Dispossessed (Fletcher)

BY

HAT was one of the finest of all the fine mornings of that wonderful Spring, and Miriam Weere, when she saw the sunlight falling across the orchard in front of her cottage, and heard the swirl of the brown river mingling with the murmur of the bees in their hives under the apple trees, determined to do her day’s work out of doors. The day’s work was the washing of the week’s soiled linen, and no great task for a strapping young woman of five-and-twenty, whose arms were as muscular as her gipsy-coloured face was handsome. Miriam accordingly made no haste in beginning it—besides, there was the eighteen-months-old baby to wash and dress and feed. He woke out of a morning sleep as she finished her breakfast, and began to make loud demands upon her. She busied herself with him for the next hour, laughing to herself gleefully over his resemblance to his father, big blue-eyed, blonde-haired Michael; and then, carrying him out to the daisy-spangled grass of the orchard, she set him down beneath an apple tree, and left him grasping at the white and gold and green about him while she set out her wash-tubs a few yards away.

Miriam Weere had never a care in the world. Her glossy hair, dark as the plumage on a rook’s breast, her clear hazel eyes, her glowing cheeks, the round, full curves of her fine figure, combined with the quickness and activity of her movements, to prove her in possession of rude and splendid health. There was only another human being in Ashdale who could compete with her in the appearance of health or in good looks—her husband, Michael, a giant of well over six feet, who, like herself, had never known what it was to have a day’s illness. The life of these two in their cottage by the little Ash was one perpetual round of good humour, good appetite, a sound sleep. Nor was there any reason why they should take thought for the morrow—that is, unduly. Higher up the valley, set on a green plateau by the bank of the river, stood Ashdale Mill, between the upper and nether stones of which most of the grain grown in the neighbourhood passed. And Ashdale Mill was the property of Tobias Weere, Michael’s father, who was well known to be a rich man, and some day Michael would have

That was the only question which occasionally made Miriam knit her brows. What would Michael have when old Tobias died? The mill, the mill-house, the garden and orchard around it, two or three acres of land beside, and the fishing rights of the river from Ashdale Bridge to Brinford Meadows belonged absolutely to Tobias, who had bought the freehold of this desirable property when he purchased the goodwill of the business twenty years before. He had only two sons to succeed to whatever he left—Michael and Stephen. Michael was now general superintendent, manager, traveller, a hard indefatigable worker, who was as ready to give a hand with the grain and the flour as to write the letters and keep the books. Stephen, on the other hand, was a loafer. He was fonder of the village inn than of the mill, and of going off to race meetings or cricket matches than of attending to business. He was also somewhat given to conviviality, which often degenerated into intemperance, and he had lately married the publican’s daughter, a showy, flaunting wench whom Miriam thoroughly detested. Considering the difference that existed between the two.brothers, it seemed to Miriam that it would be grossly unfair to share things equally between them, and more than once she had said so to Michael. But Michael always shook his head.

“Share and share alike,” he said. ‘I ask no fairer, my lass.”

“Then,” she answered, “if it’s like that, you must try to buy Stephen out, for he’ll never do any good.”

“Ah, that’s more like it!” said Michael.

Miriam was thinking of these things as she plunged her strong arms into the frothing soap-suds and listened to her baby cooing under the apple trees. She had heard from a neighbour only the night before of some escapade in which Stephen had been mixed up, and her informant had added significantly that it was easy to see where Stephen’s share of old Toby’s money would go to when he got the handling of it. Miriam resolved that when Michael, who was away on business in another part of the country, came home she would once more speak to him about coming to an understanding with his brother. She was not the sort of woman to see a flourishing business endangered, and she never forgot that she was the mother of first-born. Some day, perhaps, she might see him master of the mill.

Save for the murmur of the river flowing at the edge of the garden beneath overhanging alders and willows, and the perpetual humming of the insects in tree and bush, the morning was very still and languorous, and sounds of a louder sort travelled far. And Miriam was suddenly aware of the clap-clap-clap of human, stoutly-shod feet flying down the narrow lane which ran by the side of the orchard. Something in the sound betokened trouble—she was already drying her hands and arms on her rough apron when the wicket-gate was flung open and a girl, red- faced, panting, burst in beneath the pink and white a the fruit trees.

“What is it, Eliza Kate?” demanded Miriam.

The girl pressed her hand to her side.

“It’s—th’—owd—amaister!” she panted. “Margaret Burton thinks he’s had—a stroke. An’ will you please to go quick.”

“Look to the child,” said Miriam, without a glance at him herself. “And bring him back with you.”

Then she set off at a swift pace up the steep, stony lane which led to Ashdale Mill. The atmosphere about it suggested nothing of death—the old place was gay with summer life, and the mill-wheel was throwing liquid diamonds into the sunlight with every revolution. Miriam saw none of these things; she hurried into the mill-house and onward into the living-room. For perhaps the first time in her life she was conscious of impending disaster—why or what she could not have told.

