MR. POSKITT'S NIGHTCAPS (continued 3)

Then Mr. Johnson retired to assume more comfortable attire, and I went for a walk to meditate. And coming back in the soft twilight I came across John William and Susan Kate. They were lingering at the wicket gate, and his arm was round her waist, and just as I caught sight of them he stooped and kissed her.

That, of course, accounted for the extraordinary happiness in Susan Kate's face when she laid the cloth for supper.

CHAPTER X

THE WAY OF THE COMET

If he should happen to be alive (and if he is he must now be a very old man, and have had ample time for reflection about more things than one), Bartholomew Flitcroft will have heard of the comet which is now in our neighbourhood with what are usually described as mingled feelings. It is not quite within my recollection as to when it exactly was that the last comet of any note visited us; if Bartholomew exists, and has preserved his memory, he has better cause to know than most men. At least, that may be so or may not be so, because no one can ever tell how anything is going to turn out. When that particular comet had come and gone Bartholomew was a sorely disappointed man; whether he really had reason to be, no one will ever know.

As regards Bartholomew's status in the world, he was a smallish farmer at Orchardcroft—a middle-aged, raw-boned, hatchet-faced man, whose greatest difficulty in life was to make up his mind about anything. If an idea about sowing spring wheat or planting potatoes came into his head as he walked about his land, he would stand stock still wherever he was and scratch his ear and think and consider until his mind was in a state of chaos. He had always been like that, and, being a bachelor, he got worse as he got older. He would never do anything unless he had what he called studied it from every side, and once when one of his stacks got on fire he was so long in deciding as to which of the two neighbouring towns he would send to for the fire-engines that the stack was burned, and three others with it.

So far as was known to any one acquainted with him, Bartholomew never turned his attention to the subject of marriage until he was well over forty years of age. Whether it then occurred to him because his housekeeper married the butler at the Hall nobody ever could say with any certainty, but it is certain that he then began to look about for a wife. Naturally he exercised his characteristic caution in doing so, and he also hit upon a somewhat original plan. He kept his eyes open whenever he went to church or market, and, it being a fine spring and summer when the idea of matrimony came to him, he began to ride of a Sunday evening to the churches and chapels in neighbouring villages with a view to looking over the likely ladies. That was how he at last decided to marry Widow Collinson, of Ulceby.

Now, Widow Collinson was a pleasant-faced, well-preserved woman of some forty summers, whose first husband, Jabez Collinson, had had a very nice business as corn miller at Ulceby, and had consequently left her comfortably provided for. When he died she kept the business on, and it was said that she was already improving it and doing better than Jabez had done. Such a woman, of course, was soon run after, and all the more so because she had no encumbrances, as they call children in that part of the country; there were at least half-a-dozen men making sheep's eyes at her before Bartholomew came upon the scene. Whatever it was that made her take some sort of liking to Bartholomew nobody could understand, but the fact is that she did—at any rate, Bartholomew began riding over to Ulceby at least three times a week, and it was well known that the widow always gave him a hot supper, because the neighbours smelt the cooking. One night she cooked him a couple of ducks, with stuffing of sage and onions, and, of course, everybody knew then that they were contemplating matrimonial prospects. And those who were acquainted with Bartholomew's prevalent characteristic were somewhat surprised that he had made up his mind so quickly.

It was always considered in Orchardcroft that if it had not been for Mr. Pond, the schoolmaster, the marriage of Mrs. Collinson and Mr. Flitcroft would have been duly solemnized that very year. Bartholomew might have caused some delay at the post, but it was plain that he meant business if he once got off. And it was certainly the school-master who made him do what he did. He and Mr. Pond were near neighbours, and they had been in the habit of smoking their pipes in one or the other's house for many years. They would have a drop of something comforting, and sit over the fire, and Mr. Pond used to tell Bartholomew the news, because Bartholomew never read anything except the market reports and Old Moore's Almanack. And one night when they were thus keeping each other company and Bartholomew was thinking of Mrs. Collinson and her mill, Mr. Pond remarked, with a shake of the head—

"This is very serious news about this comet, Mr. Flitcroft."

"What news?" asked Bartholomew.

"Why about this comet that's hastening towards us," replied Mr. Pond.

"What's a comet?" inquired Bartholomew.

"A comet," said Mr. Pond, in the tones he used when he was teaching the children, "a comet is a heavenly body of fire which rushes round space at a prodigious rate of speed. It's rushing towards us now, sir, at millions and millions of miles a day!"

"How big is it?" asked Bartholomew.

"Much bigger than what our earth is, Mr. Flitcroft," answered the school-master. "Its tail is twenty millions of miles long."

"And you say it's coming here?" continued Bartholomew.

"So the scientific gentlemen are agreed, sir," said Mr. Pond. "Yes, this vast body of fire is rushing upon us as wild beasts rush on their prey. It may be mercifully turned aside and only brush us with its tail; it may crash right upon us, and then——"

Mr. Pond finished with an expressive "Ah!" and Bartholomew gaped at him.

"Is it all true?" he asked. "Is it in the newspapers?"

"The newspapers, sir, are just now full of it," replied the school-master. "It's the topic of the hour. Sir Gregory Gribbin, the great astronomer, says that we shall most certainly be crushed by the tail. And if the tail is composed of certain gases—as he thinks it will be—well!"

"What'll happen?" asked Bartholomew.

"We shall all be asphyxiated—smothered!" answered Mr. Pond, solemnly. "We shall be withered up like chaff by fierce fire."

When Mr. Pond had departed Bartholomew took up the Yorkshire Post, and for the first time ignored the market reports, over which he generally pored for an hour every evening. He read a lot of learned matter about the rapidly approaching comet, and he went to bed with his brain in a whirl. Next morning he ignored the market reports again, and let his coffee get cold while he read more about the comet.

It so chanced that Bartholomew was unable to visit Ulceby for several days after that, owing to sickness breaking out amongst his cattle, and when he next went the widow noticed that he looked much worried and was preoccupied. As the cattle were all right again, she wondered what was the matter, but at first got no satisfactory explanation. Bartholomew seemed unusually thoughtful, and twiddled his thumbs a great deal.

"I say," he said, "I—I think we'd better put off the idea of being wed until we see what this comet does—eh?"

"What comet?" asked the amazed widow.

"Why, this comet that's approaching," answered Bartholomew. "It's coming like a bullet. I was going to put the banns up both here and at Orchardcroft this week, but I don't see what use it is getting married if we're all going to be burned to ashes in the twinkling of an eye. I'll read you all the latest news about it."

With that Bartholomew, whom Mrs. Collinson was by that time regarding with mingled feelings of apprehension and something closely bordering on contempt, pulled out a quantity of newspaper cuttings which he had carefully snipped out of various journals—his taste for science having suddenly developed. He read out the astronomical terms with sonorous voice.

"It's a very serious thing," he said. "I think we must put matters off. The comet 'll be here soon."

"I suppose you're going to look out for it?" said Mrs. Collinson in a constrained voice.

"Why, me and Mr. Pond, our school-master, has bought a telescope," replied Bartholomew, grandly. "Yes, we propose to make what they call observations."

"I'm sure you couldn't be better employed," remarked Mrs. Collinson.

The next night, and the next, and the next again, and for several nights Mr. Pond and Mr. Flitcroft engaged in astronomical pursuits. Then, Sunday coming, Mr. Flitcroft heard strange news which sent him post-haste to his widow. She met him at her door—coldly. Mr. Flitcroft gasped out a question.

"Yes," she said, "it is true. Me and Mr. Samuel Green have been cried in church this morning, and I'm going to marry him. So now you know."

"But what shall I do?" cried Bartholomew, scratching his ear.

"Do?" said Mrs. Collinson. "You can do what your precious comet 'll do. Go back where you came from!"

CHAPTER XI

BROTHERS IN AFFLICTION

It used to be said all over the countryside that you might go for a long day's march and search all the towns and villages you came across and then return home without finding such an example of David-and-Jonathan-like affection and devotedness as was seen in the lives of Thomas and Matthew Pogmore. To begin with, they were twins who had lost both parents before they themselves attained to manhood; this sad occurrence seemed to draw them closely together, and at the age of fifty they were still living, bachelors, in the ancient farmhouse wherein they had first seen the light of day. They had never ran after women, young or otherwise, and everybody who knew them—as everybody did—said that they would live and die single. Some uncharitable people said they were much too mean to marry, for they had a great reputation for economy and were well known to look at both sides of a sixpence a long time before they parted with it. And yet there were other people who wondered that they never had married, for they were both well-set-up, good-looking, rosy-cheeked, well-preserved men, who had been handsome in early manhood and were still good to look upon. In all respects they were very much alike in appearance—they were alike, too, in the fact that each possessed a pair of small, sly eyes which always seemed to be on the outlook.

