UNCLE ENOCH'S WILL.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 10926, 15 November 1913, Page 3

UNCLE ENOCH'S WILL.

(By R. MURRAY GILCHRIST.) Author of "Beggar's Manor," "The Rue Bargain," Etc. [All Rights Reserved.] For the last ten winters Uncle Enoch had intimated with tears, that he would never see again the bursting of the leaf in this hedges, and the green network of young corn arise in the long field that lay between Goodlad's Flat and the high road that winds from Grassbrook to Calton St Anne's. Time had accustomed his niece, Emma Posnett, to the falsehood of his prognostications, and she had even learned to regard them with complacency. When Uncle Enoch's time really did come, it may safely be said that nobody was more surprised than himself. He had been an inveterate grumbler; now that the period of his grumbling_ must perforce cease, he became resigned, and expressed no other hope than that he might bo permitted to spend his last hours in peace and comfort. His brother, Mark Bimblcbee, and his sister, Selina Rollinson, determined to come at once, with a view to discovering what arrangements he had made for the disposal of his worldly gear. The sixty-acre farm belonged to him, and there was a pleasant, irregular row of cottages, admirably kept, with flowery fore-courts, that stretched between the churchyard and the Hall gai-deri. These, never brought in less than a pound a week, and Uncle Enoch as a property-owner was justly regarded by the villagers as ranking amongst the "better end o' folk." It was Emma who wrote to inform both that the doctor had said the old man in all likelihood would riot outlast the week. They received their letters on a Wednesday morning, and wired that before evening they would arrive at Goodlad's Flat.

In the early afternoon Emma donned her outdoor "clothes and went down to the village to make some purchases 'at the quaint grocer's shop. Aunt Selina could only drink China tea, and Uncle Mark always inquired before aught else for the silver-mounted mull well plenished with Topmill snuff. The young, woman's face was pale and drawn; more than once on her way_ sho was stopped to answer kindly inquiries concerning her kinsman's condition. Her eyelids quivered as sho replied: in the years she had spent at the little farmstead she had grown to love Uncle Enoch as warmly as though in truth •she had been his own daughter. Her errand accomplished, sho was returning homeward, laden with a large bag of red-and-black chequered carpet, when she heard a hurrying footstep and, turning, 'found herself face to face with William Boston, a stifflybuilt voung man with a round, freshlycoloured face and _ black moustache. She gave a little sigh of content when he took the hag from her hand and declared that lie meant to accompany her as far as the door. "Egad, but it is bitter cold!" be said. " You look fair pinched to death. I'm glad to see you, Emma—if I hadn't met you bore I'd have come up before your folk arrive." " I thought you'd bo at market," she replied. ""'Tis surely out of the common, you being back at Grassbrook so early."

" Well, 'tis this way," said William. "I felt so Uneasy about you that I couldn't settle to" anj business,, so as soon as I got there I drove back again. There's something I want to ask you, and that badly, loot's turn up the field-path—tho ground's hard as iron with the frost."

They entered the churchyard, climbc-d tho further stile and began to ascend tlio hill. When they had reached the beech-wood, where tho tawny leaves rattled m the wind, he laid down tho bag and put his arm around Emma's

waist and kissed her very tendeily on the lips. "I'm sorry for you, my dear, sorrier than 1 can put into words," he murmured. " But you mustn't grieve too much—l'm hero to look after you, and our life's only just going to begin. I don't fancy yon being left alone when tho poor old gentleman dies. I've been thinking as wo ought to get wed soon—as soon as ever we can. I'm not what could be called a well-to-do chap, but we'll always have bread and cheese to stay ourselves with." '"' You're very good, far better nor I've any right to expect," said Emma. "You ouglit for to choose a lass with money—one as could find stock for the farm, 'stead of me, who's poor as a church mouse!" William laughed and shook his head. " If the richest woman in tho world was to be had for the asking, I'd not change for thee," he said. "I've learned as you're one of tho best ever fashioned. You're more to me. nor any wealth." Emma kissed' him now of her own free will. " T don't know what you see in me," she whispered. " Why, for-, sure I see the one as was born to be my mate," cried the young mnn. " What more do I wantP" I shall bo tho happiest husband on God's earth !"