Old Tobias lay back in his easy-chair, looking very white and worn—his housekeeper, old Margaret Burton, stood at his side holding a cup. She sighed with relief as Miriam entered.

“Eh, I’m glad ye’ve comed, Mistress Michael!” she said. “I’m afeard th’ maister has had a stroke—he turned queer all of a sudden.”

“Have you sent for the doctor?” asked Miriam, going up to the old man and taking his hand.

“Aye, one o’ th’ mill lads has gone post haste on th’ owd pony,” answered the housekeeper. “But I’m afeard”

Tobias opened his eyes, and, seeing Miriam, looked recognition. His grey lips moved.

“’Tisn’ a stroke!” he whispered faintly. “It’s th’ end. Miriam, I want to say—summat to thee, my lass.”

Miriam understood that he had something which he wished to say to her alone, and she motioned the housekeeper out of the living-room.

“There’s a drop o’ brandy in the cupboard there,” said Tobias, when the door was closed upon himself and his daughter-in-law. “Gi’ me a sup, lass—it’ll keep me up till th’ doctor comes—there’s a matter I must do then. Miriam!”

“Yes, father?”

“Miriam, thou’s a clever woman and a strong ’un,” the old man went on when he had sipped the brandy. “I must tell thee summat that nobody knows, and thou must tell it to Michael when I’m gone—I daren’t tell him.”

Miriam’s heart leapt once and seemed to stand still; a sudden swelling seized her throat.

“Tell Michael?” she said. “Yes, father.”

“Miriam ... hearken. Michael—he weren’t—he weren’t born in wedlock!”

Michael’s wife was a woman of quick perception. The full meaning of the old man’s words fell on her with the force of a thunderstorm that breaks upon a peaceful countryside without warring. She said nothing, and the old man motioned her to give him more brandy.

“Weren’t born in wedlock,” he repeated, “and so is of course illergitimate and can’t heir nowt o’ mine. It was this way,” he went on, gathering strength from the stimulant. “His mother and me weren’t wed till after he were born—we were wed just before we came here. We came from a long way off—nobody knows about it in these parts. And, of course, Michael’s real name is Michael Oldfield—his mother’s name—and, by law, Stephen takes all.”

“Stephen takes all!” she repeated in a dull voice.

Old Tobias Weere’s eyes gleamed out of the ashen-grey of his face, and his lips curled with the old cunning which Miriam knew well.

“But I ha’ put matters right,” he said with a horrible attempt at a smile, “I ha’ put matters right. Didn’t want to do it till th’ end, ’cause folk will talk, and I can’t abide talking. I ha’ made a will leaving one-half o’ my property to my son, Stephen Weere; t’other half to Michael Oldfield, otherwise known as Michael Weere, o’ Millrace Cottage, Ashdale, i’ th’ county”

The old man’s face suddenly paled, and Miriam put more brandy to his lips. After a moment he pointed to a bunch of keys lying on the table beside him, and then to an ancient bureau which stood in a dark corner of the living-room. “It’s i’ th’ top—drawer—th’ will,” he whispered. “Get it out, my lass, and lay the writing things o’ th’ table—doctor and James Bream’ll witness it, an’ then all will be in order. ’Cause, you see, somed’y might chance—along as knew the secret, an’ would let out that Michael were born before we were wed, an’ then”

Sick and cold with the surprise and horror of this news, Miriam took the keys and went over to the old bureau. There, in the top drawer, lay a sheet of parchment—she knew little of law matters, but she saw that this had been written by a practised hand. She set it out on the table with pen and ink and blotting-paper—in silence.

“A lawyer chap in London town, as axed no questions, drew that there,” murmured Tobias. “Wants naught but signing and witnessing and the date putting in. Why doesn’t doctor come, and Jim Bream on the owd pony? Go to th’ house door, lass, and see if ye can see ’em coming.”

Miriam went out into the stone-paved porch, and, shading her aching eyes, looked across the garden. Eliza Kate had arrived with the baby, and sat nursing it beneath the lilac trees. It caught sight of its mother, and stretched its arms and lifted its voice to her. Miriam gave no heed to it—her heart was heavy as the grey stones she stood on.

She waited some minutes—then two mounted figures came in sight far down the lane, and she turned back to the living-room. And on the threshold she stopped, and her hand went up to her bosom before she moved across to the old man’s chair. But the first glance had told her what the second confirmed. Tobias was dead.

Miriam hesitated one moment. Then she strode across the living-room, and, snatching up the unsigned will, folded it into a smaller compass, and thrust it within the folds of her gown.

