Squire Goodall

Auckland Star, Volume LXI, Issue 187, 9 August 1930, Page 14 (Supplement)

Squire Goodall

By W. RILEY.

CHAPTER I. Squire Goodall at Home. Squire Goodall strode along the road in his usual leisurely way with his hands behind his back, and his alert eyes shining in the shadows of his bushy brows. The hour was late, after eleven o'clock, and the suburban highway w'as deserted. He had walked at exactly the same pace and in the same attitude from his club in the centre of the city, and though the distance was less than two miles it had taken him three-quarters of an hour to cover it. The way never seemed long, for there was always a great deal to think about and Squire Goodall was a business-man and a thinker. He had made thousands of pounds along that two miles of stretch of road, and particularly on the last quiet half-mile section, merely by taking counsel with his thoughts. i But however busy his mind might be his eyes never slept, never overlooked anything that mattered. They were the well-disciplined sentinels of his senses, even though, they &;tood within the shadows and had the power to hide themselves behind the bushes. They pulled their master up now when he was within a few strides of his own door, and called his attention to a bill, pasted upon the wall, which announced a public meeting in the local institute with the intimation; "Squire Goodall, Esq., will preside."The juxtaposition of the two accordant words always annoyed him. Ever from the days of his great great-grand-father which was as far back as the records went, there had been a "Squire' Goodall in the family, and it vexed him that a sensible man like his father should have maintained the tradition. He had taken care to break it, and had named his only son William—there would always be one thing for which the lad would have cause to honour his dad. "Squire" was misleading; it was apt to fool people and to make a fool of its owner; it was pretentious and therefore hateful to one of the least pretentious of men. Why couldn't the idiot who drafted the bill have put a plain "Mr." before his name? The annoyance only brushed a faint shadow over his face, for both he and the grievance were old now and accustomed to one another, bo he dismissed the matter and picked up the thread of his cogitations which were not completed when he mounted the steps 'and stood beside the door of his home. There he left them and turned to absorb the beauty of the landscape. It was always so with Squire Goodall. When night fell over the valley and the hills beyond settled into gloom hundreds of lights pricked the darkness, turning the smokeenveloped city into a fairyland. Heaven might dim her lamps sometimes, veil them in clouds, extinguish them, but earth never did. They were only the street lamps, it is true, but they twinkled like stars on the very summits ot the hills and all down their sides, and for some reason or otheer they thrilled Squire Goodall—warmed his heart. They were friendly lights; and he never went to bed without drawing the curtain of his window so that he might glimpse their kindliness if he lay awake. They spoke to his soul, but he could not have told anybody what they said. . As he removed his hat and overcoat it was possible to see him clearly and'to note that he was not only unpretentious but insignificant in build and bearing, thin and undersized, with greyish hair and beard, the latter closely-cropped. Not one feature was distinguished, except perhaps the delicacy of his hands. There was nothing about him to attract attention; nothing to indicate the keen and prosperous .business-man. He knew it too, and made use of the knowledge to his profit in the world's markets, r His household awaited him in the sitting-room-"Aunt" Matilda, who had been widowed before her bosom friend, Squire Goodall's wife, Mary Emma, died; who had nursed her in her last illness and had stayed on to look after the home and children and to do her best for the father; Selina, the elder daughter, a stylishly-dressed young woman of twenty-live, and her sister Mildred known to everybody as Millie who had lust celebrated her twenty-first birthday. The "general" had gone to bed an hour before. The father's slippers were warming on the hearth and Millie knelt down on the rug to remove his shoes. "That's the third hole in your sock this week," she remarked. "If there s a holier woolman anywhere I should like to see him. Just look, Aunt Matilda! She turned the foot so that the heel was visible with its circle of naked flesh, and the elderly woman looked up from her knitting and smiled. Squire Goodall smiled, too, and said nothing. > } "All your socks are getting thin, Aunt Matilda commented. She knew, because it was she who mended them. "We had all better give him socks for his Christmas present," said Selina without lifting her eyes from the fancy work on which she was engaged. "The poor man can't afford to buy any for himself." ~ . .„ I "In that case," her father replied, I shall get something sensible for once. It'll be a novelty." ■ "Don't begin bickering, please, said Millie, who remained bunched up on the rug with one arm laid lightly on her father's knee. "If you set Lina off there'll be no more peace to-night, and I shall go to bed." People often spoke of them as plain girls until they knew them better, when they usually admitted that they were rather striking. They were fair, with pink and white complexions and blue eyes, but Selina's lips were fuller and redder than her sister's and her expression was different, more bored and rather haughty. Both were well and even expensively dressed, and both had good figures. Selina was quite conscious that hers was the better of the two and that her taste in dress was surer and more refined, and because of this, Millie was often overshadowed and overlooked when her sister was present, and it was only her hair and her eyes, or the way she used her eyes, that saved the situation for her. Millie's hair was glorious, even in its shingled state —the colour of ripe corn and waved like a field of corn that yields to the caressing touch of the breeze. There was nothing in her sister that Selina envied save her locks. She was welcome to keep her saucy eyes. In stature they were not Imposing, though they were not undersized like their father. They were equal in height, but Selina appeared to have an advantage of an inch over her sister, partly tho. heels of her shoes were