The domestic life of Thomas and Matthew in their old farmhouse was one of quiet and peaceful days. They were well-to-do, and the land they farmed was good. They had a housekeeper, some ten years their senior, who knew all their ways. They lived the most regular of lives. At eight o'clock they breakfasted. From nine until one they were out and about their fields or their folds. At one they dined, glanced at the newspaper, smoked a pipe, drank one glass, and took a forty seconds nap, each in his own easy-chair. When they were thus refreshed they went out into the land again until half-past five, when high tea was set in the parlour. After its consumption—and they were hearty eaters—the spirit-case was set out with the cigars, and the peaceful duties of the evening began. Sometimes they read more of the newspapers; sometimes they talked of pigs or turnips or the different qualities of artificial manure. And at precisely ten o'clock, having consumed exactly so much grog and smoked exactly so many pipes or cigars, they retired to bed and slept the sleep of the innocent. It was a harmless life and very soothing.

This life, of course, had its occasional variations. There was, for instance, the weekly market-day, when they attended the little town four miles off, did business, dined at the ordinary and took their market allowance. They were generous about the latter, as they were in all matters of food and drink, but nobody ever saw them market-merry—they were much too cautious and wise for that. Then there were occasional fair-days to attend, and sometimes they journeyed into distant parts of the country to buy sheep or cattle—these occurrences made a break in life for them, but it was seldom that their well-fed forms were not found one on each side of the hearthrug when the shades of evening fell.

And then, greatly to the astonishment of Matthew, Thomas suddenly began a new departure. As a rule the brothers rode home together from market; there came a period when he was missing when going home time arrived, and Matthew had to go home without him. On three occasions he got back late, and made excuses. He began to make more excuses about riding into the market-town of an evening, and his twin-brother was often left alone. Matthew grew alarmed, then frightened. And when at last he realized that Thomas, when he went off in this mysterious way, invariably dressed himself up, Matthew broke into a cold sweat and dared to voice a horrible suspicion.

"He's after a woman!"

He glanced round the comfortable parlour and thought what it might mean if Thomas introduced a wife into it. She would, of course, want to alter everything—women always did. She would say that cigars made the curtains smell, and forbid the decanters to be brought out until bed-time. And she would expect, no doubt, to have his easy-chair. The prospects were terrible.

"Who can she be?" he wondered, and his consternation was so great that he let his cigar go out and his grog turn cold.

Thomas came home that night with very bright eyes and a distinguished air. He mixed himself a drink and enthroned himself in his easy-chair.

"Matthew, my lad!" he said in his grandest manner. "Matthew, I've no doubt that people have oft wondered how it was that we never entered into the matrimonial condition of life."

Matthew shook his head sadly. Something was coming.

"Matrimony, Thomas," he answered feebly, "matrimony, now, is a thing that never occurred to me."

Thomas waved his hand comprehendingly.

"Just so, just so, Matthew," said he. "Of course, we were too young to think about such things until—until recently. A man shouldn't think of them things until he's come to an age of discretion."

Matthew took a moody sip of the contents of his glass.

"Was you thinking of that state of life yourself, Thomas?" he inquired.

Thomas grew in grandeur and importance until he looked like a large frog.

"I was about to make the announcement, Matthew," he said, "the important announcement that I am about to lead to the altar Mrs. Walkinshaw——"

"What, her of the Dusty Miller!" exclaimed Matthew, naming a well-known hostelry in the market-town.

"Mrs. Walkinshaw—Mrs. Thomas Pogmore as will be—certainly is proprietor of that house, Matthew," replied Thomas. "Yes, she is!"

"Well—well!" said Matthew. "Ah, just so." He glanced at his brother with the sly Pogmore expression. "I should think she's got a pretty warmly-lined purse, eh, Thomas?—he was a well-to-do man, was her first husband."

"I have no doubt Mrs. Thomas Pogmore as will be can bring a nice little fortune with her, Matthew," said the prospective bridegroom, with great complacency, "a ve-ry nice little fortune. There'll be what the late Mr. Walkinshaw left, and what she's saved, and there'll be the goodwill of the business, which should make a pretty penny."

"And there's no encumbrances, I think," remarked Matthew.

"There is no encumbrances," said Thomas. "No, it's a comfortable thing to reflect upon is that. I—I couldn't abear to have a pack of—of children about the place."

Matthew glanced about him once more and once more sighed.

"Well, of course, it'll make a difference," he began.

Thomas raised a deprecatory hand.

"Not to you, Matthew!" he said. "Not in the least, brother. Mrs. Thomas Pogmore as will be knows that one-half of everything here is yours. It'll only mean buying another armchair, which can be placed in the middle of the hearth there."

"Well, of course, with having been in the public line she'll know what men is," said Matthew, somewhat reassured. "I couldn't like to see anything altered in the old place nor my habits interfered with."

Mr. Thomas Pogmore intimated that everything would continue on the old lines, and presently marched off to bed, humming a gay tune. He was evidently in high good humour with himself, and he continued to be so for some weeks, during which period Mrs. Walkinshaw, who was a handsome, black-eyed widow of presumably forty-five, occasionally drove over and took tea with the twins, possibly with the view of getting acquainted with her future home. She was a sprightly and vivacious dame, and Matthew thought that Thomas had shown good taste.

And then came a night when Thomas, arriving home earlier than usual, entered the parlour looking much distressed, threw himself into a chair and groaned. That he felt in a very bad way Matthew immediately deduced from the fact that he neglected to supply himself with spirituous refreshment.

"What's the matter, Thomas?" inquired the younger twin.

Thomas groaned still more loudly.

"Matter!" he exclaimed at last, making a mighty effort and resorting to the decanters and cigars. "Matter a deal, Matthew. I dare say," he continued, after he had drunk his potion with a suggestion of its being bitter as aloes, "I dare say I should have been warned, for there's a many proverbs about the frailty and deceit of women. But, of course, never having had aught to do with them I was unarmed for the contest, so to speak."

"Then she's been a-deceiving of you, Thomas?" asked Matthew.

"Deceived me cruel," sighed Thomas. "I shall never believe in that sex again."

Matthew blew out a few spirals of blue smoke before he asked a further question.

"I could hope," he said at last, "I could hope, Thomas, that it were not on the money question?"

Thomas shook his head dolefully, afterwards replenishing his glass.

"It were on the money question, Matthew," he said. "I understood that she'd come to me with a considerable fortune; a very considerable fortune!"

"Well?" asked Matthew, breathlessly.

Thomas spread out his hands with a despairing gesture.

"All passes from her if she marries again!" he said tersely.

"Is it true?" inquired Matthew.

"Told me so herself—this very evening," answered Thomas.

A dead silence came over the farmhouse parlour. Thomas lighted a cigar and smoked pensively; Matthew refilled his churchwarden pipe and puffed blue rings at the ceiling, whereat he gazed as if in search of inspiration. It was he who spoke first.

"It's a bad job, this, Thomas," he said; "a very bad job. Of course, you'll not be for carrying out your part of the arrangement?"

"I have been cruel deceived," said Thomas.

"At the same time," said Matthew, "when this here engagement was made between you, you didn't make it a condition that the fortune should come with her?"

"No-o!" answered Thomas.

"Then, of course, if you throw her over she can sue you for breach of promise, and as you're a well-to-do man the damages would be heavy," remarked Matthew.

Thomas groaned.

"What must be done, Thomas, must be done by management," said the younger twin. "We must use diplomacy, as they term it. You must go away for a while. It's a slack time with us now, and you've naught particular to do—go and have a fortnight at Scarborough Spaw, and when that's over go and see Cousin Happleston at his farm in Durham; he'll be glad to see you. And while you're away I'll get the matter settled—leave it to me."

Thomas considered that very good advice and said he would act on it, and he went off to his room earlier than usual in order to pack a portmanteau, so that he could set off from the immediate scene of his late woes early next morning. When he had departed Matthew mixed himself his usual nightcap, and, having taken a taste of it to see that it was according to recipe, proceeded to warm his back at the fire, to rub his hands, and to smile.

"It were a good conception on my part to speak to Lawyer Sharpe on that matter," he thought to himself. "I wonder Thomas never considered of it."

He drew a letter from his breast-pocket, and read it slowly through. This is what he read—

"PRIVATE 10, Market Place, Cornborough, May 11, 18—.