It was matter of wonder to everybody, and nobody more so than her husband, that Miriam appeared to be so much affected by her father-in-law’s death. It was not that she made any demonstration’s of grief, but that an unusual gloom seemed to settle over her. Never gay in the girlish sense, she had always been light-hearted and full of smiles and laughter; during the first days which followed the demise of old Tobias she went about her duties with a knitted brow, as if some sudden care had settled upon her Michael saw it, and wondered; he had respected his father and entertained a filial affection for him, but his death did not trouble him to the extent of spoiling his appetite or disturbing his sleep. He soon saw that Miriam ate little: he soon guessed that she was sleeping badly. And on the fourth day after his hurried return home—the eve of the funeral—he laid his great hand on her shoulder as she was stooping over the child’s cradle and turned her round to face him.

“What’s the matter, my lass?” he said kindly. “Is there aught amiss? You are as quiet as the grave, and you don’t eat, nor get sleep. The old father’s death can’t make that difference. He was old—very old— and he’s a deal better off.”

“There is such a lot to think of just now,” she replied evasively.

Michael, man-like, mistook her meaning.

“Oh, aye, to be sure there is, lass,” he agreed. “To-morrow’ll be a busyish day, of course, for I expect there’ll be half the countryside here at the burying, and, of course, they all expect refreshment. However, there’ll be no stint of that, and, after all, they’ll only want a glass of wine and a funeral biscuit. And as for the funeral dinner, they—there’ll only be you and me, and Stephen and his wife, and your father and mother, and Stephen’s wife’s father and mother, and the lawyer.”

“The lawyer!” exclaimed Miriam. “What lawyer?”

“What lawyer? Why, Mr. Brooke, o’ London, to be sure,” answered Michael. “Who else?”

“What’s he coming for?” asked Miriam.

“Coming for? Come, my lass, your wits are going and woolgathering,” said Michael. “What do lawyers come to funerals for? To read father’s will, of course!”

“Is there a will?” she asked.

“Made five years ago, Mr. Brooke said this afternoon,” he replied.

“Do you know what’s in it?” she asked.

Michael laughed—laughed loudly.

“Nay, come, love!” he said. “Know what’s in it! Why, nobody knows what’s in a will until the lawyer unseals and reads it after the funeral dinner.”

“I didn’t know,” she said listlessly.

“But, of course, that’s neither here nor there,” said Michael; “and I must away to make a few last arrangements. If there’ll be too much work for you to-morrow, Miriam, you must get another woman in from the village.”

“There'll not be too much work, Michael,” she answered.

In her heart she wished there was more work—work that would keep her from thinking of the secret which the dead man had left with her. It had eaten deep into her soul and had become a perpetual torment, for she was a woman of great religious feeling and strict ideas of duty, and she did not know where her duty lay in this case. She knew Michael for a proud man, upon whom the news of his illegitimacy would fall as lightning falls on an oak come to the pride of its maturity; she knew, too, how he would curse his father for the wrong done to his mother, of whom he had been passionately fond. Again, if she told the truth, Michael would be bereft of everything. For Stephen was not fond of his brother, and Stephen’s wife hated Miriam. If Stephen and his wife heard the truth, and proved it, Michael would be—nobody. For, after all, Tobias had not had time to make amends.

And now there was the news of this will held by Lawyer Brooke! What could there be in it, and how was it that Tobias had not spoken of it? Could it be that he had forgotten it? She knew that for some years he had been more or less eccentric, subject to moods and to gusts of passion, though there had never been any time when his behaviour would have warranted anyone in suspecting his mind to be affected or even clouded. Well—she could do nothing but leave the matter until to-morrow when the dead man’s will was read.

As wife of the elder son, Miriam was hostess next day, and everybody who saw her marvelled at two things—one, the extraordinary pallor on her usually brightly tinted cheeks; the other, the quiet way in which she went about her duties. She was here, there, and everywhere, seeing to the comfort of the funeral guests; but she spoke little, and keenly observant eyes would have said that she moved as if in a dream. At the formal funeral she ate little; it was an effort to get that little down. As the time drew near for the reading of the will, she could scarcely conceal her agitation, and when they were at last all assembled in the best parlour to hear Tobias’s testament declared, she was glad that she sat at a table beneath which she could conceal her trembling fingers.

She wondered why Mr. Brooke was so long in cleaning his spectacles, so long in sipping his glass of port, so slow in breaking the seal of the big envelope which he took from his pocket, why he hum’d and ha’d so before he began reading: But at last he began....

It was a briefly worded will, and very plain in its meaning. Having cause, it set forth, to be highly displeased with the conduct of his younger son, Stephen, and to believe that he would only waste a fortune if it were left to him, Tobias left everything of which he died possessed to his elder son, Michael, on condition that Michael secured to Stephen from the time of his (Tobias’s) demise, a sum of three pounds a week, to which a further sum of one pound a week might be added if Stephen’s conduct was such as to satisfy Michael. If Stephen died before his father, Michael was to make a similar allowance to his widow.

