Читать книгу: «Furze the Cruel», страница 22
In the morning all was white and dazzling; the big tors had nearly doubled in size, and the sides of Tavy Cleave were bulging as though pregnant with little Tavy Cleaves. It was a glorious day, one of those days when the ordinary healthy person wants to stand on his head or skip about like a young unicorn. The sun was out, the sky was as blue as a baby's eyes, and the clouds were like puffs of cigarette smoke. Peter embraced himself, recorded in his work of creation that it was all very good, then floundered outside and made for the well. He shovelled a foot of snow from the cover, wound up the bucket, caught a glimpse of yellow water, and then of something golden, more precious than water, air, or sunshine, brave yellow pieces of gold, five in number, worth one-hundred-and-twenty pints of beer apiece. They were lying at the bottom of the bucket like a beautiful dream. Peter had come into a fortune; his teeth informed him that the coins were genuine, his tongue sent the glad tidings to Mary, his mind indulged in potent flights of travel and dissipation. He had inherited twelve hundred pints of beer.
"Aw, Peter," Mary was calling. "There ha' been witches abroad to-night."
"They'm welcome," cried Peter.
"Look ye here," Mary went on in a frightened voice. "Look ye here, will ye? Here be a whist sight, I reckon."
Mary was standing near the edge of the cleave, knee-deep in snow, looking down. When Peter floundered up to her side she said nothing, but pointed at the snow in front. Peter's hilarious countenance was changed, and the five sovereigns in his hand became like so many pieces of ice. The snow ahead was marked with footprints, not those of an animal, not those of a man. The marks were those of a biped, cloven like a cow's hoof but much larger, and they travelled in a perfectly straight line across the moor, and behind them the snow was ruffled occasionally as by a tail. Peter began to blubber like a frightened child.
"'Tis him," he muttered.
"Aw ees, 'tis him," said Mary, "Us shouldn't meddle wi' mommets and such. 'Tis sure to bring 'en."
"He must ha' come up over from Widdecombe in the snow," gasped Peter.
"Going beyond?" asked Mary, with a motion of her head.
"Ees," muttered Peter. "Us will see which way he took."
"T'row the gold away, Peter. T'row 'en away," pleaded Mary.
"I wun't," howled Peter. He wouldn't have parted with his six hundred pints of beer for ten thousand devils.
They floundered on beside the weird hoof-prints, never doubting who had caused them. It was not the first visit that the devil, who, as Peter had rightly observed, has his terrestrial country house at Widdecombe, had paid to those parts. His last recorded visit had been to Topsham and its neighbourhood half-a-century before, when he had frightened the people so exceedingly that they dared not venture out of their houses even in daylight. That affair had excited the curiosity of the whole country, and although some of the wisest men of the time tried to find a satisfactory solution of the problem they only ended by increasing the mystery. The attractions of the west country have always proved irresistible to his Satanic Majesty. From his country home at Widdecombe-on-the-Moor he had sallied out repeatedly to fight men with their own carnal weapons. He tried to hinder Francis Drake from building his house with the stones of Buckland Abbey, and nobody at that time wondered why he had taken the Abbey under his special protection, though people have wondered since. It was the devil who, disguised as a simple moorman, invited the ambitious parson and his clerk to supper, and then led them into the sea off Dawlish. There can be no doubt about the truth of that story, because the parson and clerk rocks are still to be seen by any one. It was on Heathfield, near the Tavy, that the old market-woman hid the hare that the devil was hunting in her basket, and declared to the gentleman with the tail she had never seen the creature. It was the devil who spoilt the miraculous qualities of St. Ludgvan's well by very rudely spitting in the water; who jumped into the Lynher with Parson Dando and his dogs; and it was the devil who was subdued temporarily by Parson Flavel of Mullion; who was dismissed, again temporarily, to the Red Sea by Parson Dodge of Talland because he would insist upon pulling down the walls of the church as fast as they were built; and who was routed from the house that he had built for his friend the local cobbler in Lamorna Cove by famous Parson Corker of Bosava. Mary and Peter knew these stories and plenty of others. They didn't know that a canon authorising exorcism of the devil is still a part of the law of the established Church, and that most people, however highly educated, are little less superstitious than themselves.
