Part 15 (1/2)

”Yes, and you were right this time,” said the artist; ”but I'm not going to take in all these. Here, Will, pick out four brace of the best.”

”Shan't!” said Will, shortly. ”We get quite as many as we want. Take them all in yourself. One moment--send Mr Carlile up some instead.

Here, come on; it's going to rain again. My! Isn't the fall thundering down!”

Will was right. Another heavy shower was coming over from the hills; but it did not overtake the party before they had all reached home, and then Nature made up for a long dry time by opening all her reservoirs, to fill pool, gully, and lynn, the waters roaring for hours down the echoing vale, till the next morning the placid stream was one foaming torrent that seemed to threaten to bear away every projecting rock that stood in its way, while every sluice was opened at the mill to relieve the pressure of the overburdened dam.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A NIGHT GOSSIP.

As has been pointed out, the artist was a quiet man, and the tranquil life of the little village was exactly to his taste. Mrs Drinkwater looked well after his few wants, and until the disturbance at the mill, when Drinkwater had been turned off, there had been nothing to trouble him. Since that occurrence, however, he had frequently come across his landlady with traces of tears in her eyes, and that evening when after parting with the two lads he reached the pretty cottage, she came out to meet him at the gate.

”Oh, Mr Manners, sir,” she said, ”I'm afraid I'm afraid--”

”Afraid what of, Mrs Drinkwater?”

”I'm afraid that something's happened to my man. He has not been home to-day.”

The artist led the poor woman into the kitchen.

”Sit down, Mrs Drinkwater,” he said, kindly. ”Now just listen to me.

I, too, am deeply concerned about Drinkwater. Can't you reason with him--make him see how wrong all this behaviour is, and convince him that he has only one sensible thing to do, namely, go and ask pardon of Mr Willows?”

”Oh, I do wish I could, sir; but Jem won't listen to me. He might listen to you, sir.”

”Ah, but you see this is not my business, Mrs Drinkwater.”

”No, sir, but he respects you, and he might perhaps pay attention to what you said.”

”Maybe,” said the artist, thoughtfully. ”Well, I will see what I can do.”

”Thank you, sir--thank you!”

”When did you see him last?”

”It's two days ago now, sir.”

”Well, Mrs Drinkwater, we must hope for the best. I have always found your husband willing and obliging up to quite recently. It seems to me that if matters are put to him in a quiet common-sense way he will listen. Hang it all, he will have to listen! We can't have you crying your eyes out because he chooses to behave like a brute to you.”

”Oh, my Jem really means well, sir,” said the woman; ”I know he does.

He has always been a good husband to me.”

Late that evening the artist thought over affairs. It was a pleasant soft summer night, and when he was alone he quietly opened the cottage door, and lighting his pipe, sat down on the little rustic seat which was just outside. There was hardly a sound--nothing but the night wind sweeping through the valley, the far-off plash of water, the purring noise of a big moth as it flew past and then hovered a second, attracted by the gleam of the artist's pipe.

There was a step, loud and heavy, and Manners started to his feet as a burly figure suddenly appeared just in front of him.

”Hallo, Drinkwater!” he cried. ”You, my man?”