"MR. MATTHEW POGMORE.

"DEAR SIR,—In accordance with your instructions I have caused the will of the late Mr. Samuel Walkinshaw, of the Dusty Miller Hotel in this town, to be perused at Somerset House. With the exception of a few trifling legacies to servants and old friends, the whole of the deceased's fortune was left unconditionally to the widow, there being no restriction of any kind as to her possible second marriage. The gross personalty was £15,237 odd; the net, £14,956 odd. In addition to this the freehold, good-will, stock and furniture of the Dusty Miller was also left to the widow.

"I am, dear sir, yours faithfully,

"SAMUEL SHARPE."

Matthew folded this epistle carefully in its original folds and restored it to his pocket, still smiling.

"Ah!" he murmured. "What a thing it is to have a little knowledge and to know how to take advantage of it!"

Then he, too, retired to bed and slept well, and rose next morning to see his twin-brother off, bidding him be of good cheer and prophesying that he should return a free man. Left alone, he chuckled.

Matthew allowed some days to elapse before he went into Cornborough. Mrs. Walkinshaw looked somewhat surprised to see him, though of late he had taken to visiting the house occasionally. As a privileged visitor he passed into her private parlour.

"And pray what's become of Thomas these days?" she inquired, when Matthew was comfortably placed in the cosiest chair.

Matthew shook his head. His manner was mysterious.

"Don't ask me, ma'am," he said, sorrowfully. "It's a painful subject. Of course, however, between you and me and the post, as the saying is, Thomas has gone to Scarborough Spaw, ma'am."

"To Scarborough!" exclaimed Mrs. Walkinshaw. "What for?"

Matthew sighed and then gave her an expressive look.

"He's very fond of a bit of gay doings, is Thomas, ma'am," he said. "Likes to shake a loose leg, now and then, you understand. It gets a bit dull at our place in time. But I'm all for home, myself."

Mrs. Walkinshaw, who had listened to this with eyes which grew wider and wider, flung down her fancy sewing in a pet.

"Well, upon my word!" she exclaimed. "Gone gallivanting to Scarborough without even telling me. Then I'll take good care he never comes back here again. A deceitful old rip!—I don't believe he was ever after anything but my money, for I tried a trick on him about it the other night, and he went off with a face as long as a fiddle and never said good-night. Old sinner!"

"We're all imperfect, ma'am," remarked Matthew. "Only some of us is less so."

Then he proceeded to make himself agreeable, and eventually went home well satisfied. And about five weeks later Thomas, whose holiday had been prolonged on Matthew's advice, received a letter from his twin-brother which made him think harder than he had ever thought in his life.

"DEAR BROTHER" (it ran),—"This is to tell you that you can return home safely now, as I was married to Mrs. Walkinshaw myself this morning. I have decided to retire from farming, and she will retire from the public way of business, as we find that with our united fortunes we can live private at Harrogate and enter a more fashionable sphere of life, as is more agreeable to our feelings. Business details between you and me can be settled when you return. So no more at present, from your affectionate brother,

"MATTHEW POGMORE.

"P.S.—You was misinformed in your meaning of what Mrs. Matthew Pogmore meant when she spoke of her fortune passing at her second marriage. She meant, of course, that it would pass to her second husband.

"P.S. again.—Which, naturally, it has done."

After this Mr. Thomas Pogmore concluded to go home and lead the life of a hermit amongst his sheep and cattle.

CHAPTER XII

A MAN OR A MOUSE

PROLOGUE

The cleverest man I ever knew was at the same time the wisest and kindest-hearted of men. Not that the possession of wisdom, nor the grace of kindness to his fellow-creatures, made him clever in a high degree, but that when I was in the journeyman stage of learning, feeling my feet, as it were, he gave me what I have ever since known—not considered, mind you, but known—to be the best and most invaluable advice that one creature could give to another. It was this—put into short words (and, mind you, this man was a big man, and a very successful business man, inasmuch as he raised one of the biggest concerns in his own town out of sheer nothing, and died a rich man, having used his wealth kindly and wisely at a time when things were not what they are now)—

"Poskitt—tha'rt nowt but a young 'un! Tha's goin' inta t' world, and tha'll find 'at theer'll be plenty o' men to gi' thee what they call advice. Now, I seen all t' world o' Human Nature, and I'll gi' thee better advice nor onnybody 'at tha'll ever find—'cause I know! Listen to me—

"(i.) I'steead o' trustin' nobody, trust ivverybody—till thou finds 'em out. When thou finds 'em out (if thou ivver does), trust 'em agen! Noä man's a bad 'un, soä long as ye get on t' reight side on him. An' it's yer own fault, mind yer, if ye doän't.

"(ii.) Doän't think ower much about makkin' Brass. It's a good thing to mak' Brass, and a good thing to be in possession on it, but Brass is neyther here nor theer unless ye ware it on yer friends. Save yer Brass as much as ye can. Keep it for t' rainy Day—ye never know when that rainy Day's comin'—but don't skrike at a sixpence when ye know that a half-crown wodn't mak' a diff'rence. Doän't tak' yer sweetheart to market, and let her come home wi' a penny ribbon when ye know in yer own heart 'at ye might ha' bowt her a golden ring.

"(iii.) To end up wi'—trust ivvery man ye meet—not like a fool, but like a wiseacre. Love your neighbours—but tak' good care that they love you. If ye find that they don't, have nowt to do with 'em—but go on loving 'em all the same. If theer's Retribution, it weern't fall on you, but on them. But at th' same time, ye must remember that ivvery one on us mak's the other. An', to sum up all the lot, ivvery man 'at were ivver born on this earth mak's himself."

I

In one of those old Latin books which I sometimes buy in the old book-shops in the market-towns that I visit, out of which I can pick out a word or two, a sentence or two (especially if they are interleaved with schoolboys' attempts at cribs), there is a line which I, at any rate, can translate with ease into understandable English—a line that always puts me in mind of my old, wise friend's blunt sayings—

"Every man is the maker of his own fortune."

And that's why I am going to tell you this story of a man who did Three Things. First: Made Himself a Millionaire. Second: Lived in a Dream while he was in the Process. Third: Came out of the Dream—when it was all too late.

Now we will begin with him.

II

Samuel Edward Wilkinson, when I first knew him, was a small boy of twelve who, in the privacy of the back garden of a small provincial grammar-school, ate tarts and apples which he never shared with his school-fellows. He was the last of a large family—I think his mother succumbed to the strain of bearing him, the tenth or eleventh—and he had the look of a starved fox which is not quite certain where the nearest hen-roost is. The costume of small boys in those days—the early forties—did not suit him; the tassel of his peaked cap was too much dependent upon his right eyebrow, and the left leg of his nankeen trousers was at least an inch and a half higher than its corresponding member.

"Poskitt," he said to me, the first time that I ever indulged in any real private conversation with him, "what shall you do when you leave Doctor Scott's?"

"Go home," said I.

He was eating one of his usual jam-tarts at the time, and he looked at me sideways over a sticky edge of it.

"Poskitt—what's your father?" he asked.

"My father's a farmer—but it's our own land," said I.

He finished his tart—thoughtfully. Then he took out a quite clean handkerchief and wiped the tips of his fingers on it. He looked round, more thoughtfully than before, at the blank walls of Doctor Scott's back garden. I was sensible enough even at that age to see that he was regarding far-away things.

"My father," he said, after an obvious cogitation, "is a butcher. He makes a lot of money, Poskitt. But there are eleven of us. I am the eleventh. When I leave school——"

He stopped short there, and from his trousers pocket drew out two apples. You may think that he was going to give me one—instead of that he looked them over, selected what he evidently considered the best, bit into it, and put the other back in his pocket.

"When I leave school," he resumed, "I mean to go into business. Now, what do you think of business, Poskitt?"

I was so astonished, boy as I was, to hear this miserable mannikin talking as he did, that I dare say I only gaped at him. Between his bites at his apple he continued his evidences of a shrewd character.

"You see, Poskitt," he said, "I've thought a great deal while I've been here at Doctor Scott's. I don't think much of Doctor Scott—he's very kind, but he doesn't tell any of us how to make money. Your father's got a lot of money, hasn't he?"

"How do you know?" I said, rather angrily.

"Because," said he, quite calmly, "I see him give you money when he comes to see you. Nobody gives money away who hasn't got it. And you see, Poskitt, although my father makes a lot of money, too, he doesn't give me much—sixpence a week."

"How do you get your tarts and your apples, then?" I asked.