The hoof-prints went towards the village, regardless of obstacles. They approached walls, and appeared again upon the other side without disturbing the fresh snow between, a feat which argued either marvellous jumping powers or the possession of wings. Peter and Mary followed them in great fear, until they saw two men ahead engaged in the same occupation, one of them making merry, the other of a sad countenance, the merry man suggesting that a donkey had been that way, the other declaring it was the devil. "Donkeys ain't got split hoofs," he stated; while his companion indicated a spot where the snow was much ruffled and said cheerfully: "'Tis where he swindged his tail."
Nearer the village the white moor was dotted with black figures, all intent upon the weird markings, none doubting who had caused them. The visitant had not passed along the street, but had prowled his way across back gardens, taking hedges and even cottages in his stride. Peter and Mary went on, left the majority of villagers, who were lamenting together as if the visitation was not altogether disagreeable to them, and found themselves presently near Lewside Cottage. Boodles was walking in the snow, hatless, her hands clasped together, her face white and frightened, taking no notice of the hoof-prints which went through the garden, but wandering as if she was trying to find her way somewhere, and had lost herself, and was wondering if she would find any one who would put her on the right road.
"She'm mazed," said Peter. "Mebbe her saw him go through."
"Aw, my dear, what be ye doing?" called Mary. "Nought on your feet, and your stockings vull o' snow. He never come for yew, my dear. He'm a gentleman, and wun't harm a purty maid. Be'ye mazed, my dear?"
"Mary," murmured the child very softly, raising both hands to her radiant head. "Come with me. I'm frightened."
"Us wun't let 'en touch ye," cried Mary valiantly. "I'll tak' my gurt stick to 'en if he tries."
Boodles caught her big hand and held it tightly. She had not even noticed the footprints. She did not know why all the villagers were out, or what they were doing on the moor.
"He won't wake," she said. "I have never known him sleep like this. I called him, and he does not answer. I shook him, and he would not move – and his eggs are hard-boiled by this time."
"Bide here, Peter," said Mary shortly.
Then the big strong hermaphrodite put a brawny arm about the soft shivering little maid, and led her inside the cottage, and up the stairs – how mournful they were, and how they creaked! – and into the quiet little bedroom, with the snow sliding down the window-panes, and the white light glaring upon the bed, where Abel Cain Weevil was lying upon his back, and yet not his back, but its back, for the old man was so very tired that he went on sleeping, though his eggs were hard-boiled and his little girl was terrified. The Brute had passed over in the night, not a very cruel Brute perhaps, and had placed his hand on the old man's mouth and stopped his breathing; and the poor old liar liked it so well he thought he wouldn't wake up again, but would go on sleeping for a long time, so that he would forget the rabbit-traps, and his petitions which nobody would sign, and his letters which had done no good. He had forgotten everything just then, but not Boodles, surely not his little maid, who was sobbing in Mary's savage and tender arms. He could not have forgotten the radiant little girl, and he would go on lying for her in his sleep if necessary, although he had been selfish enough to go away in such a hurry, and leave her – to the lonely life.
CHAPTER XXI
ABOUT WINTER IN REAL LIFE
Old moormen said it was one of the worst winters they could remember, not on account of the cold, but because of the gales and persistent snow. The first fall soon melted, but not entirely; a big splash of white remained on Ger Tor until a second fall came; and when that melted the splash remained, asking for more, and in due time receiving it. People found it hard to get about; some parts of the moor were inaccessible; and the roads were deep in slush when they were not heaped with drifts. It was a bad winter for men and animals; and it made many of the old folk so disgusted with life that they took the opportunity offered them by severe colds to get rid of it altogether.
The villages above the Tavy appeared to be deserted during that dreary time. It was a wonder how people hid themselves, for the street was empty day after day, and a real human being crossing from one side to the other was a sight to bring faces to the windows. One face was often at a certain window, a frightened little white face, which had forgotten how to laugh even when some old woman slipped up in the slush, and its eyes would look first on one side, then on the other, generally without seeing anything except the bare moor, which was sometimes black, and sometimes white, and always dreary. Boodles was alone in Lewside Cottage, her only companions the mice which she hated, and the eternal winds which made her shiver and had plucked the roses from her cheeks until hardly a pink petal remained. Boodles was feeling as much alone without old Weevil as Brightly was feeling without Ju. Sometimes she thought she might soon have to go out and tramp a portion of the world like him, and claim her share of open air and space, which was all the inheritance to which she was entitled.
