THE GOLDEN FLEECE;

OR,

Who Wins the Prize?

BY

A.L.O.E.

Author of "The Shepherd of Bethlehem," "The Young Pilgrim," "Wings and Stings," &c.

London:

T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.

EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK. ——————————

1897

Contents.

Chapter.

I. OWLS AND EAGLES

II. LADIES IN COUNCIL

III. A SHOT AT THE OWL

IV. AIM HIGHER

V. WILL IT STRIKE?

VI. A SLACKENED BOW

VII. A GOLDEN STRING

VIII. SOMETHING TO BEAR

IX. RANDOM SHOTS

X. WHO WINS THE PRIZE?

List of Illustrations.

THE PRIZE OF THE GOLDEN FLEECE, Frontispiece

MEREDITH AND CALEB

PHILOMEL'S FIRST SOVEREIGN

PHILOMEL'S VISIT TO HER UNCLE

CALEB STATING THE CONDITIONS

THE FIRST TRESS CUT

MEETING OF PHILOMEL AND MISS ECCLES

THE GOLDEN FLEECE.

CHAPTER I.

OWLS AND EAGLES.

"OWLS have, no doubt, their proper place in the social as well as the natural world, but of all birds under the sun—or moon—they are the last that I should have chosen as types of wisdom; unless it be wisdom to prefer darkness to light, and to see, by choice, the night-side of everything in creation! To my mind, the lark that soars singing towards the sun in summer, or the robin that whistles his merry lay in the winter, is more emblematic of wisdom than all the owls that ever hooted!" Such were the reflections of Meredith, as he quitted Burnesbey Abbey, and sauntered along the broad avenue bordered with ancient beeches.

"There goes one of your eagle-spirits, always for mounting and soaring, and leaving comfort and common sense a long way behind him!" This was the comment of Caleb Coffin upon his late visitor, as the new proprietor of Burnesbey Abbey stirred his fire (no matter what the weather might be, Caleb had always a fire), and then leaned back in his easy-chair, and rubbed his lean wrinkled hands.

Caleb Coffin was an elderly man, wrapt in a gray dressing-gown, with a black velvet cap on his head, and a large pair of tortoise-shell spectacles resting upon a hooked nose. That beak-like nose, the goggle glasses, the round contour of the face, and the peculiar expression which it wore, gave Caleb a whimsical resemblance to the bird of Minerva. Though Mr. Coffin liked his fire, his warm dressing-gown, and his easy-chair, he was no valetudinarian, but a man in full vigour of body and mind—one disposed to enjoy life, much as an owl might be supposed to enjoy it, wrapping himself up in his feathery mantle, and screeching at the follies of the rest of the world. A sneer lurked in the corner of the lip overshadowed by the beak, a satirical gleam in the keen gray eyes that peered through the glasses, that bespoke the cynic. But if Caleb was a modern Diogenes, he had learned at least to line his tub with down.

The owner of Burnesbey Abbey had nothing of the air of a country gentleman, and had looked much more in his natural sphere at his office-desk in Threadneedle Street, than in the ancient mansion which he had lately inherited from a distant relation. The lord of the manor appeared as little suited to his new position, as his dusty ledger books would have been to one in his study panelled with carved oak, or a pane of ground glass from his office window to a place amongst the fine-stained diamonds of the mullioned casement behind him.

Meredith had been Coffin's ward, and had from childhood been familiar with the eccentric humour of the merchant; but this had been his first visit to the landed proprietor since, by a singular coincidence, each of the two men had come by inheritance into possession of a large estate. Characters are often so much influenced and altered by circumstances that Meredith had felt some curiosity to see how the shrewd money-making, money-loving merchant of Threadneedle Street, would play the new part assigned him in the drama of life. Would Caleb Coffin exemplify the lesson taught to Parnell's hermit of the effect of sudden prosperity upon a selfish, niggardly nature?—

"Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead By heaping coals of fire upon its head: In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, And, free from dross, the silver runs below."

But Meredith had found nothing changed in Caleb except his surroundings: it was the old picture in a new frame, and one that did not harmonize with it. Mr. Coffin did not rise from his easy-chair to welcome his guest, but holding out to him two thin fingers, nodded to Meredith to take a seat. The following conversation then passed between them:—

Caleb.—An odd twirl of Fortune's wheel this, Meredith, that has landed me in a romantic old abbey—and you in a coal-pit! Matters would have been better had we exchanged places. I should have squeezed gold out of coal-dust without minding blacking my fingers; and you would have played the grand signor to perfection, throwing away your money like a cavalier of old, entertaining ragged villagers by the hundred, and building scores of picturesque cottages for grateful tenants—he! he! he! (Mr. Coffin's laugh was peculiar, being usually accompanied by a hiss uttered between his closed teeth.)

Meredith.—I shall have tenants enough in Northumberland. There are more than two thousand souls on the Pitsmouth property.

