"I may well be bitter; you'd be bitter if you saw what I see," she replied.

I endeavoured to turn the conversation and to satisfy my curiosity.

"Where has your brother been, and what has he been doing all these years?" I inquired.

"Oh, he tells a tale like a story-book," she replied impatiently. "I'm bound to believe him, I suppose, because whatever else he was he wasn't a liar, but it's more like a fairy tale than ought else. After he hit father an' ran away he got to Liverpool, an' worked his pa.s.sage on a boat to Cape Town, an' for a long time he got more kicks than ha'pence--and serve him right, too, _I_ say. He tried first one thing an' then another, and landed up in Rhodesia at last, an' sought work from a man who employed a lot o' labour. He says he wouldn't have been taken on if the gentleman hadn't spotted him for a Yorkshireman.

'Thou'rt Yorkshir', lad?' he said; an' our Joe said: 'Aye! bred an'

born.' 'Let's hear ta talk a bit o' t' owd tongue, lad,' he said; 'aw've heeard nowt on 't for twelve yeear, an' t' missis willn't hev it spokken i' t' haase.'

"Well, of course, Joe entered into t' spirit of it, an' the old gentleman was delighted, an' gave him a job, an' he always had to speak broad Yorkshire unless the missis was there. It wasn't exactly a farm, but they grew fruit an' vegetables and kept poultry an' pigs an' bees an' such like, and it was just to our Joe's taste. I won't deny but what he's clever, and he was always steady an' honest. He says the old gentleman took to him an' gave him every chance, an' t' missis liked him too, because he always spoke so polite an' proper. An' then he fell in love wi' one o' t' daughters, an' they were married last year, an' by what I can make out he's a sort of a partner in t' business now.

Anyway, he says it's his wife 'at brought him to see what a wrong 'un he'd been, and when he'd told 'em all t' tale nothing 'ud do but he was to come to England and make it up with his father. So he's come, an'

mother blubbers over him, an' holds his 'and, an' strokes his 'air till I'm out of all patience."

Farmer Goodenough looked grave, but he did not speak, so I said: "Isn't this rather unworthy of you, Jane? Your mother is naturally glad to see her boy back again, and if she had not been here you would have welcomed him just as cordially."

"Would I?" she replied. "No fear! He gave father ten years of sorrow an' brought him to 'is grave. I loved my dad too well to forgive his murderer that easy. He's taken no notice of us all this time, an'

while he's been makin' money an' courtin' a rich girl we might all have been in t' workhouse for ought he knew or cared. And then he's to come home, an' it's to be all right straight off, an' we must have t' best counterpane on t' bed, an' t' china tea-service out 'at were my grandmother's, an' we must go s...o...b..rin' round his neck the minute he puts his head in at t' door. Bah! it makes me sick. You've only got to be a prodigal, as I say, an' then you can have t' fatted calf killed for you."

"Now look you here, la.s.s," said Farmer Goodenough kindly, "I've said nought so far, 'cos it does you good to talk. It's poor policy to bung t' kettle up when t' water's boilin', but I think ye've let off enough steam now to keep from burstin', so we'll just look into this matter, an' see what we can make on 't."

"Oh, I know you of old, Reuben Goodenough," replied the girl; "you'd be every bit as bad as my mother."

"You'll be every bit as bad yerself, la.s.s, when ye've as much sense; but now just let me ask you a question or two. T' Owd Book says, if I remember right, when t' father came out to talk to t' sulky brother: 'It was meet to make merry an' be glad,' an' I take that to mean 'at it was t' right an' proper thing to do. Now why were they glad, think ye?"

"Just because he'd come home," replied Jane bitterly, "an' his brother, like me, had never gone away. I don't wonder 'at he was sulky. But that prodigal hadn't killed his father."

"Well, now, Jane," replied the farmer, "'cordin' to my way o' sizin'

that tale up, you've got hold of a wrong notion altogether. I don't know what t' parsons 'ud make of it, but it seems to me 'at t' owd man was glad, not so much because t' lad had come back, but because he'd come to hisself, an' that's a very deal different thing."

"I don't see no difference," said Jane.

"You will do if you think a minute, la.s.s. Suppose a lad loses his senses an' runs away from 'ome, an' comes back one fine day as mad as ever. There'll be as much sorrow as joy, won't there, think ye, in that 'ome? But suppose while he's away his reason comes back to 'im, an' he gets cured, an' as soon as he's cured he says: 'I must go 'ome to t' owd folks,' an' he goes, an' they see 'at he's in his right mind, don't you think they'll make merry an' be glad? Wouldn't you?"

"Our Joe didn't lose his senses," the girl replied sullenly; "he was as clear-headed then as he is now. It's a different thing when they're mad."

"Nay, la.s.s," he replied, "but unless I'm sadly mista'en all sin is a sort o' madness. You said just now 'at Joe went wrong. Now where did he go wrong--I mean what part of 'im?"

Jane made no reply.

