KENELM rose betimes the next morning somewhat stiff and uneasy, but sufficiently recovered to feel ravenous. Fortunately, one of the young ladies, who attended specially to the dairy, was already up, and supplied the starving hero with a vast bowl of bread and milk. He then strolled into the hayfield, in which there was now very little left to do, and but few hands besides his own were employed. Jessie was not there. Kenelm was glad of that. By nine o’clock his work was over, and the farmer and his men were in the yard completing the ricks. Kenelm stole away unobserved, bent on a round of visits. He called first at the village shop kept by Mrs. Bawtrey, which Jessie had pointed out to him, on pretence of buying a gaudy neckerchief; and soon, thanks to his habitual civility, made familiar acquaintance with the shopwoman. She was a little sickly old lady, her head shaking, as with palsy, somewhat deaf, but still shrewd and sharp, rendered mechanically so by long habits of shrewdness and sharpness. She became very communicative, spoke freely of her desire to give up the shop, and pass the rest of her days with a sister, widowed like herself, in a neighbouring town. Since she had lost her husband, the field and orchard attached to the shop had ceased to be profitable, and become a great care and trouble; and the attention the shop required was wearisome. But she had twelve years unexpired of the lease granted for twenty-one years to her husband on low terms, and she wanted a premium for its transfer, and a purchaser for the stock of the shop. Kenelm soon drew from her the amount of the sum she required for all,—L45.

“You be n’t thinking of it for yourself?” she asked, putting on her spectacles, and examining him with care.

“Perhaps so, if one could get a decent living out of it. Do you keep a book of your losses and your gains?”

“In course, sir,” she said proudly. “I kept the books in my goodman’s time, and he was one who could find out if there was a farthing wrong, for he had been in a lawyer’s office when a lad.”

“Why did he leave a lawyer’s office to keep a little shop?”

“Well, he was born a farmer’s son in this neighbourhood, and he always had a hankering after the country, and—and besides that—”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell you the truth; he had got into a way of drinking speerrits, and he was a good young man, and wanted to break himself of it, and he took the temperance oath; but it was too hard on him, for he could not break himself of the company that led him into liquor. And so, one time when he came into the neighbourhood to see his parents for the Christmas holiday, he took a bit of liking to me; and my father, who was Squire Travers’s bailiff, had just died, and left me a little money. And so, somehow or other, we came together, and got this house and the land from the Squire on lease very reasonable; and my goodman being well eddyeated, and much thought of, and never being tempted to drink, now that he had a missis to keep him in order, had a many little things put into his way. He could help to measure timber, and knew about draining, and he got some bookkeeping from the farmers about; and we kept cows and pigs and poultry, and so we did very well, specially as the Lord was merciful and sent us no children.”

“And what does the shop bring in a year since your husband died?”

“You had best judge for yourself. Will you look at the book, and take a peep at the land and apple-trees? But they’s been neglected since my goodman died.”

In another minute the heir of the Chillinglys was seated in a neat little back parlour, with a pretty though confined view of the orchard and grass slope behind it, and bending over Mrs. Bawtrey’s ledger.

Some customers for cheese and bacon coming now into the shop, the old woman left him to his studies. Though they were not of a nature familiar to him, he brought to them, at least, that general clearness of head and quick seizure of important points which are common to most men who have gone through some disciplined training of intellect, and been accustomed to extract the pith and marrow out of many books on many subjects. The result of his examination was satisfactory; there appeared to him a clear balance of gain from the shop alone of somewhat over L40 a year, taking the average of the last three years. Closing the book, he then let himself out of the window into the orchard, and thence into the neighbouring grass field. Both were, indeed, much neglected; the trees wanted pruning, the field manure. But the soil was evidently of rich loam, and the fruit-trees were abundant and of ripe age, generally looking healthy in spite of neglect. With the quick intuition of a man born and bred in the country, and picking up scraps of rural knowledge unconsciously, Kenelm convinced himself that the land, properly managed, would far more than cover the rent, rates, tithes, and all incidental outgoings, leaving the profits of the shop as the clear income of the occupiers. And no doubt with clever young people to manage the shop, its profits might be increased.

Not thinking it necessary to return at present to Mrs. Bawtrey’s, Kenelm now bent his way to Tom Bowles’s.

The house-door was closed. At the summons of his knock it was quickly opened by a tall, stout, remarkably fine-looking woman, who might have told fifty years, and carried them off lightly on her ample shoulders. She was dressed very respectably in black, her brown hair braided simply under a neat tight-fitting cap. Her features were aquiline and very regular: altogether there was something about her majestic and Cornelia-like. She might have sat for the model of that Roman matron, except for the fairness of her Anglo-Saxon complexion.

“What’s your pleasure?” she asked, in a cold and somewhat stern voice.

“Ma’am,” answered Kenelm, uncovering, “I have called to see Mr. Bowles, and I sincerely hope he is well enough to let me do so.”

“No, sir, he is not well enough for that; he is lying down in his own room, and must be kept quiet.”

“May I then ask you the favour to let me in? I would say a few words to you, who are his mother if I mistake not.” Mrs. Bowles paused a moment as if in doubt; but she was at no loss to detect in Kenelm’s manner something superior to the fashion of his dress, and supposing the visit might refer to her son’s professional business, she opened the door wider, drew aside to let him pass first, and when he stood midway in the parlour, requested him to take a seat, and, to set him the example, seated herself.

“Ma’am,” said Kenelm, “do not regret to have admitted me, and do not think hardly of me when I inform you that I am the unfortunate cause of your son’s accident.”

Mrs. Bowles rose with a start. “You’re the man who beat my boy?”

