

He smiled at her earnestness. “Let me see,” he said, “what shall I tell you? I have heard about it no end of times, but I am not so very much the wiser and I’m sure you won’t be; still here goes. The lawyers now, I believe, are busy trying to find out whether this precious rule of the youngest son inheriting applies to sons only, or whether it can be extended to other relations when the sons give out.”

“Can’t it? I should have thought it could.”

“Ah, but you’re not a lawyer; lawyers don’t think, they prove. They say sometimes the extension is allowed and sometimes it is not, according to early arrangement or tradition or something; they have got to find out how the first Harborough had his affairs arranged. Then another question they are busy about is how much old Harborough knew of the existence of another claimant, and I don’t see how they are ever to discover that under the circumstances. Things are rather mixed altogether; for instance, your friend’s father was born in 1845, old Harborough came into the property that same year, and that year also there died his youngest brother, the one who should have had the property,—that is what I call indecently crowding events to no purpose. Then the old man’s will seems likely to prove another bone of contention,—whether he had a right to make a will, why he made it, whether he believed his position insecure and made it to strengthen it, or whether he thought it secure and made it in good faith,—oh, it is a lovely tangle I can tell you! Harborough has talked to me about it till I have completely forgotten which party wants to prove what, and have got so mixed myself that I have gone home deciding to sow estates-tail in the home-field, drain the pond and turn it into an estate in fee simple to settle on my bonny bride.”

He drew Bella’s hand into his own as he spoke, and it was easy to see from their faces that there would be no more discussion of the Harborough case for the present. But Bill could not forbear asking one last question: “I suppose it will take a long time to settle?”

“Years! You’ll have time to grow up twice over before they are done squabbling, and Bella will be a staid and sober matron by the time the decision is given.”

Bella combated this opinion, not because she doubted the length of the Harborough lawsuit but because she vowed she would never be staid and sober. A conversation natural to the circumstances ensued, and lasted until Jack and Bella left the house together.

It was of course quite out of the question for both Bill and Polly to attend Bella’s wedding, as they could not leave the house to take care of itself, so it had been arranged for Bill to stay and Polly to go. It was really important that she should be present at the function, if for no other reason than her own belief that Bella and Theresa would not be equal to the situation and the Dawson family in its strength. “They would never manage without me,” Polly said with conviction. “I shall go down a day or two beforehand,—I really must, to see after things. You can do here quite as well as I can, and no one need know you are alone; I am not afraid to trust you, as I know you can take very good care of yourself and the house.”

To this Bill agreed. “Of course I shall be all right,” she said. “You had better stay as long as Bella and Theresa want you.”

But Polly had decided not to remain after the wedding. “There will be no need for me to do that,” she said. “I shall go several days before to see that everything is arranged properly and I shall come back directly after. Or,—no, on second thoughts, I think it had better be the day after; it would perhaps be nicer if I waited till the day after, as there will be such a lot of clearing up to do.”

Bill heard this last decision with a smile, she knew that Polly’s “clearing up” would mean a substantial hamper-shaped addition to her luggage. But she said nothing, as she knew Theresa would not mind, and Polly fulfilled her plan exactly. She went to Wrugglesby three days before the wedding with the most wonderful costume that even her ingenuity had ever compassed, safely packed in a cardboard box and placed on the seat beside her.

Polly’s work, and she certainly did work during those three days, was not in vain. Bella’s wedding was in every way successful. The Dawson family was properly impressed with the desirability of the new connection; Mrs. Dawson was almost satisfied, and Miss Gladys Dawson charmingly (and unpleasantly) put in her place by the presiding genius. Polly really was in her element that day and showed to the best advantage. Mrs. Stevens was warm in her praises, and even Gilchrist Harborough, who was there more as the bridegroom’s friend than the bride’s, thought that his former opinion of Miss Hains had been unjust.

“It really was as nice a wedding as I have ever seen,” was Miss Gruet’s opinion, and in the main Ashelton agreed with her, finding in the event a delightful subject of conversation during the lengthening days.

“It is quite the event of the spring,” Miss Minchin said gaily. So it was in Ashelton, and beyond Ashelton the ladies did not take very much account.

Beyond Ashelton, at the little house at Bayswater, there was another event, and one of such interest to those concerned that even Polly for a time regarded Bella’s wedding as of secondary importance. Mr. Stevens had examined the contents of Bill’s box and found that the deed dated 1799 was indeed the counterpart of the lease granted by Roger Corby in the year that Peter Harborough was shot. Mr. Dane, acting upon this information, had been to a certain old established firm of solicitors in London and had seen the senior partner. He was not the man who, something more than forty years ago, had helped to cut the bond Wilhelmina Corby had tried to break for herself; nevertheless he soon knew all about it, for it was recorded in the annals of the firm and only needed to be looked up. Looked up it accordingly was, together with other events, dates, and certificates; and the lease and the information and everything else there was to place were placed in the hands of this lawyer who, at Mr. Dane’s request, undertook the case Mr. Stevens had refused. Altogether, what with one thing and another, things were progressing surprisingly well, and Polly and Bill had good reason to congratulate themselves.

Before the spring was over Mr. Briant of Sandover felt the consequences of the energy and inquiry Bill had provoked, for he received the most unwelcome intelligence that a descendant of the Corbys existed and claimed, in a purely legal and formal manner, a large piece of his valuable Sandover estate. He did not believe the claim genuine; and then he did not believe it could be substantiated; and in any case he was, if possible, going to contest it, for he had always believed there were no legitimate descendants of the Corbys left.

“It rains lawsuits,” he grumbled once; “before Kit Harborough is through with his trouble I am let in for one. Although,” so he added to a friend, “between you and me, I should be glad to see the boy clear of his business half as well as I shall be of Mary Ann Hains, guardian of somebody Corby’s granddaughter.”