"You'd say he was wrong in his 'ead to have treated his father as he did, but if 'is 'ead wasn't wrong 'is 'eart was, an' that's a worse kind o' madness. Doesn't t' Owd Book talk about 'em bein' possessed wi' devils? They mightn't be t' sort 'at has 'orns on, but they were t' sort 'at tormented 'em into wrong-doin', an' surely it was summat o'

that sort 'at got hold o' your Joe. Now, if his wife has brought him to hisself, an' he's come 'ome to say he's sorry, 'it was meet to make merry an' be glad.'"

"It's hard on them that don't go wrong," said Jane.

"Well, now, how is it 'ard on them?" asked the farmer. "Talkin' quite straight, where does t' 'ardship come in?"

"Well, mother doesn't cry round _my_ neck, an' stroke my hands, an'

make a big fuss," replied the girl, "an' it's hard to see her thinkin'

a deal more o' one 'at's done her so much wrong."

"Now you know better, Jane. Your mother thinks no more o' your Joe than she does o' you, only, as you say, she makes more fuss of him 'cos he's come round. It 'ud 'a been just t' same supposin' he'd been ill for ten year an' then got better. You'd ha' made a fuss over 'im then as well as your mother, an' you wouldn't ha' thought 'at your mother loved 'im more than you, if she did fuss over 'im a bit. Now you just look at it i' this way: Joe's been mad--clean daft--but he's come to hisself, an' it's 'meet to make merry an' be glad.'"

Jane is not at all a bad sort. She gave a little laugh as she said:

"Eh, Reuben! I never heard such a man for talkin'. However, I daresay you're right, an' my bark's worse than my bite, anyway. I was just feelin' full up when I came out, but I'm better now. I'll see if I can manage not to be jealous, for we shan't have 'im long. He's in a hurry to be back to his precious wife, an' he wants mother an' me to go with him, but mother says she'll have her bones laid aside father's, so he'll have to go by himself."

I took the photographs this morning, and was pleased to find that the reconciliation between brother and sister was complete. In the afternoon I went into the graveyard and found some beautiful flowers on Farmer Brown's grave, and a man was taking measurements for a stone.

He told me that there was to be a curious inscription following the usual particulars, and fumbling in his pocket he drew forth a piece of paper on which I read these words:

"A foolish son is a grief to his father."

"A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children's children."

CHAPTER XXVI

THE CYNIC BRINGS NEWS OF GINTY

It is the middle of October, and autumn is manifested on every side.

It makes me rather sad, for bound up with these marvellous sunset tints which ravish the eye there is decay and death. The woods are carpeted in russet and gold; the green of the fields is dull and faded; every breath of wind helps to strip the trees a little barer; and as though Nature could not, unaided, work destruction fast enough, the hand of man is stretched forth to strip the glowing bracken from the moors, and great gaps on the hillsides tell of his handiwork.

I know, of course, that Nature is kindly and beneficent, and that death in this connection is a misnomer. I know that after the falling leaf and the bare branch and twig there will come the glory of spring, the glory of bursting bud and fragrant flower; but though that mitigates the feeling of sadness it does not entirely dispel it. The flowers and the foliage, the heather and the bracken have been my companions during these sunny days of summer, and it is hard to lose them, though only for a while.

And when I look on dear old Mother Hubbard, as she sits quietly by the fire, with her needles clicking ever more slowly, and the calm of a peaceful eventide deepening upon her face, my heart sinks within me, and I dare not look forward to the wintry months that lie ahead. What Windyridge will be to me when her sun sinks behind the hill I will not try to realise. I attempt to be cheerful, but my words mock me and my laugh rings hollow, and she, good soul, reads me through and through.

I know I do not deceive her, and my Inner Self warns me that one of these days the motherkin will have it out with me and make me face realities, and I stand in dread of that hour.

The squire, on the other hand, looks far better than when he came home.

He is still feeble, and he has his bad days, but the light in his eyes is not the light of sunset. Dr. Trempest means to be convincing, though he is merely vague when he a.s.sures the squire that he will "outlive some of us yet." I am glad he is better, for I cannot be with him as much as I should if Mother Hubbard did not claim my devotion.

I had tea with him and the Cynic on Sunday afternoon when some of her chapel friends were keeping Mother Hubbard company.

The Cynic was in the garden when I reached the Hall, and he told me that the squire was asleep in the library, so we drew two deck-chairs into the sunshine and sat down for an hour on the lawn.

He lit a cigarette, clasped his hands behind his head, and began:

"Well, I suppose you will want to know what is being done in the City of Destruction from which you fled so precipitately. I have not noticed any tendency on your part to stop your ears to its sounds, though you may not hanker after its fleshpots."

"Do not be horrid," I replied; "and if you are going to be cynical I will go in and chat with the housekeeper. I am not particularly anxious to know what is happening in your City of Destruction."

He elevated his eyebrows. "Miss Fleming, for instance?" he queried.

"Of course I shall be glad to hear of Rose. I always am. And that reminds me that her letters are few and unsatisfactory. Have you seen anything of her since the holidays?"

"Yes," he replied, "we have met several times; once at the house of a mutual friend, once at Olympia, and I believe twice at the theatre."

"Do people 'meet' at the theatre?" I inquired.