higher, but also because she held herself more erect. Millie's deportment was careless. Millie herself was careless. Selina made no reply to her sister's admonition, for her mind was preoccupied at the moment with the intricacies of the pattern, and she was frowning at the fashion book that lay open on her knee. Her father leaned back in his chair and watched her growing impatience with a tolerant smile. He was fond of both his daughters, but in the balance of his thoughts the scale inclined heavily in favour of Selina. She was not nearly so affectionate as Millie; not nearly eo attentive to his wants; but there was more in her; she was more like himself. The compliment she paid him by this unwitting resemblance counted for more than Millie's devotion; and he knew it, and had a notion that it ought not to be so. Conversation languished. Aunt Matilda's needles clicked busily, Selina's frown became deeper, Millie found something to interest her in the fire, and the father's eyes closed and his chin jerked its slow way to his chest. Yet nobody suggested bed, for it was not yet midnight. Suddenly Millie roused herself. "Oh, father," she said. "There are ' some wonderful pictures of Sir Charles White's place, Egerton Manor, in this week's 'Country Life.' It must be topping to live in a home like that. Toss the paper over, Lina. It's behind you, somewhere. I'll wake father up; he's having his beauty sleep." Selina bundled her work and the offending fashion paper into a work basket with an impatient "Bother the thing!" and groped for the magazine. "Father won't bo interested," she remarked caustically as she turned the pages. "Any old hole that has a roof to it is good enough for him—and us. Even Bill can live in a bigger and better house than we do." "What's wrong with the house?" her father inquired. He was wide awake now and regarding her humorously. "We've a bedroom apiece, haven't we, and a couple of sitting rooms. I don't suppose Charlie White can sleep in more than one bed at a time. Pass the paper across, Selina." She threw it to Millie, who changed her position so that she could again inspect the pictures as her father laid it on his knees and turned the pages; and Selina continued. "Nobody would think you had a penny more than six hundred a year by the way we live, and I'll bet you've nearer six thousand if the truth were known. You always seem to have plenty to give away when there's an appeal for money —you're generally among the first halfdoxen, I notice —yet you're content to let your family live in a roadside villa, with one maid and a charwoman to do the work, just as if you were a poky little draper like our neighbour, old Andrews. We can't even have a car, but must needs go by tram, and even Bill can have a car." "You've plenty to be thankful for," interposed Aunt Matilda quietly. " 'Having food and raiment,' why shouldn't you be content, as the Apostle was ?" "I was speaking to father," Selina replied coldly. to me, were you? I never heard you. What were you saying?" Squire Goodall .put the question indifferently, being interested in the photographs; but he listened when Selina repeated her indictment in even stronger terms, and raised his eyes when she finished. "It's this house of Charlie White's that's bothering, you, is it? You'd like to go one better, I suppose, and have a deer park and a few thousand acres of moor, where you could entertain shooting parties, and a river where you could fish for salmon. And maybe you'd feel comfortable in these grand rooms that are furnished like a show-place and haven't a comfortable chair in them. I shouldn't; this room we're sitting in is worth them all put together to my thinking." "There's reason in all things," Selina said. "Charlie White's a millionaire, and I'm not expecting the impossible, but I do think we might live in a bit better style than this." "I don't know whether Charlie White is a millionaire or not," returned her father, after a pause in which he seemed to be considering his reply; "but I shouldn't be surprised if I could not buy him up and have a nice bit left. I don't know, of course, but I rather fancy I could." The quiet statement had a curious effect upon the hearers. Aunt Matilda dropped her knitting and gazed at Squire Goodall with an expression of amazement, though not of unbelief. Millie gasped and looked expectantly at her sister. Selina's face hardened and became flushed. She drew herself erect, stared at her father, and in her iciest tones said: — ! "I don't know whether you're kidding ns or not, but if what you say is true or anywhere near truth it's just wicked, of you to have allowed Millie and meto | be looked down upon by Agnes White and her set all these years. They treat' us as if it was a condescension to admit us to their tennis parties, and look at us as if we were worms who ought to be grateful that we are allowed to wriggle on their lawn. The humiliations I've suffered at the hands of that girl and her cousins won't bear thinking of, and now you tell us you could buy her father up. I think it's horrid of you, if it's true; and if it isn't true it's a poor joke. "Don't be a silly ass, Lina," said Millie before her father could reply. "All the snubs you've got from Agnes have been imaginary. You've seen what you ve been looking for, that's all. You're a iolly sight starchier than she is, and that's what ails you. It makes you touchy." , , , , a "You can't deny that she treats me with studied indifference," Selina challenged. ' , "Hot! How do you treat ter?" countered Millie. , r ~,, , , . At thiß point Aunt Matilda broke in. "Now don't get to words over it," she said. "I don't, think, Selina, you ought to have spoken that way to your father. I'm sure you've xaught to grumble at with the money you get through— She was not allowed to proceed further. ... "The money I get through has nothing to do with you, and you've nothing to do with the discussion. I'm my father s daughter, and you are my father's housekeeper, though I'm sorry to say you seem to forget it." The blunt words, rudely spoken, affected the woman like a physical blow. Her face became very white, and she let v&er knitting drop and placed a hand over