“No, ma’am, do not say I beat him. He is not beaten. He is so brave and so strong that he would easily have beaten me if I had not, by good luck, knocked him down before he had time to do so. Pray, ma’am, retain your seat and listen to me patiently for a few moments.”

Mrs. Bowles, with an indignant heave of her Juno-like bosom, and with a superbly haughty expression of countenance which suited well with its aquiline formation, tacitly obeyed.

“You will allow, ma’am,” recommenced Kenelm, “that this is not the first time by many that Mr. Bowles has come to blows with another man. Am I not right in that assumption?”

“My son is of hasty temper,” replied Mrs. Bowles, reluctantly, “and people should not aggravate him.”

“You grant the fact, then?” said Kenelm, imperturbably, but with a polite inclination of head. “Mr. Bowles has often been engaged in these encounters, and in all of them it is quite clear that he provoked the battle; for you must be aware that he is not the sort of man to whom any other would be disposed to give the first blow. Yet, after these little incidents had occurred, and Mr. Bowles had, say, half killed the person who aggravated him, you did not feel any resentment against that person, did you? Nay, if he had wanted nursing, you would have gone and nursed him.”

“I don’t know as to nursing,” said Mrs. Bowles, beginning to lose her dignity of mien; “but certainly I should have been very sorry for him. And as for Tom,—though I say it who should not say,—he has no more malice than a baby: he’d go and make it up with any man, however badly he had beaten him.”

“Just as I supposed; and if the man had sulked and would not make it up, Tom would have called him a bad fellow, and felt inclined to beat him again.”

Mrs. Bowles’s face relaxed into a stately smile.

“Well, then,” pursued Kenelm, “I do but humbly imitate Mr. Bowles, and I come to make it up and shake hands with him.”

“No, sir,—no,” exclaimed Mrs. Bowles, though in a low voice, and turning pale. “Don’t think of it. ‘Tis not the blows; he’ll get over those fast enough: ‘tis his pride that’s hurt; and if he saw you there might be mischief. But you’re a stranger, and going away: do go soon; do keep out of his way; do!” And the mother clasped her hands.

“Mrs. Bowles,” said Kenelm, with a change of voice and aspect,—a voice and aspect so earnest and impressive that they stilled and awed her,—“will you not help me to save your son from the dangers into which that hasty temper and that mischievous pride may at any moment hurry him? Does it never occur to you that these are the causes of terrible crime, bringing terrible punishment; and that against brute force, impelled by savage passions, society protects itself by the hulks and the gallows?”

“Sir; how dare you—”

“Hush! If one man kill another in a moment of ungovernable wrath, that is a crime which, though heavily punished by the conscience, is gently dealt with by the law, which calls it only manslaughter; but if a motive to the violence, such as jealousy or revenge, can be assigned, and there should be no witness by to prove that the violence was not premeditated, then the law does not call it manslaughter, but murder. Was it not that thought which made you so imploringly exclaim, ‘Go soon; keep out of his way’?”

The woman made no answer, but, sinking back in her chair, gasped for breath.

“Nay, madam,” resumed Kenelm, mildly; “banish your fears. If you will help me I feel sure that I can save your son from such perils, and I only ask you to let me save him. I am convinced that he has a good and a noble nature, and he is worth saving.” And as he thus said he took her hand. She resigned it to him and returned the pressure, all her pride softening as she began to weep.

At length, when she recovered voice, she said,—

“It is all along of that girl. He was not so till she crossed him, and made him half mad. He is not the same man since then,—my poor Tom!”

“Do you know that he has given me his word, and before his fellow-villagers, that if he had the worst of the fight he would never molest Jessie Wiles again?”

“Yes, he told me so himself; and it is that which weighs on him now. He broods and broods and mutters, and will not be comforted; and—and I do fear that he means revenge. And again, I implore you to keep out of his way.”

“It is not revenge on me that he thinks of. Suppose I go and am seen no more, do you think in your own heart that that girl’s life is safe?”

“What! My Tom kill a woman!”

“Do you never read in your newspaper of a man who kills his sweetheart, or the girl who refuses to be his sweetheart? At all events, you yourself do not approve this frantic suit of his. If I have heard rightly, you have wished to get Tom out of the village for some time, till Jessie Wiles is—we’ll say, married, or gone elsewhere for good.”

“Yes, indeed, I have wished and prayed for it many’s the time, both for her sake and for his. And I am sure I don’t know what we shall do if he stays, for he has been losing custom fast. The Squire has taken away his, and so have many of the farmers; and such a trade as it was in his good father’s time! And if he would go, his uncle, the veterinary at Luscombe, would take him into partnership; for he has no son of his own, and he knows how clever Tom is: there be n’t a man who knows more about horses; and cows, too, for the matter of that.”

“And if Luscombe is a large place, the business there must be more profitable than it can be here, even if Tom got back his custom?”

“Oh yes! five times as good,—if he would but go; but he’ll not hear of it.”

“Mrs. Bowles, I am very much obliged to you for your confidence, and I feel sure that all will end happily now we have had this talk. I’ll not press further on you at present. Tom will not stir out, I suppose, till the evening.”

“Ah, sir, he seems as if he had no heart to stir out again, unless for something dreadful.”

“Courage! I will call again in the evening, and then you just take me up to Tom’s room, and leave me there to make friends with him, as I have with you. Don’t say a word about me in the meanwhile.”

“But—”

“‘But,’ Mrs. Bowles, is a word that cools many a warm impulse, stifles many a kindly thought, puts a dead stop to many a brotherly deed. Nobody would ever love his neighbour as himself if he listened to all the Buts that could be said on the other side of the question.”