To lead a lonely life on Dartmoor is unwholesome at any age; and when one is eighteen and a girl it is a punishment altogether too severe. Boodles had got through the first days fairly well because she was stunned, but when she began to wake up and comprehend how she was placed the horror bred of loneliness and wild winds took hold upon her. The first evil symptom was restlessness. She wandered about the cottage, not doing anything, but feeling she must keep on the move to prevent herself from screaming. She began to talk to herself, softly during the day as if she was rather afraid some one might be listening, and towards evening loudly, partly to assure herself she was safe, partly to drown the tempestuous noises of the wind. Then she fell into the trick of shuddering, of casting quick glances behind, and sometimes she would run into a corner and hide her face, because there were queer shadows in the room, and strange sounds upon the stairs, and the doors shook so, and she seemed to hear a familiar shuffling and a tender voice murmuring: "Boodle-oodle," and she would cover up all the mirrors, dreadfully afraid of seeing a comic old face in them. Sometimes when the wind was roaring its loudest over the moor she would rush up to her bedroom, lock the door, and scream. These were foolish actions, but then she was only eighteen.
It was getting on towards Christmas, and at last there was another moonlit night, full of wind and motion; and soon after Boodles had gone to bed she heard other sounds which frightened her so much she could not scream. She crept out of bed, got to the window, and looked out. A man was trying the door, and when he found it secure he went to the windows. The moonlight fell upon Pendoggat's head and shoulders. Boodles did not know of a rumour suggesting that old Weevil had been a miser, and had saved up a lot of money which was hidden in the cottage, but Pendoggat had heard it. She got back to her bed and fainted with terror, but the man failed to get in. The next day she went to see Mary, and told her what had happened. Mary spat on her hands, which was one of her primitive ways when she felt a desire to chastise any one, and picked up her big stick, "I'll break every bone in his body," she shouted.
Boodles comprehended what a friend and champion she had in this creature, who had much of a woman's tenderness, and all of a man's strength. To some it might have appeared ridiculous to hear Mary's threats, but it was not so. She was fully as strong as Pendoggat, and there was no cowardice in her.
"Aw, my dear," she went on, "yew bain't the little maid what used to come up for eggs and butter. Yew would come up over wi' red cheeks and laughing cruel, and saying to I: 'One egg for luck, Mary,' and I'd give it ye, my dear. If you'd asked I for two or dree I'd ha' given 'em. You'm a white little maid, and as thin getting as thikky stick. Don't ye ha' the decline, my dear. Aw now, don't ye. What will the butiful young gentleman say when he sees you white and thin getting?"
"Don't, Mary," cried Boodles, almost passionately; for she dared not think of Aubrey as a lover. Their love-days had become so impossible and unreal. She had written to him, but had said nothing of Weevil's death, afraid he might think she was appealing to him for help; neither had she signed herself Titania Lascelles, nor told him of her aristocratic relations. The story had appeared unreal somehow the morning after, and the old man's manner and audible whispers had aroused her suspicions. She thought it would be best to wait a little before telling Aubrey.
"What be yew going to du?" asked Mary, busy as ever, punching the dough in her bread-pan.
"I am going to try and hang on till spring, and then see if I can't make a living by taking in boarders," said the child seriously. "Mr. Weevil left a little money, and I have a tiny bit saved up. There will be just enough to pay rent, and keep me, if I am very careful."
"Butter and eggs and such ain't going to cost yew nought," said Mary cheerily, though Peter would have groaned to hear her.
"Oh, thank you, dear old Mary," said Boodles, her eyes glistening; while the bread-maker went at the dough as if she hated it. "I shall do splendidly," Boodles went on. "I have seen the landlord, and he will let me stay on. Directly the fine weather comes I shall put a card in the window, and I expect I shall get heaps of lodgers. I can cook quite well, and I'm a good manager. I ought to be able to make enough one half of the year to keep me the other half. Of course I shall only take ladies."
"Aw ees, don't ye tak' men, my dear. They'm all alike, and you'm a main cruel purty maid, though yew ha' got white and thin. If that young gentleman wi' the butiful face don't come and tak' ye, dalled if I wun't be after 'en wi' my gurt stick," cried Mary, pummelling the dough again.
"I asked you not to mention him," said Boodles miserably.
