Part 2 (1/2)

”Here we are at last,” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Tom, poking his head out of the window of one of the carriages as soon as they fairly stopped.

”Are we? Then the Lord be praised! Beastly long journey. More than two hours for only sixty or seventy miles!” responded his companion, stepping on to the platform, where they and their luggage were quickly deposited--the only arrivals for the little village--while the iron horse again grunted and puffed on its toilsome way with its string of cattle pens behind it.

”Good day, sir,” said the station-master, touching his hat respectfully to Tom; ”do you want a trap, sir?”

”No, thanks, we'll walk over; but will you send up our things for us, Murphy?”

”Certainly, sir; one of the men shall go at once with them. Here, Peter! shoulder them there bags, and follow Mister Hartshorne up t'ouse.”

”It's much jollier to walk, Markworth,” remarked Tom, as they left the station, and he led the way over a stile into a little bypath across a field; ”it's a lovely afternoon, and we'll get there in half the time we should if we drove by the road.”

”All right, my boy, I'm agreeable,” answered Markworth.

So they sauntered on, walking in a narrow foot-wide track, through acres of gleaming green fields of oats and wheat, with their wavy motion, like the sea, and their rustling tops, one of the railway porters following closely behind them, weighed down apparently by two heavy travelling-bags he carried, although, probably, he thought them but a trifle.

A pleasant walk it was on a fine summer day.

Presently Markworth could see a gaunt, grim stone wall in front of them, with a ma.s.s of tall, melancholy-looking, waving poplar trees behind it, all in a clump together.

”There's the place,” said Tom. ”We'll be there in no time. We can go through that side-door,” pointing to a small gateway cut through the wall. ”You must not mind, old chap, what my mother says, you know, at first. I told you she was a queer fellow, you know, and she will seem rough to you at first.”

”I sha'n't mind, bless you, Tom--I oughtn't to be afraid of any woman at my time of life, my hearty.”

In another minute they had arrived at the small door they had been making for, and Tom rang the bell with a sonorous peal.

After waiting about a quarter of an hour, and ringing some three times, the gate was at length opened by George, the Dowager's ”man of all work,” an honest, tall, beaming-looking countryman, who stood at the entrance with a broad grin of pleasure on his rustic face.

”Whoy! Lor sakes, measter Tummus! It beant you, be it? Well, to be sure!”

”Yes, it's me, sure enough, George. How are the rheumatics?”

”Och! they be foine, sur?”

”Nice day, George, ain't it? Good for the crops, eh?”

”Yees, _surely_! it's a foine day when the soon shoines! that it be, sur! Ho! ho! ho.” And George laughed a heavy, earthy sort of laugh, which partook of the nature of the clay in which he delved--it was so warm, and yet lumpish, and seemed to stick in his throat and be unable to come out, although his mouth was certainly opened wide enough to permit of its exit. It may be mentioned that this was one of George's time-honoured jokes about the sun and the weather, indeed the only one he ever knew of; and he would repeat it some twenty times a day, if anyone gave him the cue, each time being as much amused with it, and struck with its novelty and wit as if that were the first time he propounded it.

A sharp, querulous voice, which belonged to somebody evidently not far distant, here suddenly interposed--

”What are you standing jabbering and grinning there like a baboon for, man? Begone to your work man! Do you think I keep your idle carca.s.s and pay your wages for you to be kicking your heels in the air all day and doing nothing? Begone to your work, man, and let my son in; if I ever catch you jabbering away like this again, out you go bag and baggage!”

Here it must be noted that the speaker did not pause a second in the delivery of this harangue--not a stop, such as have been put here for the sake of legibility, occurred between the words--the whole sentence rattled out as one word--a word fiery, hot, strong, and by no means sweet.

”Lor sakes! here's the missus!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed George, in sudden terror; and clutching his spade, which he had put down to open the gate, he disappeared amidst the shrubbery much sooner and with a quicker movement than he had evidently acted the part of Janitor.

The Dowager it was, without a doubt--for her presence had quickly followed her words, and she now stood before the pair in all her imposing appearance with an irritated face, and her piercing eyes fixed on them enquiringly.

She was the first to break the short silence that ensued.

”Well, and so you have come at last, Thomas! There, shake hands! that will do. I wonder you have been able to tear yourself away from all your jackanape companions--a lot of reckless spendthrifts and conceited puppies, every one of them--to come and see your ugly old mother at last. I am so old, and, having no airs and graces to receive you like other people--all lies to be sure--that I wonder you do come at all! I suppose it is only because you want money--money, money, money, like the whole tribe of them--bloodsuckers all. But who's this fellow with you?”