FullReads

At the beginning of the next month Owen’s annual holiday arrived. The authorities of the London and Suburban Bank were no niggards. They recognized that a man is not a machine. They gave their employees ten days in the year in which to tone up their systems for another twelve months’ work.

Owen spent his boyhood in the Shropshire village of which his father had been rector, and thither he went when his holiday came round, to the farm of one Dorman. He was glad of the chance to get to Shropshire. There is something about the country there, with its green fields and miniature rivers, that soothes the wounded spirit and forms a pleasant background for sentimental musings.

It was comfortable at the farm. The household consisted of Mr Dorman, an old acquaintance, his ten-year-old son George, and Mr Dorman’s mother, an aged lady with a considerable local reputation as a wise woman. Rumour had it that the future held no mysteries for her, and it was known that she could cure warts, bruised fingers, and even the botts by means of spells.

Except for these, Owen had fancied that he was alone in the house. It seemed not, however. There was a primeval piano in his sitting-room, and on the second morning it suited his mood to sit down at this and sing ‘Asthore’, the fruity pathos of which ballad appealed to him strongly at this time, accompanying himself by an ingenious arrangement in three chords. He had hardly begun, however, when Mr Dorman appeared, somewhat agitated.

‘If you don’t mind, Mr Owen,’ he said. ‘I forgot to tell you. There’s a lit’ery gent boarding with me in the room above, and he can’t bear to be disturbed.’

A muffled stamping from the ceiling bore out his words.

‘Writing a book he is,’ continued Mr Dorman. ‘He caught young George a clip over the ear-‘ole yesterday for blowing his trumpet on the stairs. Gave him sixpence afterwards, and said he’d skin him if he ever did it again. So, if you don’t mind–‘

‘Oh, all right,’ said Owen. ‘Who is he?’

‘Gentleman of the name of Prosser.’

Owen could not recollect having come across any work by anyone of that name; but he was not a wide reader; and, whether the man above was a celebrity or not, he was entitled to quiet.

‘I never heard of him,’ he said, ‘but that’s no reason why I should disturb him. Let him rip. I’ll cut out the musical effects in future.’

The days passed smoothly by. The literary man remained invisible, though occasionally audible, tramping the floor in the frenzy of composition. Nor, until the last day of his visit, did Owen see old Mrs Dorman.

That she was not unaware of his presence in the house, however, was indicated on the last morning. He was smoking an after-breakfast pipe at the open window and waiting for the dog-cart that was to take him to the station, when George, the son of the house, entered.

George stood in the doorway, grinned, and said:

‘Farsezjerligranmatellyerforchbythecards?’

‘Eh?’ said Owen.

The youth repeated the word.

‘Once again.’

On the second repetition light began to creep in. A boyhood spent in the place, added to this ten days’ stay, had made Owen something of a linguist.

‘Father says would I like grandma to do what?’

‘Tell yer forch’n by ther cards.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Backyarnder.’

Owen followed him into the kitchen, where he found Mr Dorman, the farmer, and, seated at the table, fumbling with a pack of cards, an old woman, whom he remembered well.

‘Mother wants to tell your fortune,’ said Mr Dorman, in a hoarse aside. ‘She always will tell visitors’ fortunes. She told Mr Prosser’s, and he didn’t half like it, because she said he’d be engaged in two months and married inside the year. He said wild horses wouldn’t make him do it.’

‘She can tell me that if she likes. I shan’t object.’

‘Mother, here’s Mr Owen.’

‘I seed him fast enough,’ said the old woman, briskly. ‘Shuffle, an’ cut three times.’