"I bain't to talk about 'en," cried Mary scornfully. "And yew bain't to think about 'en, I reckon. Aw, my dear, I've a gotten the heart of a woman, and I knows fine what yew thinks about all day, and half the night, though I mun't talk about it. I knows how yew puts out your arms and cries for 'en. Yew don't want a gurt big house like rectory, and yew don't want servants and railway travelling, but yew wants he, yew wants to hold on to 'en, and know he'm yourn, and shut your purty eyes and feel yew bain't lonesome – "
"Oh, Mary!" the child broke in, with something like a scream.
Mary left her pan and came and whitened the little girl's head with her doughy fingers, lending the bright hair a premature greyness.
"It's the loneliness," cried Boodles. "I thought it would not be so bad when I got used to it, but it's worse every day. I have to run on the moor, and make believe there is some one waiting for me when I get home. It's dreadful to feel the solitude when I go in, to find things just as I left them, to hear nothing except mice nibbling under the stairs; and then I have to go and turn on my windy organ, and try and believe I am amusing myself."
"Aw, my dear, yew mustn't talk to I so larned like. You'm as larned as Master," complained Mary.
"I'll tell you about my windy organ," Boodles went on, trying to force a little sunshine through what threatened to be steady rain. "With the wind, doors, and windows, I can play all sorts of marches. With my bedroom window open, and the door shut, the wind plays sad music, a funeral march; but when I shut my window, and open the one in the next room, it is loud and lively, like a military march. If I open the sitting-room window, and the one in the passage up-stairs, and shut all the doors, it is splendid, Mary, a coronation march. I hear the procession sweeping up-stairs, and the clapping of hands, and the crowd going to and fro, murmuring ah-ah-ah. But the best of all is when I open what was old daddy's bedroom window, and sit in my own room with the door shut, for the wind plays a wedding-march then, and I can make it loud or soft by opening and shutting my window. That is the march I play every evening till I get the shivers."
"She'm dafty getting," muttered Mary, understanding nothing of the musical principle of the little girl's amusement. "Don't ye du it, my dear," she went on. "'Twill just be making you mazed, and us will find ye jumping at the walls like a bumbledor on a window."
"I'll try and keep sensible, but there is Christmas, and January, and February. Oh, Mary, I shall never do it," cried Boodles. "I shall be mad before March, which is the proper time for madness."
"Get another maid to come and bide wi' ye," Mary suggested.
"How can I?"
"Mebbe some old dame, who wants a home – " began Mary.
"She would be an expense, and she might get drunk, rob me, beat me, perhaps."
"Her wouldn't," declared Mary, with a glance at her big stick.
"I must go on being alone and making believe," said Boodles.
"Won't the butiful young gentleman come and live wi' ye?" said poor Mary, quite thinking she had found a splendid way out of the difficulty.
"Silly old thing," sighed Boodles, actually smiling. Then she rose to go, and Mary tramped heavily to her dairy. "Tak' eggs and butter wi' ye," she called. "Aw, my dear, yew mun't starve, or you'll get decline. 'Tis cruel to go abroad on an empty stomach."
"I'm not a snake," said Boodles; and at that moment Peter appeared in search of thoughts, heard the conversation, agreed that it was indeed cruel to go abroad on an empty stomach, and went to record the statement in his diary, adding for the sake of a light touch the observation of Boodles that she was not a snake, though Peter could not see the joke.
Mary was a busy creature, but she found time that evening to stalk across the moor and down to Helmen Barton, where she banged at the door like the good champion Ethelred, hero of the Mad Trist, until the noise of her stick upon the door "alarummed and reverberated" throughout the hollow. When Annie appeared she was bidden to inform her master that if he ventured again near Lewside Cottage, or dared to frighten "my little maid," she, Mary, would come again with the stick in her hands, and use his body as she had just used his door. When Mary had spoken she turned to go, but the friendless woman called her, feeling perhaps that she too needed a champion, and Mary turned back.
"Come inside," said Annie in a strange voice, and Mary went, with the statement that she could not remain as the cows were waiting to be milked.
"Been to Lewside Cottage, has he? He'm crazed for money. He'd rob the little maid of her last penny, and pray for her whiles he was doing it," said Annie bitterly.
Mary said nothing, but her anger rose, and she spat noisily upon her hands to get a good grip of the stick.
"I've been wi' 'en twenty years, and don't know 'en yet I thought once he was a man, but I know he bain't. If yew was to shake your fingers at 'en he'd run."
"Yew ha' been drinking, woman," said Mary.
