Elster's Folly by Mrs. Henry Wood (buy e reader .TXT) 📕

The Ascending Sun Threw Its Slanting Rays Abroad On A Glorious August

Morning,  And The Little World Below Began To Awaken Into Life--The Life

Of Another Day Of Sanguine Pleasure Or Of Fretting Care.

Not On Many Fairer Scenes Did Those Sunbeams Shed Their Radiance Than On

One Existing In The Heart Of England; But Almost Any Landscape Will Look

Beautiful In The Early Light Of A Summer's Morning. The County,  One Of

The Midlands,  Was Justly Celebrated For Its Scenery; Its Rich Woods And

Smiling Plains,  Its River And Gentler Streams. The Harvest Was Nearly

Gathered In--It Had Been A Late Season--But A Few Fields Of Golden Grain,

In Process Of Reaping,  Gave Their Warm Tints To The Landscape. In No Part

Of The Country Had The Beauties Of Nature Been Bestowed More Lavishly

Than On This,  The Village Of Calne,  Situated About Seven Miles From The

County Town.

It Was An Aristocratic Village,  On The Whole. The Fine Seat Of The Earl

Of Hartledon,  Rising Near It,  Had Caused A Few Families Of Note To Settle

There,  And The Nest Of White Villas Gave The Place A Prosperous And

Picturesque Appearance. But It Contained A Full Proportion Of The Poor Or

Labouring Class; And These People Were Falling Very Much Into The Habit

Of Writing The Village "Cawn," In Accordance With Its Pronunciation.

Phonetic Spelling Was More In Their Line Than Johnson's Dictionary. Of

What May Be Called The Middle Class The Village Held Few,  If Any: There

Were The Gentry,  The Small Shopkeepers,  And The Poor.

Calne Had Recently Been Exalted Into Importance. A Year Or Two Before

This Bright August Morning Some Good Genius Had Brought A Railway To

It--A Railway And A Station,  With All Its Accompanying Work And Bustle.

Many Trains Passed It In The Course Of The Day; For It Was In The Direct

Line Of Route From The County Town,  Garchester,  To London,  And The

Traffic Was Increasing. People Wondered What Travellers Had Done,  And

What Sort Of A Round They Traversed,  Before This Direct Line Was Made.

The Village Itself Lay Somewhat In A Hollow,  The Ground Rising To A

Gentle Eminence On Either Side. On The One Eminence,  To The West,  Was

Situated The Station; On The Other,  Eastward,  Rose The Large Stone

Mansion,  Hartledon House. The Railway Took A Slight _Detour_ Outside

Calne,  And Was A Conspicuous Feature To Any Who Chose To Look At It; For

The Line Had Been Raised Above The Village Hollow To Correspond With The

Height At Either End.

Six O'clock Was Close At Hand,  And The Station Began To Show Signs Of

Life. The Station-Master Came Out Of His Cottage,  And Opened One Or Two

Doors On The Platform. He Had Held The Office Scarcely A Year Yet; And

Had Come A Stranger To Calne. Sitting Down In His Little Bureau Of A

Place,  On The Door Of Which Was Inscribed "Station-Master--Private," He

Began Sorting Papers On The Desk Before Him. A Few Minutes,  And The Clock

Struck Six; Upon Which He Went Out To The Platform. It Was An Open

Station,  As These Small Stations Generally Are,  The Small Waiting-Rooms

And Offices On Either Side Scarcely Obstructing The View Of The Country,

And The Station-Master Looked Far Out In The Distance,  Towards The East,

Beyond The Low-Lying Village Houses,  Shading His Eyes With His Hand From

The Dazzling Sun.

"Her's Late This Morning."

The Interruption Came From The Surly Porter,  Who Stood By,  And Referred

To The Expected Train,  Which Ought To Have Been In Some Minutes Before.

According To The Precise Time,  As Laid Down In The Way-Bills,  It Should

Reach Calne Seven Minutes Before Six.

"They Have A Heavy Load,  Perhaps," Remarked The Station-Master.

The Train Was Chiefly For Goods; A Slow Train,  Taking No One Knew How

Many Hours To Travel From London. It Would Bring Passengers Also; But

Very Few Availed Themselves Of It. Now And Then It Happened That The

Station At Calne Was Opened For Nothing; The Train Just Slackened Its

Speed And Went On,  Leaving Neither Goods Nor Anything Else Behind It.

Sometimes It Took A Few Early Travellers From Calne To Garchester;

Especially On Wednesdays And Saturdays,  Garchester Market-Days; But It

Rarely Left Passengers At Calne.

"Did You Hear The News,  Mr. Markham?" Asked The Porter.

"What News?" Returned The Station-Master.