He gave me one more of those queer glances

"My mother and my sisters send me a basket," he answered. "Of course, Poskitt, we've got to get all we can out of this world, haven't we? And I want to get on and to make money. What do you consider the best way to make money, Poskitt?"

I was so young and irresponsible at that time, so full of knowledge of having the old farmstead and the old folks and everything behind me, that I scarcely understood what this boy was talking about. I dare say I gave him a surly nod, and he went on again—very likely, for aught I remember, eating the other apple.

"You see, Poskitt," he said, "there's one thing that's certain. A man must be either a man or a mouse. I won't be a mouse."

I was watching his face—I was at that time a big, ruddy-faced lad, with limbs that would have done credit to an offspring of Mars and Venus, and he looked the sort that would eventually end in a shop, with white cheeks above and a black tie under a sixpenny collar—and a strange revulsion came to me, farmer and landsman though I was. And I let him go on.

"I won't be a mouse, Poskitt!" he said, with a certain amount of determination. "I'll be a man! I'll make money. Now, what do you think the best way to make money, Poskitt?"

I don't think I made any answer then.

"I've thought it all out, Poskitt," he resumed. "You see, there are all sorts of professions and trades. Well, if you go into a profession, you've got to spend a great deal of money before you can make any. And in some trades you have to lay out a good deal before you can receive any profit. But there are trades, Poskitt, in which you get your money back very quickly—with profit. Now, do you know, Poskitt, the only trades are those which are dependent on what people want. You can't live without food, or clothes, or boots. Food, Poskitt, is the most important thing, isn't it? And why I talked to you is because I think you're the wisest boy in the school—which trade would you recommend me to enter upon?"

"Go and be a butcher!" I answered. "Like your father."

He shook his head in mild and deprecating fashion.

"I don't like the smell of meat," he said. "No—I shall take up some other line."

Then, as the smell of dinner came from the dining-room, he added the further remark that as our parents paid Doctor Scott regularly once a quarter, we ought to have our money's worth, and so walked away to receive his daily share of it.

III

Samuel Edward Wilkinson duly left school, and became, of his own express will, an apprentice to a highly respectable grocer who enlarged upon his respectability by styling himself a tea merchant and an Italian warehouseman. The people who visited the shop (which was situate in a principal street in an important sea-port town) were invariably impressed by the powder-blueness of the sign and by the red-goldness of the letters which stood out so plainly from the powder-blue. It had a cachet of its own, and the proprietor had two daughters. But Samuel Edward was then scarcely over fourteen years of age, and as his parents and the proprietor were of a distinctly Dissenting nature, his time was passed much more in stealing sugar-candy out of newly-opened boxes, and in attending prayer-meetings at the nearest chapel, than in following the good example of London 'prentices of the other centuries. In fact, by the time Samuel Edward Wilkinson was nineteen years of age, he was not merely a money-grubber, but that worst of all things—a tradesman who looks upon God Almighty and the Bible as useful weights to put under an illegal scale. And as Samuel Edward gained more of his experience in the knowledge of his fellow make-weighters, the more he began to believe less in his fellow-men—with the natural result that certain women who were not his fellows suffered.

As he grew up, Samuel Edward, naturally, had to live somewhere else. His master had no room in his house for apprentices who had approached to maturity. But, like all masters of that early-Victorian age, he knew where accommodation in a highly Christian family was to be had, and Samuel Edward found himself en famille with a middle-aged dressmaker and a pretty child whose sweet sixteenity was much more appealing than the maturer charms of his master's daughters. Samuel Edward was not without good looks, and the child fell in love with him, and remained so for longer years than she had counted upon. But Samuel Edward was as philandering in love as he was pertinacious in business, and the idea of marriage was not within his immediate purview.

"At what age do you think, a man ought to marry, Poskitt?" he said to me during one of his periodical visits to the old village, he being then about two-and-twenty.

"When he feels inclined, and means it," said I.

"Of course, Poskitt, a man should never marry unless he marries money," he continued. "For a young man in my position, now, what would you say the young woman ought to be able to bring?"

I had sufficient common sense even at that age to make no reply to this question. I let him go on, silent under his sublime selfishness.

"Don't you think, Poskitt, that it's only right that when a man marries a woman he should expect her to make a certain amount of compensation?" he said. "It's a very serious thing, is marriage, you know, Poskitt. Anybody with my ambition—which is to be a man and not a mouse, or, in other words, to pay twenty shillings in the pound, and keep myself out of the workhouse—has to look forward a good deal. Now there's a young lady that I know of—where I lodge, in fact—that's very sweet on me, but I don't think her mother could give her more than a couple of hundred, and, of course, that's next to nothing. You see, Poskitt, I want to have a business of my own, and you can't get a business without capital. And money's very hard to make, Poskitt. I think—I really think—I shall put off the idea of getting married."

"That's the very wisest thing you can do," I said. "But you'd better tell the young lady so."

"Well, you see, Poskitt," he answered, stroking his chin, "the fact is—there are two young ladies. The other one is—my cousin Keziah. Now, of course, I know Keziah will have money when her father dies, but then I don't know when he will die. If I could tell exactly when he'll die, and how much Keziah will have, I should make up my mind—as it is, I think I shall have to wait. After all, it really doesn't make such a great deal of difference—one woman is about as good as another so far as marriage is concerned, Poskitt, isn't she? The money's the main thing."

"Why don't you go and find a rich heiress, then?" I asked.

"Ah!" he replied. "I only wish I could, Poskitt! But you must remember that I've no advantages. My father's only a butcher, and trade is trade, after all. You've great advantages over me—your people own their land—you're nobs compared to what I am. But I shall make myself a man, Poskitt. There's only one thing in the world that's worth anything, and that's money. I'm going to make money."

IV

I never saw Samuel Edward Wilkinson again for a great many years—in fact, not until he came back to the village to marry his cousin Keziah. It was then publicly announced that Samuel and Keziah had been engaged since early youth—but anybody who knew anything was very well aware of the truth that the marriage was now hastened because Keziah's father was dead and had left her a thousand pounds. During those intervening years Samuel Edward had been steadily pursuing his way towards his conception of manhood. He had spent several years in London, and never wore anything in the way of head-covering but a silk hat.

"Yes, Poskitt," he said, "it's taken me a long time, but I've saved enough money at last—with Keziah's little fortune thrown in, of course—to buy my first master's business. It's a very serious thing, is business, you know, Poskitt, and so is marriage. But Keziah's a capable girl, you know, Poskitt—very capable."

As Keziah was then quite forty years of age, her capability was undoubted, but it seemed to me that Samuel Edward had been a long time making up his mind.

"And where's the young lady of the early days?" I asked him.

He stroked his whiskers and shook his head.

"Well, you know, Poskitt," he replied, "it's a very unfortunate thing that she, of course, resides in the very town where I've bought my business."

"Is she married?" I asked.

"No," he answered, "no—she's not married, Poskitt. Of course I couldn't think of marrying her when Keziah was able to put her hands on a thousand pounds. After all, everybody's got to look after Number One. It's a very anxious time with me just now, Poskitt, I do assure you. What with getting married and setting up a business, I feel a great deal of responsibility. If you're ever our way (and I expect you'll be coming to the cattle markets), call in, and I'll show you the improvements I've made. It's a very fine position, Poskitt, but it's a difficult thing in these days for a man to get his own."

V

Samuel Edward's name duly appeared in blazing gilt on the powder-blue of the old sign, and he and Keziah settled down in a suburban street in company with a handmaiden and a black-and-tan terrier. Their lives were discreet and orderly, and they went to the particular Dissenting community which they affected at least once every Sabbath Day. At eight o'clock every morning Samuel Edward repaired to business; at seven in the evening he returned home to pour out his woes to Keziah. One of his apprentices had done this; an assistant had done that; a customer had fled, leaving a bill unpaid. Keziah, who was as keen on money-making as her husband, was invariably sympathetic in these matters, which were about the only things she understood, apart from her knowledge that her thousand pounds was in the business. She and Samuel Edward were both resolved on making money.

And suddenly came a thunderstorm over their sky. The little dressmaking lady, having been formally engaged to Samuel Edward for long years, finding herself jilted, suddenly awoke to the knowledge that she had a spirit, and caused the faithless one to be served with a writ for breach of promise. And Samuel Edward's men of law, going into the matter, told him that he had no defence, and would have to pay.

Samuel Edward took to his bed, and refused to be comforted. Keziah wept, entreated, cajoled, threatened—nothing was of use. All was over, in Samuel Edward's opinion. The other side wanted the exact amount represented by Keziah's dowry—one thousand pounds. Samuel Edward lay staring at the stencilled wall-paper, and decided that life was a distinct disappointment. He would die.