"Ah, I've had a drop. There's nought else to live vor. Twenty years, Mary Tavy, he've had me body and soul, twenty years I've been a slave to 'en, and now he've done wi' me."
"What's that, woman?" cried Mary, lifting her long stick, and poking at Annie's left hand and the gold ring worn upon it.
"That!" cried Annie furiously. "It be a dirty thing, what any man can buy, and any vule of a woman will wear. Ask 'en what it cost, Mary Tavy. A few shilluns, I reckon, the price of a joint o' meat, the price of a pair o' boots. And it ha' bought me for twenty years."
"You'm drunk, woman."
"Ah, purty fine. Wimmin du main dafty things when they'm drunk. Your brother ha' made a mommet of 'en, and like a vule he went and broke it for a bit o' dirty money."
"It bain't broke," said Mary. "Peter made a new mommet, and broke that."
"Glory be to God," cried Annie wildly, plucking out some grey hairs that were falling upon her eyes. "I'll tell 'en. 'Twill work, Mary Tavy. The devil who passed over last month will see to it. He never passed the Barton. He didn't want his own. I never knowed a mommet fail when 'twas made right."
"Du'ye say he bain't your husband?" Mary muttered, looking at the grey hairs in the woman's hand.
"See beyond!" screamed Annie, losing all self-control, pulling Mary to the kitchen window, pointing out. It was a dark cold kitchen, built of granite, with concrete floor. There was nothing to be seen but the big brake of furze, black and tangled, swaying slightly. It was a mighty brake, twenty years untouched, and there were no flowers upon it. The interior was a choked mass of dead growth.
"Why don't ye burn 'en, woman?"
"Ask 'en. It ain't going to be burnt yet – not yet, Mary Tavy." Annie's voice had fallen to a hoarse whisper. She was half-drunk and half-mad. Those twenty years were like twenty mountains piled upon her. "Look at my white hairs, Mary Tavy. I'm getting a bit old like, and I'm for the poorhouse, my dear. Annie Crocker, spinster – that's me. Twenty years I've watched that vuzz before this window rocking to and fro, like a cradle, my dear, rocking 'em to sleep. Yew know what 'tis to live wi' a man. You'm a fool to first, and a vule always I reckon, but such a vule to first that yew don't know' how to stop 'em coming. Yew think of love, Mary Tavy, and you don't care – and there 'em be, my dear, two of 'em, in the middle o' the vuzz."
"Did'st du it?" muttered Mary, standing like a wooden image.
"Me! I was young then, and I loved 'em. He took 'em from me when I was weak and mazed. I had to go through it here alone, twice my dear, alone wi' him, and he said they was dead, but I heard 'em cry, twice, my dear, only I was that weak I couldn't move. 'Twas winter both times, and I lay up over, and heard 'en walking on the stones of the court, and heard 'en let the bucket down, and heard 'en dra' it up – and then I heard 'en cursing o' the vuzz 'cause it pricked 'en, and his hands and face was bloody wi' scratches when he come up. I mind it all, though I was mazed – and I loved 'em, my dear."
"Preaches in chapel tu," said Mary, a sense of inconsistency occurring to her. "You'm a vule, woman, to tell to me like this."
"I've ha' bitten my tongue for twenty years, and I'd ha' bitten it another twenty if he'd used me right. Didn't your brother find 'en wi' Chegwidden's maid? Don't I know he's been wi' she for months, and used she as he've used me? Don't I know he wants to have she here, and turn me out – and spend the price of a pair o' boots on a ring same as this, and buy she wi' that for twenty years?"
Mary turned away. It was already dark, the cows were not milked, and would be lowing for her to ease their udders. Annie was beside herself. The barrier of restraint had fallen, and the pent-up feelings of a generation roared out, like the Tavy with its melted snow, sweeping away everything which was not founded upon a rock.
"Burn it down, woman," said Mary as she went.
"Not till the mommet ha' done its work," screamed Annie. Then she lighted the lantern, and went to the linhay for more cider.