her heart. In her eyes there came a dazed, half-terrified look as she turned them appealingly on Squire Goodall. If he saw the look he mad© no sign, j His own face was white and stern but it j remained calm even when he stood by his elder daughter's chair and laid a compelling hand upon her arm. "Get upstairs to bed," he said in a voice that all three • women feared. "You've insulted a good woman and my friend, and you'll answer for it to me to-morrow morning.. You had better go too, Millie." Usually both girls kissed him when they said good-night, but neither of them dared to do so now. Selina left the room, dashed but still defiant, and Millie followed her after pressing a kiss on Aunt Matilda's forehead. When they were gone Squire Goodall sat down .again. "Dry your eyes, Matilda," he said. "What she said was spoken in a temper." "It had to come, Squire," the woman replied with surprising composure. "I've seen it in her eyes and know it's been on the tip of.her tongue many a time this last year or two " "Year or two?" "Yes, she gave me. a broad hint eighteen months back when you were in Japan that things would have to be altered, and I felt sure she'd be putting me in my place one of these days. I wouldn't be hard on her. With the eddication you've given her it's naught but natural. What she's said is true and it isn't that as hurts: it's the'way she said it." I've been blind to this, Matilda," he s'aid, and with a faint smile she replied— "You're blind to a deal where Selina's concerned, Squire. I fear the lass'll make you trouble, she's that proud and headstrong. And I'm done. She was never easy to mother and now she'll take no more notice of me, and we may as well settle down to it. It's you that'll have to curb her—if you can." ' She left her chair by the table and took the easier one Selina had been occupying. She was a spare and rather angular woman, a year or two older than Squire Goodall, and although she had known no real rare for the past thirteen years her face had not lost the furrows which a multitude of sorrows had ploughed on it in the preceding half-

century. Her humble origin was written on every feature, manifest in her speech, graven on her work-worn hands, and it could never be cloaked. The man, her loyal friend, realised this all at once and told himself that if his wife, Mary Emma, had. lived she would have been just the same. Even Charlie Whites wife was little better, if as good. "Yes, Ave may as well settle down to it," he said, "and I shall, have to see what can be done. Now that shes opened my eyes I must look into this business." "You'd happen better let me go, Squire," she said, thoughtfully. "If you're all that well off you could put me ino a cottage somewhere and allow me a bit to live on " "Yes, yes," he interrupted, "I could do that easily but I'm not going to punish either you or myself to please young madame. I'll sleep on it, Matilda, and don't worry your head over that outburst. I'll straighten things out. You'd better get off to bed." She rose obediently, put away her knitting and Selina's work-basket, and was picking up the copy, of "Country Life" when Squire Goodall stopped her. "I'll look at that again for five minutes," he said. "Were you having them on when you said all that about being so well off, Squire," she asked after she had bidden him good-night. "It's more than I can •believe almost." "If I told you how much I'm worth you wouldn't know what I meant," he replied. "Your head wouldn't carry it. I don't suppose there are a couple of hundred men in England richer than I am." "Well then there's something in what Selina says," she answered; and closed the door behind her. That was exactly what the father was thinking, and he pursued the subject carefully and methodically in his thoughts when he was alone. Nobody guessed how rich he was, not even his son, Bill, who was second-in-command of the business. Bill knew that the wool trade had brought them a but he was not aware of his father's speculations in a hundred other undertakings. Those dealings Squire Goodall kept to himself, sharing the knowledge only with his accountant, a particularly safe

man. He was immensely rich and^e remarkable -thing w« that % e ? 7 7t nothing about riches. He had never ye* sought to make money for moneys sakS, -but the game fascinated him. Obstacles that «e ms—taW barriers to other men he K conquered with apparent businesses and abandoned « n J e^rl9^ 3 had an irresistible attraction for to. and if he took them in hand they began to flourish.-It was mstmct, . he said, knowing when and how to put irons So 2 fire, and how to pull themout. But there was more than, instinct, there was -enius; and he invariably laid his plans° so unobtrusively and .cleverly ffi nobody guessed that Squire Goodall had so many interests; nobody knew -that it was not always wool, and that it was never pleasure that took him to Calcutta and Shanghai and Yokohama, to say nothing of the more fiequent journeys to Australia and the American continent. He was so reticent, so insignificant, that nobody took much notice of him at all. And that was as he liked it to be. Half an hour passed before he picked up "Country Life" and began to turn its pages. Over one of the advertisements he paused a long time, finally removing the leaf neatly with his penknife and placing it in his pocket book. Then he switched off the lights and went upstairs. For several minutes he stood, at tne window and looked out at the starhills and valley. It was very dark'' but with these myriad twinkling liohts there was no sense of darkness. Mary Emma had loved to stand with him and watch them, and his thoughts brought her to his side. Ho wondered what° she would say if she kneAV what he was contemplating. He thought he knew: "You want to look where you re going." , ... He smiled, undressed in the dark, knelt for a minute or two beside his bed, got into it and slept. (To be continued Saturday next.)

The End