Then Keziah took matters in hand. She, with the help of an astute man, paid the thousand pounds—whereupon the little dressmaker, who was still well under forty, promptly married another. And then Keziah literally tore Samuel Edward out of bed, shook him into life, and gave him to understand that from that day forward he would have to work harder, earlier, and later than he had ever done before. And Samuel Edward fell to—under a ceaseless and never-varying supervision.

VI

"I'm a warm man, you know, Poskitt," he said to me many a long year after that. "A warm man, sir! There's nobody knows except myself, Poskitt, how much I have. No, sir! Made it all, you know. Look at my business, Poskitt!—one of the biggest and best businesses in the country. Twenty different establishments. Four hundred employees. Bring my own tea from Ceylon and China in my own ships. All the result of energy, Poskitt—no sitting still with me, as you rustics do—no, sir!"

Now let us analyze what this man really was. Because Keziah literally drilled him into the pulling of himself together after his first great slap in the face, he began to amass money, and very soon so deepened his boyish instincts that money became his fetish. Money—money—money—nothing but money! He estimated the value of a man by the depth of that man's purse; he thoroughly believed, with the Northern Farmer, that the poor in a lump are bad. And at last he was a very rich man indeed—and then found, as all such men do, that he had no power to enjoy his wealth. He could travel—and see nothing, for he did not understand what he saw. He could buy anything he liked—and have no taste for it. The little dressmaker had children—he had none. And as his wealth increased, his temper grew sour. He had never read anything beyond his trade journal and his newspaper, and therefore he had nothing to think about but his money.

And so I come back to what my old friend said in his bluff Yorkshire fashion—

"Doän't think ower much about makkin' Brass! It's a good thing to mak' Brass, and a good thing to be in possession on it, but Brass is neyther here nor theer unless ye ware it on yer friends."

And whether Samuel Edward Wilkinson considered in the end of his days that he had made a man of himself, or whether he had, after all, a sneaking idea that he was little more than a mouse, I can't say. But his great idea (that he could buy so many people up ten times over and feel none the worse) had a certain pathos in that fact, that even to his dull brain there came at times the conviction that when the end came he would be as poor as any mouse that ever crept into its hole.

CHAPTER XIII

A DEAL IN ODD VOLUMES

It was baking-day at Low Meadow Farm, and the kitchen being rendered unusually hot by the fact that it was also a blazing afternoon in July, Mrs. Maidment, in the intervals of going to the oven, sat in a stout elbow-chair at the kitchen door and fanned herself with her apron. She was a comfortably built lady of at least fifty, and heat told upon her, as she had remarked several times since breakfast. Her placid, moon-like countenance, always rosy, was now as fiery as a winter afternoon's sun, and when she was not fanning herself she mopped her brow with one of her late husband's handkerchiefs, which she had taken from a drawer in the press as being larger than her own, and therefore more suitable for the purpose.

While she sat at the door Mrs. Maidment glanced at the prospect before her—at the garden, the orchard, the fields beyond where the crops were already whitening to harvest. Her thoughts were of a practical nature.

"I'm sure if Maidment can look down from Above," she murmured, "he'll say it's all in very good order. He never could abide naught that were not in proper order, couldn't Maidment. And if we only get a good harvest——"

At that moment the widow's thoughts were interrupted by the sudden clicking of the side gate. She turned and saw a strange man leading an equipage into the yard. The equipage consisted of a very small pony, which looked as if a generous feed of corn would do it good, and of a peculiarly constructed cart, very shallow in body, and closed in at the top by two folding doors—it resembled nothing so much, in fact, as a cupboard laid flat-wise and provided with wheels. As for the person who led in this strange turn-out, and at whom Mrs. Maidment was staring very hard, he was a somewhat seedy-looking gentleman in a frock-coat which was too large and trousers which were too short; there was a slight cast in his right eye, but there was no mistaking the would-be friendliness of his smile. He bowed low as he drew the pony towards Mrs. Maidment, and he removed a straw-hat and revealed a high forehead and a bald head. Mrs. Maidment stared still harder.

"Good-afternoon, ma'am," said the stranger, bowing again. "Allow me to introduce myself, ma'am, as a travelling bookseller—it's a new departure in the book trade, and one that I hope to do well in. Permit me to show you my stock, ma'am—all the newest volumes of the day by the most famous authors."

He threw back the folding-doors of his cart with a flourish and stepped aside. The July sun flashed its fierce beams on row upon row of flashily-bound, high-coloured volumes in green and scarlet and much fine gold.

"The very latest, I assure you, ma'am," said their vendor.

Mrs. Maidment fanned herself and gazed at the glory before her.

"Well, I don't know, master," she said. "I'm not one for reading myself, except the newspaper and a chapter in the Bible of a Sunday. But my daughter's fond of her book—she might feel inclined. Here, Mary Ellen!—here's a man at the door selling books."

Miss Mary Ellen Maidment, a comely damsel of nineteen with bright eyes and peach-like cheeks, emerged expectant from the kitchen. The itinerant bookseller greeted her with more bows and smiles.

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Mary Ellen, lifting up her hands. "What a lot of beautiful books!"

"Your ma said you were fond of your book, miss," said the owner of this intellectual treasure mine. "Yes, miss, this is an especially fine line. What's your taste, now, miss? Poetry?"

"I like a good piece," answered Mary Ellen.

The itinerant selected two gorgeously bound volumes, and deftly balancing them on the palm of one hand, pointed to their glories with the outstretched forefinger of the other.

"'The Complete Poetical Works of Mrs. H*ee*mans,'" he said. "A very sweet thing that, miss—one of the best articles in the poetry line." He pointed to the other. "'The Works of the late Eliza Cook.' A very superior production that, miss. It was that talented lady who wrote 'The Old Arm-Chair,' of which you have no doubt heard."

"I learnt it once at school," said Mary Ellen. "Have you got any tales?"

"Tales, miss—yes, miss," replied the vendor, setting Mrs. Hemans and Miss Cook aside, and selecting a few more volumes. "Here's a beautiful tale by the talented Emma Jane Worboise, the most famous authoress of her day."

"Is there any love in it?" asked Mary Ellen.

"My daughter," broke in Mrs. Maidment, "likes books with love matters and lords and ladies in 'em—she reads pieces of 'em to me at nights."

"That, ma'am, is the only sort I carry," said the book-proprietor. "Now, miss, just let me show you——"

In the end Mary Ellen purchased one tale which dealt with much love and many lords and ladies, and another which the seller described as a pious work with a strong love interest, and recommended highly for Sunday reading. She also bought Mrs. Hemans, because on turning over her pages she saw several lines which she thought were pretty. And while she went up-stairs to fetch her purse Mrs. Maidment asked the stranger inside to drink a jug of ale. One can imagine his sharp glance round that old farmhouse kitchen, with its lovely old oak furniture, its shining brass and pewter, its old delf-ware....

"You don't happen to have any old books that you want to clear out of the way, do you, ma'am?" he said, when he had been paid, and was drinking his ale. "I buy anything like that—there's lots of people glad to get rid of them. I've a sack full of 'em now under the cart there. Of course, they're worth nothing but waste paper price. That's what I have to sell them at, ma'am."

"Why, there's some old books in that chest there," said Mrs. Maidment, pointing to an old chest in the deep window-seat. "I'm sure I've oft said we'd burn 'em, for they're that old and printed so queer that nobody can read 'em. Let him look at 'em, Mary Ellen."

What treasures were they that the wandering merchant's knowing eyes gazed upon? He gazed upon them for some time, according to the eye-witnesses, before he spoke, examining each book with great care.

"Aye, well, ma'am," he said at last. "Of course, as you say, nobody could read them now-a-days. I'll tell you what—I'll give miss here three new books out of the cart for them, and you can pick for yourself, miss!"

Mary Ellen exclaimed joyfully—and the old books went into a sack.

It was not until the next year that a Summer Boarder from London took up temporary quarters at Low Meadow Farm. According to the account which Mrs. Maidment gave to her gossips of him he was a very quiet gentleman who, when he wasn't rambling about the fields and by the streams, was reading in the garden, and when he wasn't reading in the garden was writing in the parlour. And the books he had brought with him, she said, were more than the parson had.

One day, the Summer Boarder, rummaging in a cupboard in his bedroom, saw, on a top-shelf, an old, dust-covered book, and took it down and knocked the dust off and opened it. And then he sank in a chair, gasping. There, in his hand, lay a perfect copy of a fifteenth-century book, so rare that there is no copy of it in either the British Museum or in the Bodleian Library—no, nor at the Vatican!