Then he took up the bag again and they walked ojiickl.v in the direction of her home. The grerness of tho skies deepened; in a distant valley they saw lines of drifting snow.

"I'll come on after tea as usual," said William. " That is, unless you'd rather I didn't bother you when your aunt and uncle aro there " "You shouldn't use such a word," said Emma. " 'Twill be no bother but a joy to have you with mo. Poor Uncle Enoch won't know you—he's lost touch with everything. I do wish as he'd been able to know as yen and I'd agreed to marry. Sometimes, tho last few days, I've thought he's got something on his mmd—something as troubles him."

"He ought to be abed, instead of •lying day and night in tho parlour," said her sweetheart. " He'd rest better——-"

"I'm none so sure of it, William," she interrupted. " 1 believe ho likes to hear tho noises of the house—to hear footsteps in tho kitchen and the knocking of folk at the doors. Happen 'tis only my fancy, but I've thought more nor once that he's wanted to tell me something, particularly when I had occasion to go upstairs for aught. However, I must e'en be content, 6ince 'tis more than unlikely as ho'll ever speak sensible again. It goes to my heart—fearing as he's something to say as must be kept for over silent!"

" Ay, and I've noticed it myself," said Boston, " I'vo been fair grieved to think how he's not able to put his thoughts into words. Happen seeing his brother and sister will loosen his tongue-strings.' I've heard of such, tilings happening. But I mustn't keep you any longer in the cold—•'twill get into your bones. You can count on me to turn up later. Goodbye, my dear, and keep up your spirits as well as you can. Remember as you're no longer standing alone." " 'Twill be my strength, and that's gospel truth," said Emma. " I shall fret—l'm bound to fret—but 'twon't bo like as if I was to depend on my kinsfolk. And I'll take care you never regret choosing mo for wife " " You needn't go for to say that, Emma. If a favour has been done, 'tis by you. I—l grudgo every minuto I spend away. from.you." „■ Once more they kissed, then the girl passed through the garden, opened the front door gently, peeped into tho parlour where Uncle Enoch sat sleeping besido the fire, then in company with the woman-servant busied herself in preparations for tho coming of Aunt belina and Uncle Mark. As chance would have it, brother and sister axrived at Goodlad's Flat exactly at the same moment. Mark had driven from the Woodlands in his brave new dogcart, and Solina, who lived in Derby, had come up from the Bridge Station in a 6omewhat dilapidated waggonette. It was some years since they had mot, and Solina, who knew her duty, kissed Mark on the cheek. He was a stout gaffer of seventy, with a brickdust skin and a Newgate fringe. His eyebrows w r ero like sections of birds' nests, and littlo tufts of hair grew above the lobes of his ears. He had thin lips, a clean-cut hooked nose, and a perfect set of teeth which', when he spoke, jerked alarmingly, and seemed about to fall from his mouth. Something of a fop was Mark; he woro riding-breeches, a velveteen waistcoat, and a jacket that might have been made for a man half his age. He had been twice bereaved of loving wellportioned wives, and unless rumour lied could count more thousands than fingers. As for Selina Rollinson, the widow of Samuel, who had kept the Bull's Head at Monsal Dale, she was lean and gaunt, with silky white curls and a pallid skin. As a woman of means, she woro handsome clothes—a bonnet of satin embellished with violets, a beaded mantle and a gown of finest cashmere. One somewhat antiquated fashion sho could not resign—sho was never seen without clean white cotton stockings and elastic-sided boots of softest kid.

t "Eh, 'tis a sad occasion this!'' she sighed, after the embrace. "Who'd havo thought poor Enoch would go first? Why, he's but five years older than me, and six years older than you!" " He ought to ha' wedded, same as you and me did," said Mark. " There's nought like a settled life for keeping one hale. Now, but for a touch o' sciatica now and then, I'm as sound as a nutl"

"And 'tis same wi' me, • brother," said Selina. "That is—l haven't sciatica—but I do suffer fro' rheumatics when the woather's a bit coarse. Why, here's nieco Emma, looking vastly peaked I" Sho shook tho young woman's hand coldly, and passed l>ofore her into the house 1 Emma caught her by tho sleeve. "He's asleop just now," she said. " 'Tis tho first sleep he's had for two days—if you don't mind 'twould be best not to waken him."

