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SCENE V.

The bargain was oddly made, but it worked well. Whatever Jack’s parentage may have been (and he was named after the stormy month in which he had been born), the blood that ran in his veins could not have been beggar’s blood. There was no hopeless, shiftless, invincible idleness about him. He found work for himself when it was not given him to do, and he attached himself passionately and proudly to all the belongings of his new home.

“Yon lad of yours seem handy enough, Daddy;–for a vagrant, as one may say.” Daddy Darwin was smoking over his garden wall, and Mrs. Shaw, from the neighboring farm, had paused in her walk for a chat. She was a notable housewife, and there was just a touch of envy in her sense of the improved appearance of the doorsteps and other visible points of the Dovecot. Daddy Darwin took his pipe out of his mouth to make way for the force of his reply:

“Vagrant! Nay, missus, yon’s no vagrant. He’s fettling up all along. Jack’s the sort if he finds a key he’ll look for the lock; if ye give him a knife-blade he’ll fashion a heft. Why, a vagrant’s a chap that, if he’d all your maester owns to-morrow, he’d be on the tramp again afore t’ year were out, and three years wouldn’t repair the mischief he’d leave behind him. A vagrant’s a chap that if ye lend him a thing he loses it; if ye give him a thing he abuses it—-“

“That’s true enough, and there’s plenty servant-girls the same,” put in Mrs. Shaw.

“Maybe there be, ma’am–maybe there be; vagrants’ children, I reckon. But yon little chap I got from t’ House comes of folk that’s had stuff o’ their own, and cared for it–choose who they were.”

“Well, Daddy,” said his neighbor, not without malice, “I’ll wish you a good evening. You’ve got a good bargain out of the parish, it seems.”

But Daddy Darwin only chuckled, and stirred up the ashes in the bowl of his pipe.

“The same to you, ma’am–the same to you. Aye! he’s a good bargain–a very good bargain is Jack March.”

It might be supposed from the foregoing dialogue that Daddy Darwin was a model householder, and the little workhouse boy the neatest creature breathing. But the gentle reader who may imagine this is much mistaken.

Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot was freehold, and when he inherited it from his father there was, still attached to it a good bit of the land that had passed from father to son through more generations than the church registers were old enough to record. But the few remaining acres were so heavily mortgaged that they had to be sold. So that a bit of house property elsewhere, and the old homestead itself, were all that was left. And Daddy Darwin had never been the sort of man to retrieve his luck at home, or to seek it abroad.

That he had inherited a somewhat higher and more refined nature than his neighbors had rather hindered than helped him to prosper. And he had been unlucky in love. When what energies he had were in their prime, his father’s death left him with such poor prospects that the old farmer to whose daughter he was betrothed broke off the match and married her elsewhere. His Alice was not long another man’s wife. She died within a year from her wedding-day, and her husband married again within a year from her death. Her old lover was no better able to mend his broken heart than his broken fortunes. He only banished women from the Dovecot, and shut himself up from the coarse consolation of his neighbors.

In this loneliness, eating a kindly heart out in bitterness of spirit, with all that he ought to have had–

To plough and sow
And reap and mow–

gone from him, and in the hands of strangers; the pigeons, for which the Dovecot had always been famous, became the business and the pleasure of his life. But of late years his stock had dwindled, and he rarely went to pigeon-matches or competed in shows and races. A more miserable fancy rivalled his interest in pigeon fancying. His new hobby was hoarding; and money that, a few years back, he would have freely spent to improve his breed of Tumblers or back his Homing Birds he now added with stealthy pleasure to the store behind the secret panel of a fine old oak bedstead that had belonged to the Darwyn who owned Dovecot when the sixteenth century was at its latter end. In this bedstead Daddy slept lightly of late, as old men will, and he had horrid dreams, which old men need not have. The queer faces carved on the panels (one of which hid the money hole) used to frighten him when he was a child. They did not frighten him now by their grotesque ugliness, but when he looked at them, and knew which was which, he dreaded the dying out of twilight into dark, and dreamed of aged men living alone, who had been murdered for their savings. These growing fears had had no small share in deciding him to try Jack March; and to see the lad growing stronger, nimbler, and more devoted to his master’s interests day by day, was a nightly comfort to the poor old hoarder in the bed-head.