Caleb.—And you'll look upon all these black diamonds as your especial care to polish and preserve—he! he! he! I'll be bound you've wasted quires of foolscap already in planning houses and schools, lecture-rooms, libraries, and that sort of thing; that you mean to be a protector, pastor, parent, patron, and pattern to every one of your grimy friends, and spend at least twelve hours out of the twenty-four groping underground like a mole. Have you not some such mad schemes as these in your brain?

MEREDITH AND CALEB.

Meredith.—Of course, I shall endeavour to look after the wants of my people.

Caleb.—Don't I know you as you've been from your boyhood—with your philanthropic Quixotism, your mania for night schools and ragged schools, your dashing at misery, vice, and dirt, as the Knight of the rueful countenance went full-tilt at the wind mills—I daresay with much the same result—he! he! he! I know how you'll go at them at Pitsmouth—reforming here, building there, trying to manufacture poets, philosophers, and saints out of grimy miners, till—till you get a wife, and she'll tether you down, and tame you down from a soaring eagle into a quiet domestic barn-door fowl.

Meredith (smiling).—Perhaps I shall find a wife who will rise higher far than myself as regards these same plans and projects for usefulness which seem to you so Quixotic.

Caleb.—Wheugh! Don't believe it, Meredith. I don't mean to say that a fellow of your inches, with a good deal of the manner that takes with women, and plenty of the cash which constitutes "an eligible," will have any difficulty in finding a girl willing to go to Pitsmouth, or to Kamtschatka itself, as your wife. Ay, and ready to enter into every freak and fancy of yours—building all her air-castles of coal—willing to go down with you in a bucket to the deepest depths that ever were dug, declaring that she really prefers black to white, and that miners, to her mind, are the most interesting beings in creation. Of course your fair lady will say all this, and may believe that she feels it,—there's no more accounting for a girl's fancies than for those of a philanthropic mine-owner.

But wait a bit, my dear fellow, and see how the coal-castle in the air goes off into smoke! When the good lady finds that she must be perpetually changing her curtains, and covering up her butter from coal-dust; when she sees that her geraniums will not flourish, and discovers that her own pretty face is always wanting washing; when friends think Northumberland much too far off for a visit; and even miners do not appear thankful for being taught, tutored, and trained;—why, then, you'll find matters changed. Your wife will not say, mark ye, "I wash my hands of the whole concern;" but she'll find that Northumberland air don't suit her health, or the health of her squalling baby, and she'll rush up to London by train—pay a round of visits—do no end of shopping—see the exhibitions, and half a score of doctors, and get the opinions of the faculty that she, or baby, can't possibly live so far north as Northumberland; that Mentone, or Florence, or Algiers, or Patagonia, is the only place in the world for her—or the precious brat.

And so—coaxing woman in one scale, Pitsmouth plans, projects, and philanthropy in the other—you will find, as plenty of husbands have found, that a man can't do good unless his wife will let him; and that had Quixote himself married Dulcinea, he would soon have settled down into a sober, sensible, family man.

Meredith.—I think that you do injustice to the fair sex, Mr. Coffin. In every work of beneficence, woman is found ready to lend effectual aid. In her labours, she is usually more devoted and more disinterested than man.

Caleb.—My dear fellow, you know little of the world, least of all of the female half of it. There are two motives which sway the human race—interest and vanity, the love of gold and the love of praise. Now woman, I grant ye, has, as a rule, less of the money-making quality than we have; but of the vanity, the love of praise, woman has a thousand times more. It comes out in everything that she does; it is her very mainspring of action. Not "What will it be?" but "How will it look?" is woman's perpetual question. Depend on't, woman invented the vile Russian dinner, such as Lady Macaw gave yesterday to introduce me as lord of the manor to the society of Thwayte. There was everything to please the eye no doubt—plenty of plate, glass, and flowers (one can't eat plate, glass, and flowers)—but the dishes handed round were but so-so, and the cheap wines handed round but so-so; I'd have had a much better dinner at home, bating of course the company, the plate, the glass, and the flowers.

Meredith.—Lady Macaw has no great fortune.

Caleb.—But she must make a great display—that's the point. She must keep her carriage; she must entertain; she must be the leader in society; she must manage everything and everybody;—she tried to manage "me"—he! he! he! I guess she'll find that a tough job!

Meredith.—What course did she take?

Caleb.—Not a straight one. Her ladyship tacked towards every point in the compass, sounding carefully as she went. She could not well work upon my self-interest, so she'd get round me by means of my love of praise. I was soon well-informed as to what a country gentleman of large property—one of an ancient honourable family—is expected to do when he comes to take possession. I believe that Lady Macaw would have him cut a hole in his pocket, and strut about dropping gold guineas at every step that he takes. Amongst other things, she tried to nail me down to patronizing her stall at the fancy-fair to be held at G— for some nonsensical object. I suppose that when she and the pretty girls of her working-party constrain old bachelors to buy their bibs and pink socks, pincushions, pinafores, and parrots, they fancy that they are doing a deed of charity—I would simply call it pocket-picking.

Meredith.—But we have wandered somewhat from the point from which we started, the disinterested beneficence of woman.