" Oh, indeed," said Selina, jerking back her head. _ " "Tis a nice thing —mo coming this way and not to see him straight off. Howsoe'er, happen 'twill be best for mo to havo a cup of tea and some meat afore I speak to him. This cold weather it puts an edgo on one's appetite, so it does." " I'vo got the tabic set all ready," said Emma. "And there's a bit o' pork cooked to a turn." "That's all right," said her aunt in a mollified voice. "I can't a tear pig in any shape or form except wl en there's frost about. Would you tell someone to carry my box upstairs. That's right—l'll change my gown after I've victualled."

Mark, who had delivered his horse and trap to the old farm-man, entered now and followed them to the secondbest parlour, where the gate-legged table was laid for a meal. He stood with his back to the firo, swaying to and fro liko nn automaton. A stout woman-iervaut brought in tho teapot and the roast, and Emma, bidding her relatives make themselves at Lome, stole away to the best parlour, vlere Uncle Enoch dozed feebly in his screened chair.

Selina shook her head after the j ci.ng woman's departure. "Seems to me as she tokos a lot on herself," ;he said. " Folk might say as f!io owned ail the place. I don't like such, goings

on, and that's truth. Her wi'out a penny—living here on poor brother s charity—sho ought to show a hotter sens© o' what's proper." " She's not a bit like poor Sarah," said Mark. "Now Sarah Bhe never could say ' boo' to a goose I" " Ay, poor lass, she couldn't, or else she'd no'or have married the chap ate did. I always did say Sarah had r.o pride. To think of a Bimbleoeo setting up house wi' a farm-bailiff 1 Not as ho wasn't good-looking—to ho Hire ho was as upstanding as one might wish to see. But twenty-five shillings a week for all wage, and not- a penny put by in an old stocking." " I will say this for Sarah," observed the old man. " She was a fool, no doubt, but she'd a bit o' sen-*) stowed away somewhere. Ne'er did she ask mo or Enoch or you to help jilt v,i' money " "Ay, there was the Bimblebee pride!" exclaimed Selina. "If it does happen as one o' us makes a mistake, we ne'er own to it. I believes sho was comfortable enow wi'' Mr Posnett; I ne'er could abide to call him by his Christian name, him not belonging to our class. 'Tis a good job as they only reared Emma, and lost the two little lads."

" Enoch acted well in taking her when the parents died," said Mark. " Else the lass would have had to go to a service place. I reckon she will now—at least after brother takes his departure."

" I'm not so sure as I won't have her to live wi' me," said the aunt. " I'm not so young as I was, and I could well do wi' another pair o' legs. I've got a lot o' property in Derby and 'tis rather trying for me to gather in the rents week by week. But no agents for me—-I don't believe in giving 'em five pound out o' every hundred!" All the while they ate and drank heartily. At last, being comfortably satisfied, each wiped lips on a corner of the tablecloth, and drew a chair towards the fire. Emma entered, smiling wanly, and informed them that Uncle Enoch was awake and ready tosee them. Mrs Rollinson sighed and blinked and pressed her jbosom, then preceded the others to the best parlour, where tho old man sat in the great arm-chair, gaaing vacantly at the fire. In families such as the Bimblebees a marked display of emotion is only ]permL < -s.ible on extraordinary occasions. This might be regarded as one, and tho widow caught the fragile old man in her arms, and sobbed over him, and kissed his bald bead with unaffected tenderness.

