Mr. Poskitt's Nightcaps. Stories of a Yorkshire Farmer

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Fletcher Joseph Smith. Mr. Poskitt's Nightcaps. Stories of a Yorkshire Farmer

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I. THE GUARDIAN OF HIGH ELMS FARM

CHAPTER II. A STRANGER IN ARCADY

CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS NOBODY

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II

CHAPTER IV. LITTLE MISS PARTRIDGE

CHAPTER V. THE MARRIAGE OF MR. JARVIS

CHAPTER VI. BREAD CAST UPON THE WATERS

CHAPTER VII. WILLIAM HENRY AND THE DAIRYMAID

CHAPTER VIII. THE SPOILS TO THE VICTOR

CHAPTER IX. AN ARCADIAN COURTSHIP

CHAPTER X. THE WAY OF THE COMET

CHAPTER XI. BROTHERS IN AFFLICTION

CHAPTER XII. A MAN OR A MOUSE

PROLOGUE

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III

IV

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VI

CHAPTER XIII. A DEAL IN ODD VOLUMES

CHAPTER XIV. THE CHIEF MAGISTRATE

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In the cold dreariness of that February morning the whole glace looked chilly and repellent in the extreme. There, on a little knoll, which by comparison assumed almost hill-like proportions amongst the low level of the meadows and corn-lands at its feet, stood the farmstead – a rambling mass of rough grey walls and red roofs; house, barns, stables, granary, and byres occurring here and there without evident plan or arrangement. Two or three great elm-trees, now leafless, and black with winter moisture, rose high above the chimneys and gables like sentinels inclined to sleep at their posts; above their topmost branches half-a-score of rooks flapped lazy wings against the dull grey of the sky; their occasional disconsolate notes added to the melancholy of the scene. And yet to an experienced eye, versed in the craft of the land, there was everything to promise well in the outward aspect of High Elms Farm. The house, if very old, was in good repair, and so were the buildings; the land was of excellent quality. But it only needed one glance to see that the house had not been tenanted for some time; its windows gave an instant impression that neither lamp-light nor fire-light had gleamed through them of late, and to enter the great stone-paved kitchen was to experience the feeling of stepping into a vault. That feeling of dead emptiness was in all the outbuildings, too – the stables, the granary, the byres were lifeless, void; ghostliness of a strange sort seemed to abide in their silence. And beneath the curling mists which lay over the good acres of corn-land, weeds were flourishing instead of growing crops.

On that February morning two young men, so much alike that no one could mistake them for anything else than what they were – twin-brothers – stood at the stone porch of the house, staring at each other with mutually questioning eyes. They were tall, finely built, sturdy fellows of apparently twenty-six years of age, fair of hair, blue of eye, ruddy of cheek, with square, resolute jaws and an air of determination which promised well for their success in life. Closely alike in their looks, they carried their similarity to their dress. Each wore a shooting-coat of somewhat loud pattern; each sported a fancy waistcoat with gilt buttons; each wore natty riding-breeches of whipcord, which terminated in Newmarket gaiters of light fawn colour. Each wore his billycock hat inclined a little to the left side; each had a bit of partridge's feather stuck in his hatband. And at this moment each was nibbling at a straw.

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An hour later, it then being nine o'clock – the brothers took a lanthorn and, after their usual custom, went round the farm-buildings to see that everything was safe for the night. They were well-to-do young men, these two, and they had brought a quantity of valuable live stock with them. The stables, the folds, the byres, the cow-houses were all full; the pig-cotes were strained to their utmost capacity, for both Simpson and Isaac believed in pigs as a means of making money. Not for many a year had the old farmstead contained so much life.

They went from stable to stall, from fold to byre, from cote to granary – all was in order for the night. The horses turned sleepy heads and looked round at the yellow light of the swinging lanthorn; the cows gazed at their owners with silky eyes; the young bullocks and heifers in the knee-deep straw of the folds stared lazily at the two inspectors. Over this bovine life, over the high roofs and quaint gables the deep blue of the night hung, pierced with the shafts of a thousand stars.

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