He stared at it for a long time, and then, carrying it as some men would carry a rare diamond, he went down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Maidment was making plum-pies.

"This is a queer old book which I found in my cupboard, Mrs. Maidment," he said. "May I look at it?"

"Aye, and welcome, sir!" said Mrs. Maidment. "And keep it, too, sir, if you'll accept of it. Eh, we'd a lot of old stuff like that in that box there in the window-place, but last year——" And then the Summer Boarder heard the story of the travelling bookseller.

"And I'm sure, sir, it were very kind of the man," concluded Mrs. Maidment, "and I've always said so, to give Mary Ellen three new books, and bound so beautiful, for naught but a lot of old rubbish that nobody could read!"

Then the Summer Boarder went out into the garden and faced a big Moral Problem.

CHAPTER XIV

THE CHIEF MAGISTRATE

I

I suppose there never was a man in the world who was as full of pride as Abraham Kellet was on the morning of the day which was to see him made Mayor of Sicaster. That particular 9th of November, as I remember very well, was more than usually dismal and foggy—there were thick mists lying all over the lowlands and curling up the hill-sides as I drove into the town to take part in the proceeding of the day (for I was an old school-fellow of Abraham's, and he had graciously invited me to witness his election), but I warrant that to his worship-to-be no July day ever seemed so glorious nor no May-day sun ever so welcome as the November greyness. All men have their ambitions—Abraham's one ambition since boyhood had been to wear the mayoral chain, the mayoral robes, to sit in the mayoral seat, to be the chief magistrate of his adopted town, to know himself its foremost burgess, to have everybody's cap raised to him, to have himself addressed by high and low as Mr. Mayor. It was a worthy ambition, and he had worked hard for it—now that at last he was within an ace of fulfilling it his pride became apparent to everybody. It was not a vaunting pride, nor the pride which is puffed up, but the pride of a man who knows that he has succeeded. He was a big-framed, broad-countenanced man, Abraham Kellet, who put down a firm foot and showed a portly front, and after it was settled that he was to be the next Mayor of Sicaster his tread was firmer than ever and his front more portly as he trod the cobble-paved streets of the little town. I can see him now—a big, fine figure of a man of not much over fifty, his six feet of height invariably habited in the best broadcloth; his linen as scrupulously white and glossy as he himself was scrupulously shaven; his boots as shining as the expensive diamond ring which he wore on the little finger of his left hand. Decidedly a man to fill a mayoral chair with dignity and fulness, was Abraham Kellet.

I thought as I rode into Sicaster that eventful morning of the story of its new mayor's life. Like myself, Abraham was the son of a farmer, but whereas my father was a man of considerable substance, his was a poor man who had to work hard, early and late, to make a living out of a farm the land of which was poor. I have always had an idea that it was my father who paid for Abraham's schooling at Sicaster Grammar School, though it is but an idea, because he was the last man in the world to let his left hand know what his right hand did. Anyway, Benjamin Kellet was a poor man, as things go, and had a growing family to keep, Abraham being the eldest, and none of his other children got more education than the village school afforded for the customary fee of two-pence a-week. Why Abraham went from the village school to Sicaster Grammar School was because he was regarded as a very promising youth, whose education ought to be improved. The village school-master, in fact, when Abraham was twelve years old, said that he could not teach him any more—no very great thing in those days when nothing was taught but reading, writing and arithmetic, with perhaps a smattering of English history and a little grammar and geography—and that it was no use his staying any longer at the red-tiled school-house, which lay under the shadow of the church. Possibly the parson and my father (who was vicar's churchwarden for many a long year before his death) put their heads together about Abraham. However the case may have been, Abraham was sent to Sicaster Grammar School with the understanding that he was to remain there two years, when it would be time for him to be apprenticed to some trade. He made his entrance there the same day that I did—that was where I got to know him better. I had known him, of course, all along, but not intimately, because my mother had insisted on having a governess for my two sisters—both dead now, many a long year ago!—and so I had never gone to the village school, nor had I mixed much with the village boys. But when I was nine years old, my father said I had had quite enough of apron-strings, and I must go to Sicaster Grammar School, as soon as the next half began.

"To Sicaster Grammar School!" said my mother, speaking as if my father had said I was to go to the Cannibal Islands. "Why, Sicaster's six miles off! The child can't walk twelve miles a day and learn his lessons as well."

"Who wants him to?" asked my father. "He can have the little pony and phaeton and drive himself in and out. I'll buy another for you and the girls. And there's that eldest lad of Keller's—he's going, too, and he can drive with him."

"And his dinner?" said my mother.

"Give him it in a basket every day," replied my father. "And—put plenty in for two. He can share with young Kellet."

That was how I came to go to school with Abraham Kellet. I used to set off with the little pony-phaeton at a quarter to eight every morning and pick Abraham up at the end of the lane which led to his father's farm. At first he used to bring his dinner with him, but it soon became an understood thing that his dinner was in my basket—we made no pretence, and had no false ideas about it on either side. We used to jog into Sicaster with great content, put the pony and trap up at the King George and go to school. In winter we used to eat our meat pasties and our fruit pies and drink our milk in one of the class-rooms; in summer we spread our cloth under the trees on a certain knoll in the play-ground. And afternoon, school over we jogged home again as easily as we had come.

I have no great recollection of what I did at school, except that I had the usual healthy boy's dislike of mere book-learning, and was always unfeignedly glad when half-past four struck. Horses and dogs and the open air, cricket and fishing, and running after the fox-hounds when they came our way, appealed much more to me than anything else. I believe Abraham did most of my home exercises as we drove to and from school. As for himself he learned all he could—within certain limits. He would have nothing of Latin or Greek, but he slaved like a nigger at French, and during play-hours was always scheming to get into the company of the French teacher. He cared little about history, but a good deal about geography—French, arithmetic, and, above all, book-keeping were Abraham's great loves. His handwriting brought tears of joy and pride into the eyes of the writing-master; his figures might have been printed; his specimens of book-keeping would have done credit to a chartered accountant.

The reason of Abraham's devotion to these particular subjects was this—he had set his mind on being a—Draper. Not a small, pettifogging draper, to deal in cheap lines of goods, but a draper of the big sort who would call himself Silk Mercer. There stood in the centre of the market-place at Sicaster such an establishment—it was the daily sight of it which inspired Abraham's dreams. A solid, highly respectable establishment it was—though it would be thought old-fashioned now, it was considered to be something very grand then, and in its windows were set out the latest London and Paris fashions. There was a severely plain sign in black and gold over the windows under the Royal Arms, with an equally plain inscription—Paulsford and Tatham, Silk Mercers and Drapers to H.M. the Queen.

"That's where I mean to be apprenticed, Poskitt," said Abraham, as we set out one afternoon across the market-place. "That's the trade I fancy. No farming for me. Farming! Slaving all day after a plough and coming home up to your eyes in clay and as tired as a dog—and then nothing to show at the year-end! No, thank you!"

"That's not my father's life," I said.

He shook his head knowingly.

"Your father's a rich man," he said. "I know. I keep my eyes open. No—I'm going into that business."

I looked at him, trying to imagine him behind a counter, selling laces and ribbons. He was a big, heavy boy, whose clothes were always too small for him, and it seemed to me even then that it would look queer to see such big hands handling delicate things.

"That's why I give so much attention to figures and to French, you see, Poskitt," he said presently. "You can't get on in business unless you're good at figures and book-keeping, and if you can speak French you're at a great advantage over fellows who can't, because you stand a chance of being sent over to Paris to see and buy the latest fashions."

"Give me farming and a good horse and a good dog and gun!" said I.

"Yes," he said, "but you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. I've got my way to make. I shall make it. I'll be Mayor of Sicaster some day."

The first step towards Abraham's attainment of that wish came when he left the Grammar School and was duly apprenticed to Messrs. Paulsford and Tatham. He was then fourteen, and because of his big frame, heavy countenance, and solemn expression, looked older. I used to see him in the shop sometimes when I went there with my mother or sisters—he assumed a tailed coat at a very early age and put on the true manner with it. His term of apprenticeship, as was usual in those days, was seven years—whether his indentures were cancelled or not I do not know, but he was buyer to the firm at eighteen and manager when he was twenty-one. He became known in Sicaster. His conduct was estimable, and everybody spoke well of him. Six days of the week found him at his post from eight to eight, and on Saturdays till ten; the seventh found him diligent in attendance on the services of the Church, and in teaching in the Sunday-school. He lodged with a highly-respectable widow lady, the relict of a deceased tradesman, and he was never known to pay anything but the most decorous attention to young women.