"Eh, me! Eh, me!" she moaned. " And I mind the day when 'twas covered witli little gold curls as thick as thick could be. Eh, me, and I ne'er thought as I should see you brought to this pass!" Mark's distress was as genuine but less manifest. He pressed his brother's hand and held it until it was drawn somewhat petulantly away. "Speak to us, brother, .spesk to us!" cried Selina plaintively. "'Tis sister Selina a-s you used to play wi' well-nigh sixty years ago—sister Selina and brother Mark."

Poor Unclp Enoch did not respond to this appeal to pleasant memories. "Is it?" he said vaguely. "Is it? Well, to lie sure!" There was but little recognition in that weak, squeaky voice; it seemed as though the only person whom lie know in those last hours was Emma herself. He moved his hand jerkily, summoning her to his chair. "Who be these fowk?" he said. " Lawkamercy, they reckon as they know me!" He did not Wait for her reply, but turned his face towards tho door. " Isn't William Boston late wi' the papers?" ho whispered. "I want to hear how th' murder case is going on i' London town."

Selina Rollinson drew back, shaking her head dolorously. " Poor Enoch, poor Enoch, his mind's gone," she murmured. "To think o' him dwelling on murders when his coffin's as good as ordered I"

The door was opened and William Boston entered. He wore his Sunday clothes of dark brown tweed. A newspaper was tucked under hV left arm. Emma greeted him silently, then introduced him to her aunt and uncle as Mr Boston, who had taken the Black Rake farm last Lady Day. There was something reassuring in the visitor's appearance—something that left no doubt concerning his good standing. He approached Uncle Enoch's chair, but greatly to his disappointment, the gaffer " showed not the least sign of recognition. " ''Tis Mr Boston who you were asking for," said Emma. " He's brought the news "

" I don't knew him," replied Uncle Enoch peevishly. " And I didn't want to know him!"

" Why, bless my eonl, you was only askirg about him and the murder case a few minutes back!" said Solina.

"It don't matter, it don't matter," wailed Uncle Enoch. " I don't know anybody but sister Sarah here."

Ho pointed with a trembling forefinger at Emma, who stood biting her lips so that sho might not weep. " "Fisa't Sarah," said Mark in a troubled voice. " 'Tis Sarah's daughter —hers and Mr Posnett's!" Uncle Enoch, began to titter. " Eh, what a tale, what a talol" he said. " Why, Ave might all bo guising at Christmas time. Sarah, Sarah, dost remomber the song—art letter perfect?" All then realised that the old man had begun to wander, and that in all likelihood he would never recover his wits. Aunt Selina drew Emma into a corner of tho room.

"We'd best get him to bed," she said. " I doubt as he'll last till morning. Eh dear, eh dear !" ' Ho hasn't boen abed since his illness came," said Emma. "He's spent his nights" on the 6ofa afront of tho fire, wi' me dozing in his chair. Doctor said ho must be humoured."

" Ay, that may bo, my las 3, but to bed he'll go now. Never since there was Bimblebees in the land have they died out o' bed and wi'out a pair o' linen sheets. Is there a fire in his roam?"

Enun.'i shook her head. "Ho wouldn't have one on any account," she replied. "I've begged and I've prayed, but all to no purpose. Surely 'twould be beGt not to disturb him—he's comfortable now."

The old lady out-thrust her chin. "Who's oldest, you or me?" she inquired acidly. " Who's likeliest to know what's fit and proper. A fino thing and a very fine thing if I can't do as I please in tho very house where I was born. "Jour uncle's got to be put in his bed and to die there in peace, same as his father, ay, and his grandfather before, him. Go you and give orders for a firo to be lighted at once." " I'd far liefer you didn't ask mo to, Aunt Selina," said Emma piteously. " Undo Enoch made up the fireplace with sacking and oileasc, nailed close to the mantel. He's told me timo and timo again as on no account must it bo meddled wi'. The draught he always said was something cruel." " It <Joesji't matter now." -aid tho old woman. "'He's pact taking notice of, and decency must bo observed. As I've told you, he'll have to die in bed. like a Christian, and I won't havo fowl: saying ho was starved in this bitter cold weather. If you'll not see to't why then, I'll havo to do it mysnn." She left the parlour and made her way to tho kitchen, whore she bade the servant draw a shovelful of hot cinders from between the bars, and fill the big copper warming-pan. Then caudle in hand she mounted to Uncle Enoch's blue-washed chamber, and tore clown the roughly-made screen that filled the fireplace opening. Jackdaws had nested in the chimney; she coughed because, of the acrid dust. The woman appeared with the sulphurous bed warmer: she took it from her hands and slipped it up and down betwixt tho sheets.