The various emotions which had agitated Miriam were almost forgotten by her in the tumult which followed. Stephen’s wife and her father and mother broke out into loud denunciation of the will; Stephen himself, after staring at the solicitor for a moment, as if he could not credit the evidence of his own eyes or ears, smote the table heavily and jumped to his feet.

“It’s a damned lie!” he shouted. And he made as if he would snatch the will and tear it to pieces. Mr. Brooke calmly replaced it in his pocket, and as calmly sipped his port.

“On the contrary, my friend,” he said. “And—it is your father’s will.”

“Father!” sneered Stephen’s wife’s mother. “A nice father to”

Michael rose with a gesture that brought silence.

“None of that!” he said. “Who’s master here? I am! Say a word against my dead father, any of you, and by God! out you go, neck and crop, man or woman. Now, then, you’ll listen to me. I’m bound to say, with every respect for him, that I don’t agree with this will of my father’s. My wife here’ll bear me out when I say that my idea as regards Stephen and myself coming into his property was—share and share alike. It seems father had other notions. However, everything is now mine—I’m master. Now, a man can do what he chooses with his own. So listen, Stephen. Give up that drinking, and gambling, and such-like, and come to work again and be a man, and you shall have one-half of all that there is. But, mind you, I’ve the whip hand, and you'll have to prove yourself. Prove yourself, and we’ll soon set matters straight. 1 want no more than my half, and now that all’s mine—well, law or no law, I'll share with you ... but you’ll have to show that you can keep my conditions.

Everybody’s eyes were fixed on Stephen Weere. He sat for a moment staring at the table—then, with a curse, he flung out of the room. The smell of the old flesh-pots was still in his nostrils; the odour of the wine-pots in his remembrance—a fact which probably sent him to the little room in which the refreshments of a liquid sort had been set out. He helped himself to a stiff glass of brandy and water, and had gulped half of it down when he felt certain fingers lay themselves appealingly on his left elbow. He turned with a curse, to encounter the witch-like countenance and burning eyes of the old housekeeper, Margaret Burton.

“What do you want, you old hag?” he said, with another curse. “Get out!”

But the old woman stood—her bony fingers still on his arm.

“Mester Stivven!” she said. “Mester Stivven! Has he—has he left me out?”

Stephen burst into a harsh laugh and re-filled his glass.

“Left you out?” he exclaimed jeeringly. “Left you out? He’s left nobody nowt but Michael—curse him! He’s left him—all there is!”

Margaret Burton drew back for a second and stared at him. He drew himself away from her eyes. Suddenly she laid her hand on him again.”

“Mester Stivven,” she said coaxingly, “come wi’ me—I ha’ summat to tell you. Come!”

Ten minutes later Stephen walked into the best parlour, followed by Margaret Burton. Michael was engaged in an earnest conversation with the rest, and especially with Stephen’s wife, as to Stephen’s future. Stephen lifted a commanding hand.

“Stop that!” he said. “We’ve had enough of you—we’ll see who’s master here. My turn,” he went on, as Michael would have spoken. “Come forward, Margaret. This woman, Mr. Brooke, has been my father’s housekeeper since my mother died, and was servant for years before that—weren’t you, Margaret?”

“Twelve years before that, sir.”

“Twelve years before that—and in my mother’s confidence,” Stephen continued.

“Now, then, Margaret, take Mr. Brooke into that corner. Tell him what you’ve told me about what my mother told you the week she died, and give him those papers she left with you to prove what she said. And then—then we’ll see, we’ll see!”

The rest of the people watched the whispered colloquy between the solicitor and the old woman with mingled feelings. It was a large, rambling room, with great embrasures to the windows, and nobody could hear a word that was said. But Miriam knew that she was not the only possessor of the secret, and she unconsciously slid her hand into Michael’s.

Lawyer Brooke, some folded papers in his hand, came back with knitted brow and troubled eyes. He was going to speak, but Stephen stopped him.

“I’m master here,” he said. “Margaret, come this way.” He pointed to Michael. “What’s that man’s real name?” he asked, with an evil sneer. “Is it—well, now, what is it? ’Cause, of course, it isn’t what mine is. Mine is my father’s—mine’s Weere.”

“No, sir—it’s Oldfield. His mother’s name—’cause, of course, he were born out of wedlock. Your father and mother wedded later on.”

In the silence that followed Miriam heard the beating of Michael’s heart. He rose slowly, staring about him from one to the other.

“It’s not—true?” he said questioningly. “It’s a”

Miriam rose at his side and laid both hands on his arm.

“It’s true, Michael,” she said. “It’s true. Your father told me ten minutes before he died.”

Michael looked down at her, and suddenly put his arm round her and kissed her.

“Come away, Miriam,” he said, as if the others were shadows. “Come away. Let’s go home—the child’ll be wanting us.”