When lonely little Boodles got home she saw at once that the cottage had been entered. The sitting-room window had been forced open, and its catch was broken; but Pendoggat had got nothing for his pains. She had hidden the money-box so cunningly that he had failed to find it; and she was glad then that she had seen him prowling about the cottage the night before. She got some screws and made the window fast. Then she cried and had her supper. After that she went to her bed and sobbed again until her head ached, and then she sat up and scolded herself severely; and as the wind was blowing nicely she turned on the wedding march, and while listening to it prattled to herself —
"You mustn't break down, Boodles. It is much too early to do that, for things have not begun to go really badly for you yet. There's enough money to keep things going till summer, if you do without any new clothes, and by the way you mustn't walk too much or you'll wear your boots out, and next summer you will have a nice lot of old maids here for their health, and make plenty of money out of them for your health. I know you are only crying because it is so lonely, but still you mustn't do it, for it makes you thin and white. You had better go and study the cookery-book, and think of all the nice things you will make for the old maids when you have caught them."
Boodles never allowed herself to speak upon the subject which was always in her mind, and she tried to persuade herself she was not thinking of Aubrey and Weevil's wild story, although she did nothing else. While she was talking of her prospects she was thinking of Aubrey, though she would not admit it. She had tried once to put six puppies into a small cupboard, but as often as she opened the door to put another puppy in those already inside tumbled out. That was exactly the state her mind was in. When she opened it to think of her prospects, Aubrey, Weevil's story, and her unhappy origin, fell out sprawling at once, and were all over the place before she could catch them again; and when she had caught them she couldn't shut them up.
It was absolutely necessary to find something to do, as regulating the volume and sound of the wind by opening or shutting various windows and doors, and turning on what sounded to her like marriage or martial marches, was an unwholesome as well as a monotonous amusement. The child roamed about the cottage with a lamp in her hand, trying to get away from something which was not following. She could not sit down to sew, for her eyes were aching, and she kept starting and pricking her finger. She wandered at last with an idea into what had been Weevil's bedroom. There was an old writing-table there, and she had lately discovered a key with a label attached informing her that it would open the drawers of that table. Boodles locked herself in, lighted two lamps, which was an act of extravagance, but she felt protected somehow by a strong light, and began to dig up the dust and ashes of the old man's early life.
Many people have literary stuff they are ashamed of hiding away under lock and key, which they do not want, and yet do not destroy. Every one has a secret drawer in which incriminating rubbish is preserved, although it may be of an entirely innocent character. They are always going to make a clean sweep, but go on putting it off until death can wait no longer; and sorrowing relations open the drawer, glance at its contents, and mutter hurriedly: "Burn it, and say nothing." To know the real man it is only necessary to turn out his secret drawer when he is dead.
There was not much stored away in the old writing-table. Apparently Weevil had destroyed all that was recent, and kept much that was old. There was sufficient to show Boodles the truth; that the old man had always been Weevil, that his story to her had been a series of lame lies, that his origin had been a humble one. There were letters from friends of his youth, queer missives suggesting jaunts to the Welsh Harp, Hampstead, or Rosherville, and signed: "your old pal, George," or "yours to the mustard-pot. Art." They were humorous letters, written in slang, and they amused Boodles; but after reading them she could not suppose that Weevil had been ever what one would call a gentleman. A mass of such stuff she put aside for the kitchen fire; and then she came upon another bundle, tightly fastened with string, which she cut, and drawing a letter from the packet she opened it and read —
"My own Dearest.
I was so very glad to get your letter and I know you are looking forward to have one from me but I am so sorry Dearest you have had such a bad cold. My Dear I hope to sit on your knees and have my arm around your neck some day. I do love you you are my only sweetheart now and I hope I am only yours. Many thanks for sending me your photo which I should be very sorry to part with it. It makes me feel delighted as I am looking forward to be in your Dear arms some day. I am waiting for the time to pass so we shall be together for ever. I sit by the fire cold nights and have my thoughts in you my Dearest. I knit lace when I have no sewing to do. It was very miserable last Sunday but I went to church in the evening but I much rather would like to have been with you. I wish I could reach you to give you a nice kiss. I am always dreaming about you my Love and it is such miserable weather now I will stop in haste with my best love and kisses to my Dear Boy from your loving and true Minnie."
There was a fat bundle of such letters, written by the same illiterate hand nearly fifty years before, and the foolish old man had kept the rubbish, which had no doubt a sort of wild-flower fragrance once, and had left them at his death. Minnie was evidently a servant girl, hardly Miss Fitzalan of the amazing story, and if the young Weevil of those days had meant it, and had not been indulging in a little back-stairs flirtation, his birth was more humble than Boodles had supposed. He must have meant it, she reasoned, or he would hardly have kept that sentimental rubbish all his life.