"Now go you and fetch another shovelful of live coals and an armful o' .-.ticks," sho said, "and don't stand staring like a gawky! There's no time to waste if the" master's to nass away in comfort-."

In five minutes, after several gusts of smoko had panted downward, the flames began to dance cheerfully up the chimney and Selina went back to the parlour. " We're going for to put you to bed, my dear," she said, leaning over the old man's chair. "To put you to bed, same as mother did when you was a littlo 'tin. You'll be that comfortable, you'll scare know yersen." Undo Enoch raised his face—his neck trembled like a feeble spiral spring. " Blanket-fair, mother, blan-ket-fair!" he whispered. _" I've just been asking if he's made his will?" said Mark. "He seemed not to understand, but I should be very much surprised if he has. There's always a good deal o' bother when a chap leaves freehold property—since only one person can be pleased, and that's him as heirs it." "Nonsense! Brother's sure to ha' made a will," said Selina. " He's been one o' the justcst men as ever lived, and we'll find 'tis equally divided 'twixt you and mo. He always held to the family, that he did; and if sister Sarah hadn't let herself down by marrying Mr Posnett, why Emma would have come in for a bit. Not a third share, of a nost-egg. However, 'tis scarce the time to talk about it yet, whilst there's course, but something as would do for life in him. Poor Enoch, poor lad—he's as weak as any kitlingi"

Mark turned to Mr Boston. "Happen you'll lend us a hand and we'll carry him up cb.au; and all." he said. " 'Tis asking a great deal, seeing as I don't know you, and as you're not one o' the family."

" Glad am I to do aught for the old gentleman," said Mr Boston. "Him and me's always been good friends, and to be plain I was hoping to call him uncle before he passed away. 'Tis settled—and 'twas his wish as Emma's to be my wife." "That's good news," said Mark, hastily. " I've been wondering what the lass'd do wi'out a home. Brother's death'll make a vast change in her way o' living " "Come," said,Selina. "We'd best get him settled abed—he looks a bad colour and no mistake. Emma, gi'e mo another candle, and I'll walk hi front, whilst you can follow so as if they stumble you'll break tho fall. He's not like to be'much _o' a weight, poor thing—different he is fro' what he was in his prime." Uncle Enoch submitted apathetically to tho removal; the only sign of life he gave was when he laughed as they paused on the narrow landing. Selina wagged her head mournfully as she thought of how he would next pass down to the ground floor. But when the old man was carried into the chamber, and tho chair was placed for a brief while on the hearthrug, he began to stir curiously, and a strange incoherent noise came from his puckered lips—a noise like nothing but the cry or some weird nightbird. His sister loaned over him, and put an arm on his shoulder,_ soothing liim as though ho were a little child. But Uncle Enoch's excitemeut grew and grew, and at last with a fantastic spasmS)f strength he pushed her aside and reeled towards the blazing fire. So astonished were all by this '"'lightening before death " that none- had the presence of mind to hinder him. He crashed to his knees on the fender and thrust his long' arms up the chimney, pulling down a small and charred wooden box that fell with an amazing clatter.

" 'Tis my will," he cried feebly. "And there's father's old watch for Mark, and mother's hair-brooeh for Selina. The rest, every bit o't, is left to Emma—as it ought for to be!" His voice droned away to a weak whisper. Emma tried to raise him: with Mr Boston's help he was moved back to tho chair. His head sank to his breast. Mark clucked like a hen: Selina sniffed and blinked. "He ought for to ha' died abed," she said. "He's the first Bimblebee as hasn't!"