In this way ten years of Abraham's life passed—to all outward appearance with absolute smoothness. The wiseacres of Sicaster, especially those who congregated in snug bar-parlours and smoked their pipes and drank their grog of a winter's evening, wagged their heads and said that young Kellet must be saving a pretty penny, and that he well knew what he was about. And I believe that few people, either in Sicaster itself, or in the neighbourhood, were at all surprised when it was suddenly announced in the Sicaster Sentinel that the old-established business of Messrs. Paulsford and Tatham had, because of the great age and failing health of the sole remaining partner, Mr. Jonas Tatham, been sold to their manager, Mr. Abraham Kellet, who would in future carry it on in his own name.

So now the old sign came down and a new one went up, and Abraham was no longer the watchful, ubiquitous manager, but the lynx-eyed omnipresent master. The look of power came into his eyes and manner; he trod the streets and crossed the market-place with the tread of a man who had a stake in the town. Men who knew him as an apprentice boy were quick to "sir" him; some, to cap him; he had shown that he could make money. Everybody knew now that he was going to write his name in large letters on the rolls of Sicaster, whereon there were already a good many names that were not of inconsiderable note.

And then, just as Abraham seemed to have settled down to the opening stages of a brilliant commercial career of his own building, a great calamity happened. It happened just when it might have been least expected to happen—for all things seemed auspicious for Abraham's greatness. He had bought a handsome house and was furnishing it handsomely. He had just become engaged to the daughter and only child of Alderman John Chepstow, who was a heiress in her own right and might be expected to inherit her father's considerable fortune in due time. Fortune seemed to be smiling upon him in her widest and friendliest fashion. Suddenly she frowned.

One night the quiet, sleeping streets of Sicaster were suddenly roused to hitherto unknown noise and activity. The rushing of feet on the pavement, the rattle of horses' hoofs on the cobble-stones, the throwing up of casements, the inarticulate cries of frightened people—all these things culminated in one great cry—Fire! And men and women rushing into the market-place saw that the stately old shop, Paulsford and Tatham's for sixty years, and Abraham Kellet's for two, was on fire from top to bottom, and that high above the holocaust of flame a thick cloud of black smoke rose slowly towards the moon-lit sky.

Kellet's, late Paulsford and Tatham's, was burnt to the ground ere the daylight came. There was one small fire-engine in the basement of the Town Hall, which spat at the fire as a month-old kitten spits at a mastiff, and when the brigades arrived from Clothford, twelve miles away in one direction, and Wovefield, eight in another, there was little but a few walls. They who saw it, told me that Abraham Kellet, arriving early on the scene and seeing the hopelessness of the situation, took up his stand on the steps of the market-cross, opposite, and watched his property burn until the roof fell in. He never uttered a word all that time, though several spoke to him, and when all was over, he turned away home. Then a reporter tugged at his elbow, and asked him if he was insured. He stared at the man for a moment as if he was mad; then he nodded his head.

"Yes—yes!" he answered. "Oh, yes!"

Everybody was very sorry for Abraham Kellet—although he was insured against fire it seemed to the Sicaster folk that a disaster like this must cripple his business. But they did not know Abraham. He seemed to be the only person who was really unconcerned, and he immediately developed a condition of extraordinary activity. There was a large building in the town which had been built as a circus—before ten o'clock of the morning after the fire Abraham had taken this and had sent circulars round announcing that his business would be carried on there until his new premises were built. He added that the temporary premises would be ready for the reception of customers in four days. Then he completely disappeared. People laughed, and said that he must have lost his reason. How could he have temporary premises open in four days when every rag of his stock had perished? How could he make that old circus, damp and musty, into a place where people could go shopping?

But Abraham was one of those men who refuse to believe in impossibilities. How he managed to do it, no one ever knew who was not actively concerned. But when the temporary premises were opened the old circus had been transformed into a sort of bazaar, and there was such a stock as had never been seen in the old shop. The whole town crowded there, and the county families came, and everybody wanted to congratulate Abraham. But having seen the temporary premises fairly going, Abraham was off on another track—he was busy with architects about the plans of the new shop. He laid the foundation stone of that himself, well within a month of the big fire.

The new shop was finished and opened just twelve months later—competent critics said it was as fine as a London or Paris shop, excepting, of course, for size. The day after the opening Abraham married Miss Chepstow, and indulged himself with a week's holiday. Then Mr. and Mrs. Kellet settled down in their fine house to a life of money-making and social advancement. And Abraham in time had leisure to devote to municipal affairs and became a councillor, and then an alderman, and at last reached the height of his ambition and saw the mayoral chair and chain and robes before him—close at hand.

"I've got my way to make. I shall make it. I'll be Mayor of Sicaster some day!"

II

I thought of all those things, as one will, half-unconsciously, think of memories when something recalls them, as I rode into Sicaster that chilly and foggy November morning to take part in the grand doings which always mark the election of a new mayor in that historic town. There would be ample opportunity for Abraham to display his greatness. First the election in the Council Chamber in the Town Hall; then the procession through the market-place to the parish church; finally, the mayoral banquet in the evening—Abraham, I said to myself, thinking of the time when I used to drive him to school and he shared my dinner, would (as we say in these parts) be in full pomp all day.

I was chilled with my ride, and when I had seen my mare stabled at the King George I turned into the bar-parlour to take a glass of whisky. There were several townsmen hob-a-nobbing there, as they always do when there is a general holiday in the town (and not seldom when there isn't!), and, of course, all the talk was of the mayor-elect. And one man, a tradesman, who as I knew (from sad experience on market-days) was uncommonly fond of hearing himself talk, was holding forth on the grandeur of those careers which begin at the bottom of the ladder and finish at the top.

"The self-made man, gentlemen," he was saying when I entered, "the self-made man is the king of men! What is a Peer of the Realm, gentlemen—yes, I will even go further, and with all respect say, what is the Sovereign in comparison with the man who has made himself out of nothing? Our worthy mayor-elect——"

"Why," said another man, interrupting the wordy one and espying me, "I believe Mr. Poskitt there used to drive Abraham into school in Sicaster here when they were lads together. Wasn't that so, Mr. Poskitt, sir?"

"You are quite right, sir," I replied, "and Mr. Kellet used to say in those days that he would be Mayor of Sicaster."

"Aye, look there now, gentlemen!" exclaimed the loquacious one. "That just proves the argument which——"

But I gave no heed to him—as I have said, I got enough of him on market-days, and my attention had been attracted to a man, a stranger (you know how quickly we country-folk always spot a man who does not belong to us), who sat in a corner of the bar-parlour, which, as I should say, you are all very well aware, is a dimly-lighted room. He sat there, apart from everybody, a glass on the table before him, a cigar in his hand—and the cigar had been lighted, and had gone out, and while the other men talked he made no attempt to relight it, but sat quietly listening. He was an oldish man, well dressed in clothes which were, I considered, of foreign cut and material; his hair was grey and rather long and tangled about his eyes, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat well pulled down over his brows. "An artist gentleman," I thought, and then thought no more about him and finished my whisky and went out into the market-place.

My invitation was to Abraham's private house, from which, in accordance with custom, he was to be escorted by a few private friends to the Town Hall at eleven o'clock. It was a fine, indeed a noble house, standing in the market-place exactly in front of his shop, and the interior was as grand as the exterior—paintings and gildings and soft carpets and luxuries on all sides. Abraham kept a man-servant by that time, and I was conducted in state up a fine staircase to the drawing-room, where I found a goodly company already assembled—the Vicar, and the Town Clerk, and some of the aldermen and big-wigs of the place, and Abraham in his usual—but new—attire of broadcloth and white linen, and his wife and two daughters in silks and satins, and everything very stately. There were rare wines set out on the tables, but I took a drop more whisky. And presently Abraham grasped my arm and led me across to one of the windows overlooking the market-place.

"Poskitt!" he said, in a low voice, "do you remember when you used to drive me into school and share your dinner with me?"

"I do," said I.

He waved his hand—a big white hand, with a fine diamond ring sparkling on it—towards the shop and then around him.

"Didn't I say I would be Mayor of Sicaster?" he said.

"You did," said I.

He put his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat—a favourite trick of his when he stood in the middle of his shop, looking about him—and spread himself out like a turkey-cock.