"I Heard It Last Night. Jim Come Into The Elster Arms With It,  And _He'd_

Heard It At Garchester. We Are Going To Have Two More Sets O' Telegraph

Wires Here. I Wonder How Much More Work They'll Give Us To Do?"

"So You Were At The Elster Arms Again Last Night,  Jones?" Remarked The

Station-Master,  His Tone Reproving,  Whilst He Passed Over In Silence Mr.

Jones's Item Of News.

"I Wasn't In Above An Hour," Grumbled The Man.

"Well,  It Is Your Own Look-Out,  Jones. I Have Said What I Could To You At

Odd Times; But I Believe It Has Only Tried Your Patience; So I'll Say No

More."

"Has My Wife Been Here Again Complaining?" Asked The Man,  Raising His

Face In Anger.

"No; I Have Not Seen Your Wife,  Except At Church,  These Two Months. But

I Know What Public-Houses Are To You,  And I Was Thinking Of Your Little

Children."

"Ugh!" Growled The Man,  Apparently Not Gratified At The Reminder Of His

Flock; "There's A Peck O' _Them_ Surely! Here She Comes!"

The Last Sentence Was Spoken In A Different Tone; One Of Relief,  Either

At Getting Rid Of The Subject,  Or At The Arrival Of The Train. It Was

About Opposite To Hartledon When He Caught Sight Of It,  And It Came On

With A Shrill Whistle,  Skirting The Village It Towered Above; A Long Line

Of Covered Waggons With A Passenger Carriage Or Two Attached To Them.

Slackening Its Pace Gradually,  But Not In Time,  It Shot Past The Station,

And Had To Back Into It Again.

The Guard Came Out Of His Box And Opened The Door Of One Of The

Carriages--A Dirty-Looking Second-Class Compartment; The Other Was A

Third-Class; And A Gentleman Leaped Out. A Tall,  Slender Man Of About

Four-And-Twenty; A Man Evidently Of Birth And Breeding. He Wore A Light

Summer Overcoat On His Well-Cut Clothes,  And Had A Most Attractive Face.

"Is There Any Law Against Putting On A First-Class Carriage To This

Night-Train?" He Asked The Guard In A Pleasing Voice.

"Well,  Sir,  We Never Get First-Class Passengers By It," Replied The Man;

"Or Hardly Any Passengers At All,  For The Matter Of That. We Are Too Long

On The Road For Passengers To Come By Us."

"It Might Happen,  Though," Returned The Traveller,  Significantly. "At

Any Rate,  I Suppose There's No Law Against Your Carriages Being Clean,

Whatever Their Class. Look At That One."

He Pointed To The One He Had Just Left,  As He Walked Up To The

Station-Master. The Guard Looked Cross,  And Gave The Carriage Door

A Slam.

"Was A Portmanteau Left Here Last Night By The Last Train From London?"

Inquired The Traveller Of The Station-Master.

"No,  Sir; Nothing Was Left Here. At Least,  I Think Not. Any Name On It,

Sir?"

"Elster."

A Quick Glance From The Station-Master's Eyes Met The Answer. Elster Was

The Name Of The Family At Hartledon. He Wondered Whether This Could Be

One Of Them,  Or Whether The Name Was Merely A Coincidence.

"There Was No Portmanteau Left,  Was There,  Jones?" Asked The

Station-Master.

"There Couldn't Have Been," Returned The Porter,  Touching His Cap To The

Stranger. "I Wasn't On Last Night; Jim Was; But It Would Have Been Put In

The Office For Sure; And There's Not A Ghost Of A Thing In It This

Morning."

"It Must Have Been Taken On To Garchester," Remarked The Traveller; And,

Turning To The Guard,  He Gave Him Directions To Look After It,  And

Despatch It Back Again By The First Train,  Slipping At The Same Time A

Gratuity Into His Hand.

The Guard Touched His Hat Humbly; He Now Knew Who The Gentleman Was. And

He Went Into Inward Repentance For Slamming The Carriage-Door,  As He Got

Into His Box,  And The Engine And Train Puffed On.

"You'll Send It Up As Soon As It Comes," Said The Traveller To The

Station-Master.

"Where To,  Sir?"

The Stranger Raised His Eyes In Slight Surprise,  And Pointed To The House

In The Distance. He Had Assumed That He Was Known.

"To Hartledon."

Then He _Was_ One Of The Family! The Station-Master Touched His Hat.

Mr. Jones,  In The Background,  Touched His,  And For The First Time The

Traveller's Eye Fell Upon Him As He Was Turning To Leave The Platform.

"Why,  Jones! It's Never You?"

