Part 28 (1/2)
THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL
I have been one whole year in Windyridge, and like a good business woman I have taken stock and endeavoured to get out a balance sheet in regular ”Profit and Loss” fas.h.i.+on. I am afraid a professional accountant would heap scorn upon it, as my methods are not those taught in the arithmetics; but that consideration does not concern me.
My net profits from the portraiture branch amount to the huge sum of nine pounds, eighteen s.h.i.+llings and sevenpence. If these figures were to be published I do not think they would attract compet.i.tors to Windyridge, and I can see plainly that I shall not recoup my initial outlay on the studio for several years. But that matters little, as my London firms have kept me well supplied with work, and would give me a great deal more if I were willing to take it.
But I am _not_ willing. Man does not live by bread alone, nor by painting miniatures and designing book ill.u.s.trations, and I am determined to live and not just exist, and I _have_ lived during these twelve months. And even from the monetary point of view I am better off than I was when I came, because if I have lost in the way of income I have gained by a saving in expenditure. You simply cannot spend money in Windyridge, and, what is more, the things best worth having cannot be bought with money.
These ”more excellent” things appear upon another page in my balance sheet--a page which would make the professional auditor gasp for breath.
My experiences have made me a richer woman, though not a more important personage to my bankers. I am healthier and happier than I was a year ago. I have a living interest in an entire community, and an entire community has a living interest in me. And I have a few real friends in various stations of life, each of whom would do a great deal for me, and each of whom has taught me several valuable lessons without fee or reward. The moors and the glens, too, have had me to school and opened to me their secret stores of knowledge, and who shall compute the worth of that education? As a result, I have a saner outlook and a truer judgment, and that counts for much in my case. Undoubtedly the balance is on the right side, and I have no regrets as I turn and look back along the track of the year.
The anniversary day itself was marked by an incident of uncommon interest. The weather was atrocious, and in marked contrast to that of the previous year on the corresponding date. Had such conditions prevailed when I first saw Windyridge the village would not have known me as one of its householders.
It rained as though the floodgates of heaven had been opened and got rusted fast. For three days there had been one endless downpour, but on the fateful Wednesday it degenerated into a miserable, depressing drizzle which gave me the blues. The distance disappeared behind an impenetrable wall of mist, and the horizon was the hedge of the field fifty yards away. The drip, drip, drip from a leak in the glazing of my studio so got on my nerves that in the afternoon I put on my strong boots and a waterproof and set out for a walk.
But though the rain could not conquer me the sticky mud did. After covering a mile in half an hour I was so tired with the exertion that I turned back, and was relieved when the distance has been almost covered and only a few hundred yards separated me from the cottage.
I had had the road to myself so far, but as I came down the hill which skirts the graveyard I saw a stranger in the act of opening the gate and entering. At the same moment, apparently, he caught sight of me, and we scrutinised each other with interest as the distance between us lessened.
He was a well-dressed young fellow of about thirty, with a stern expression on an otherwise rather pleasing face. His mouth was hidden by a heavy moustache, but I liked his eyes, which had a frank look in them. His rather long raincoat was dripping wet, and he had no other protection from the rain, for he carried in his hand a stout stick of peculiar shape. His hands and face were brown from exposure, and I took him to be a prosperous, intelligent farmer.
He raised his hat at my approach. ”I am sorry to detain you, even for a moment, in this rain,” he said, ”but I wondered if you could tell me whether anyone of the name of Brown--Greenwood Brown--is buried here.”
Oh! thought I, you have come back, have you? But I merely replied:
”Yes, Mr. Brown's grave is near the top of the hill. I will show you which it is.”
”Please do not put yourself to that trouble,” he protested; ”if you will be good enough to direct me I shall be able to find it.”
”You could not identify it,” I said, ”for there is no stone, but just a gra.s.sy mound, like many of the rest. Let me point it out to you, and then I will go on my way.”
He made no further objection, but held the gate open for me to enter.
There are no paths, and he protested again when he saw me plunge into the long, wet gra.s.s, but I laughed at his fears and led the way to the spot where all that was mortal of poor Farmer Brown lay beneath the sod.
”This is his grave,” I said, and he thanked me with another courteous inclination of the head. As I turned to leave he asked a further question.
”Can you tell me if any of his people still live in this neighbourhood?
I--I have a message for them.”
”If you will call at my cottage,” I replied, indicating the little house a stone's-throw away, ”I will tell you all I know. Pray do not stay too long in the rain. You have no umbrella.”
”Thank you,” he said, ”I shall take no harm, and I will call at your house shortly, as you are so very kind.”
I left him, but I could not forbear looking from the window in Mother Hubbard's bedroom, and I could distinctly see him standing with head bent and uncovered in an att.i.tude of deep dejection over his father's grave. I had no misgiving on that point. In spite of the thick moustache the likeness was too strong to admit of doubt.
I went into the studio and brought out the copy of Farmer Brown's portrait which I had retained, and placed it on the chest of drawers where he could hardly fail to see it; but I said nothing to Mother Hubbard, who was laying the cloth for tea. The kettle was boiling when he came in, and I fetched a third cup and saucer and invited him to the table.
I could see that reluctance struggled with desire, but Mother Hubbard's added entreaties turned the scale, and he removed his soaking overcoat with many apologies for the trouble he was causing.