"And before noon I shall be, Poskitt!" he said. "The poor lad has become the great——"

He suddenly broke off there, and I saw his broad countenance, which was usually ruddy, turn as white as paste. He leaned forward, staring through the window with eyes that looked like to start out of his head. And following his glance I saw, standing on the opposite side of the market-place, and staring curiously at Kellet's house, the stranger whom I had seen a quarter of an hour before in the bar-parlour of the King George. He looked from window to window, up, down, and sauntered carelessly away.

Abraham Kellet pulled himself together and glanced suspiciously at me. There was a queer look on his face and he tried to smile—and at the same time he put his hand to his heart.

"Don't say anything, Poskitt," he said, looking round. "A slight spasm—it's nothing. The excitement, eh, Poskitt? And—it's time we were making a move."

He went back to the middle of the room and asked his company to join him in a final glass before setting out for the Town Hall, at the same time bidding his wife and daughters to be off to their places in the gallery set apart for ladies. And I noticed when he helped himself to a drink that he filled a champagne glass with brandy, and drank it off at a gulp, and that his hand trembled as he lifted the glass to his lips. Others, no doubt, noticed that too, and set it down to a very natural nervousness. He laughed, somewhat too boisterously, at an old-fashioned joke which the Vicar (who was as fond of his fun as he was of old port) made—that, too, might have been put down to nervousness. But I attributed neither the shaking hand nor the forced laughter to nervousness—it seemed to me that Abraham Kellet was frightened.

I told you that it was the custom in those days for the mayor-elect to be accompanied from his private residence to the Town Hall by a company of his friends—it was a further custom that each man walking in this little informal procession should carry what we then called a nosegay, and is now-a-days called a bouquet, of flowers. And so as we filed down the wide staircase of Abraham Kellet's house, each of us received at the hands of the man-servant a fine posy of such autumn blooms as were procurable. Thus decorated we went out into the market-place, passing between two groups of people who had gathered on either side the entrance to see the mayor-elect leave his house. They set up a hearty cheer as Abraham's burly figure came in sight, and that cheering continued all the way to the Town Hall, with an occasional blessing thrown in from old women who hoped, later in the day, to be sharers in the new mayor's bounty. Abraham walked through the market-place with erect head and smiling face, nodding and bowing right and left, but I, walking just behind and a little on one side of him, saw that he kept looking about him as if he were searching for a face.

The Town Hall was full when Abraham's party arrived—full, except for the seats which they had reserved for the favoured. Those for our party were in the front row of the right-hand gallery—when I had got into mine I took a leisurely survey of the scene. The Town Hall at Sicaster is a chamber of some size and pretensions—at one end is a wide and deep platform, behind which is a sculpture representing the surrender of Sicaster Castle at the time of the Civil War, and upon this platform, arranged in their due order of precedence, were already assembled the aldermen and councillors of the borough. They sat in semicircles round the platform—in the middle space stood a velvet-covered table on which were set out the ancient insignia of Sicaster, the mace, the cap of maintenance, the seal, the Bible. Behind this table were set three chairs, the one in the middle being placed on a sort of dais, a much more imposing one than those which flanked it. In front of the platform were seats for the grandees of the town, extending half-way down the hall, the remainder of which was open to the public, who had already packed it to its full extent. The right-hand gallery, in which I sat, was reserved for friends of members of the corporation; the opposite gallery for ladies, and in the front row there, immediately overlooking the platform, were Mrs. Kellet and her daughters, proud and beaming. The gallery at the rear of the hall was, like the lower half below, thrown open to the public. And glancing its packed rows over I saw, sitting immediately over the clock in the centre of the balustrade, the man whom I had seen in the King George and afterwards staring at Abraham Kellet's house.

He was sitting with his elbows fixed on the balustrade in front of him, and his chin propped in his hands, staring intently at the scene and the people. It seemed to me (and even twenty years ago, when I was only a matter of fifty odd years old, I flattered myself a bit on reading people's faces!) that he was recognizing, calling to mind, noting the differences which time makes. Without moving body or head, he let his eyes slowly search the galleries on either side of him just as they were searching the platform when I first saw him. And I began to wonder with a vague uneasiness who this man was and what he did there. Was he a mere stranger, actuated by curiosity to see an old English ceremony, or was he there of set purpose? And why had Abraham Kellet been moved at sight of him? For I was sure he had.

There was a bustle and a stir, and the outgoing Mayor, accompanied by his deputy, the Town Clerk, and the other officials came on to the platform, accompanied by Abraham Kellet and two or three other aldermen, who passed to their usual seats. I saw Abraham, as he sat down, glance around the crowded hall with that glance which I had noticed in the marketplace. And I saw, too, that he did not see the man who sat over the clock. But now that Abraham was there, on the platform, in his aldermanic robes, the man had no eyes for anything but him. He watched him as I have seen a cat watch the hole out of which it knows a mouse is going to emerge.

The proceedings began. As Abraham's proposer and seconder moved his election, Abraham seemed to swell out more and more and his wife's beam assumed a new dignity. All the civic virtues were his, according to Alderman Gillworthy; it was he who, as Chairman of the Watch Committee, had instituted a new system of clothing for the police; it was he who, as Chairman of the Waterworks Committee, had provided Sicaster with pure drinking water. Mr. Councillor Sparcroft dealt more with his moral virtues, remarking that Alderman Gillworthy had exhausted the list of their friend's municipal triumphs. He reminded the Council that Abraham was a shining example of rectitude, and drew the eyes of the whole assemblage on Mrs. Kellet and her daughters when he spoke of him feelingly as a model husband and father. He referred to him as a Sunday-school teacher of well over thirty years' standing; as vicar's churchwarden for over twenty; he was connected with all the benevolent societies, and the poor knew him. Then the councillor, who was celebrated for his oratory, turned to the business side of Abraham's history and sketched his career in trenchant sentences and glowing colours. His humble origin—his early ambitions—his perseverance—his strenuous endeavours—his misfortune at a time when all seemed fair—his mounting, Phoenix-like, from the ashes—his steady climb up the mountain of success—his attainment of its topmost height—all these things were touched on by the councillor, who wound up a flowery speech with a quotation from Holy Scripture—"Seest thou a man diligent in business?—he shall stand before kings!"

There was no opposition to Abraham Kellet—the Council was unanimous. He was duly elected Mayor of Sicaster—the three hundred and seventy-fifth since the old town received its charter.

I suppose there had never been such a moment of emotion in Abraham Kellet's life as when, duly installed in the mayoral chair, wearing the mayoral robes, invested with the mayoral chain, he rose to make his first speech as chief magistrate of Sicaster. For once the pomposity of manner which had grown upon him slipped away; he seemed to revert to a simple, a more natural self. He looked round him; he glanced at his wife and daughters; he caught my eye—it was a full moment before the applause which had greeted the Mayor's rising had died away that he could command himself to speak. When he spoke his first sentences were nervous and hesitating, but he gained confidence when he began to refer to Sparcroft's references to his career as a tradesman.

"You see before you one," he said, "who never knew what it was to fear a difficulty, who refused to believe in obstacles, who always meant to march on with the times, and who——"

He paused there for a second, for he was troubled with a slight cough that morning, and in that second a voice, penetrating, cold and sharp as steel and as merciless as the implacable avenger's hand when it drives steel home, rang out across the hall—

"And who burned his shop in order to get the insurance money!"

I have never had a clear recollection—no, I never had a clear realization—of what followed. I remember a sea of white, frightened faces, a murmur of voices, of seeing the man behind the clock stretching an accusing finger across the space between the gallery and the platform. And I remember Abraham Kellet, palsy-stricken, gripping the table before him and staring, staring at the accusing finger and the man behind it as one might stare at the Evil Thing. It seemed hours before that second passed and a cry, more like the cry of a lost soul than of a man, burst, dryly, hoarsely, from his lips—

"Aynesley! Come back!"

Then in all his mayoral finery he fell heavily across the table, and the mayoral chain rattled against the mace which had been carried before many an honest predecessor for twice two hundred years.

There was no procession to church that day and no mayoral banquet that night, but Sicaster had plenty to talk of, and it is a gossip-loving town. And the shameful story was all true. The fire of many a long year before was a clever piece of incendiarism on Abraham Kellet's part, and his manager Aynesley had detected his guilt and had been squared by Abraham, who had subsequently endeavoured, to put a nice phrase on it, to have him removed. And Aynesley had sworn revenge, and had worked and schemed until he, too, was a rich man—and he had bided his time, waiting to pull Abraham from the pinnacle of his glory just as he reached it.

Vanity of vanities—all is vanity! It is time for our nightcaps.

GOOD-NIGHT.

RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.