"Yes,  It Is,  Sir." But Mr. Jones Looked Abashed As He Acknowledged

Himself. And It May Be Observed That His Language,  When Addressing This

Gentleman,  Was A Slight Improvement Upon The Homely Phraseology Of His

Everyday Life.

"But--You Are Surely Not Working Here!--A Porter!"

"My Business Fell Through,  Sir," Returned The Man. "I'm Here Till I Can

Turn Myself Round,  Sir,  And Get Into It Again."

"What Caused It To Fall Through?" Asked The Traveller; A Kindly Sympathy

In His Fine Blue Eyes.

Mr. Jones Shuffled Upon One Foot. He Would Not Have Given The True

Answer--"Drinking"--For The World.

"There's Such Opposition Started Up In The Place,  Sir; Folks Would Draw

Your Heart's Blood From You If They Could. And Then I've Such A Lot Of

Mouths To Feed. I Can't Think What The Plague Such A Tribe Of Children

Come For. Nobody Wants 'Em."

The Traveller Laughed; But Put No Further Questions. Remembering Somewhat

Of Mr. Jones's Propensity In The Old Days,  He Thought Perhaps Something

Besides Children And Opposition Had Had To Do With The Downfall. He Stood

For A Moment Looking At The Station Which Had Not Been Completed When He

Last Saw It--And A Very Pretty Station It Was,  Surrounded By Its Gay

Flowerbeds--And Then Went Down The Road.

"I Suppose He Is One Of The Hartledon Family,  Jones?" Said The

Station-Master,  Looking After Him.

"He's The Earl's Brother," Replied Mr. Jones,  Relapsing Into Sulkiness.

"There's Only Them Two Left; T'other Died. Wonder If They Be Coming To

Hartledon Again? Calne Haven't Seemed The Same Since They Left It."

"Which Is This One?"

"He Can't Be Anybody But Himself," Retorted Mr. Jones,  Irascibly,  Deeming

The Question Superfluous. "There Be But The Two Left,  I Say--The Earl And

Him; Everybody Knows Him For The Honourable Percival Elster. The Other

Son,  George,  Died; Leastways,  Was Murdered."

"Murdered!" Echoed The Station-Master Aghast.

"I Don't See That It Could Be Called Much Else But Murder," Was Mr.

Jones's Answer. "He Went Out With My Lord's Gamekeepers One Night And

Got Shot In A Poaching Fray. 'Twas Never Known For Certain Who Fired The

Shot,  But I Think I Could Put My Finger On The Man If I Tried. Much Good

_That_ Would Do,  Though! There's No Proof."

"What Are You Saying,  Jones?" Cried The Station-Master,  Staring At His

Subordinate,  And Perhaps Wondering Whether He Had Already That Morning

Paid A Visit To The Tap Of The Elster Arms.

"I'm Saying Nothing That Half The Place Didn't Say At The Time,  Mr.

Markham. _You_ Hadn't Come Here Then,  Mr. Elster--He Was The Honourable

George--Went Out One Night With The Keepers When Warm Work Was Expected,

And Got Shot For His Pains. He Lived Some Weeks,  But They Couldn't Cure

Him. It Was In The Late Lord's Time. _He_ Died Soon After,  And The Place

Has Been Deserted Ever Since."

"And Who Do You Suppose Fired The Shot?"

"Don't Know That It 'Ud Be Safe To Say," Rejoined The Man. "He Might Give

My Neck A Twist Some Dark Night If He Heard On't. He's The Blackest Sheep

We've Got In Calne,  Sir."

"I Suppose You Mean Pike," Said The Station-Master. "He Has The Character

For Being That,  I Believe. I've Seen No Harm In The Man Myself."

"Well,  It Was Pike," Said The Porter. "That Is,  Some Of Us Suspected Him.

And That's How Mr. George Elster Came By His Death. And This One,  Mr.

Percival,  Shot Up Into Notice,  As Being The Only One Left,  Except Lord

Elster."

"And Who's Lord Elster?" Asked The Station-Master,  Not Remembering To

Have Heard The Title Before.

Mr. Jones Received The Question With Proper Contempt. Having Been

Familiar With Hartledon And Its Inmates All His Life,  He Had As Little

Compassion For Those Who Were Not So,  As He Would Have Had For A Man Who

Did Not Understand That Garchester Was In England.

"The Present Earl Of Hartledon," Said He,  Shortly. "In His Father's

Lifetime--And The Old Lord Lived To See Mr. George Buried--He Was Lord

Elster. Not One Of My Tribe Of Brats But Could Tell That Any Lord Elster

Must Be The Eldest Son Of The Earl Of Hartledon," He Concluded With A

Fling At His Superior.

"Ah,  Well,  I Have Had Other