Caleb.—That it "is" disinterested is just what I deny. I tell you that every woman, plying her fingers to work, or her tongue to beg, looks for payment in pleasure or praise. There's my little niece Philomel Lamb, the parson's daughter, as good a creature as lives, and as deep as you yourself could desire in schools, and savings' banks, and cottage visiting—a philanthropist over head and ears! Why, where's the self-denial in this? She sets to her work because she likes it, and because the world says that it becomes a parson's daughter to look after her father's flock. She likes all the curtseying and bobbing of the village children, and the name of being clever, active, and good. I don't say that there's harm in her liking it,—if she hadn't a bit of vanity, she wouldn't be a woman—he! he! he!

Meredith (to himself).—What a blind owl this is; and yet he fancies himself clearer sighted than the rest of the world!

Caleb.—Why, that merry black-eyed damsel, Lucy Langton, who sat next to me yesterday evening, can play at charity when she has nothing better to play at, hunt out "cases" when there's no other game to hunt, and I daresay cuts and snips and stitches for Lady Macaw's fancy-fair, as energetically as she would whirl round and round in a polka. And her pretty sister, Miss Delia, with her perpetual simper, will think herself doing a mighty good deed when showing off her taper fingers and jewelled rings selling frippery behind a counter.

Folk must mount their hobbies; and charity with most of your good people, especially the ladies, is an easy-going hack that carries bells on its harness and trots all the better for the jingle—he! he! he! With fiery philanthropists, like yourself, it may be like a hunter, that bears you right over hedge and ditch, but I suppose that you find pleasure in the excitement, and on neither hack nor hunter is the rider likely to take the leap of Quintus Curtius.

Meredith.—But surely, Mr. Coffin, you cannot so close your eyes to facts as to deny that real sacrifices, great sacrifices, are made for the sake of charity by women.

Caleb.—No one denies it, my good friend, so you need not look so indignant as a champion of the sex. Woman sometimes will, and does sacrifice, money, time, strength, and a good deal besides, for the sake of being, or of seeming, charitable; don't shake your head so impatiently—the two things are closely connected. All that I argue for is, that there is one thing which woman does not, and will not sacrifice, and that is her vanity, her love of being admired. She'll go anywhere with that wind in her sails, but she can't beat up channel against it.

Find me a girl who will do good in the dark, prove that she cares not a straw for what the world says of her doings, that she wants neither praises nor thanks, and I'll believe in the phœnix, or mermaids, or anything else that you will; I'll believe that you've chosen a wife who will help, not hinder you, in making a paradise of Pitsmouth; you shall have a rare gift for your nonpareil bride, and I'll dance myself at the wedding!

Meredith (rising).—Take care what you promise, Mr. Coffin; I may one day hold you to your word.

Caleb.—Mind you, I must have the choice of the test, and be satisfied that the metal has fairly stood it; I must look through my own good spectacles, and not through your lover's eyes.

And so the companions parted, as we saw at the commencement of the chapter; the eagle to make bitter reflections on the dull cynicism of the owl, and the owl to hoot ridicule at the romantic flights of the eagle. The remarks of Caleb Coffin had, however, disturbed the serenity of the young owner of Pitsmouth more than he chose to own. Meredith had seen in his own family the power of a domestic tether to keep down an ardent spirit; he had seen a woman's influence divert into channels of ostentation what had once flowed in that of charity. And the thought had often crossed his mind that the philanthropist who would soar high must be content to soar alone.

CHAPTER II.

LADIES IN COUNCIL.

WHILE Mr. Coffin was criticising the ladies of Thwayte, the ladies, on their part, were passing judgment upon Mr. Coffin.

When the late easy-tempered, openhanded, good-natured proprietor of Burnesbey Abbey had paid the debt of nature, the character of his successor became a subject of curious conjecture, a matter of personal interest to all who dwelt in the neighbourhood. Sir John Coffin had held no very lofty place in men's esteem during his lifetime; but, like many more noble than himself, the fox-hunting squire was destined to be more highly appreciated after his departure from earth than during his residence in it.

At the dinner-party given in his honour by Lady Macaw, Mr. Coffin may be said to have made his first appearance in that circle in which his position as a large landed proprietor would henceforth give him a prominent place. Caleb had indeed spent two or three days in the parsonage of Thwayte during the lifetime of his sister, Mrs. Lamb, the wife of the vicar—but years had elapsed since that visit. Lady Macaw, who had chanced then to meet him, had described Mr. Coffin to her husband as a satirical, talkative man, who looked as if he would be shrewd in business and sharp in driving a bargain. The lady had almost forgotten the merchant's existence when, by succeeding to the Burnesbey estate, Caleb suddenly became to her, as to the other residents near him, an object of curious interest, and a topic of gossiping talk. Lady Macaw had, as we have seen, asked the lord of the manor to dinner, giving him a formal entertainment, the preparation of which had cost her a good deal of consideration and arrangement, if it had cost her

little besides. Lady Macaw, who regarded herself as the ruling spirit in Thwayte, had determined to secure, if possible, the master of Burnesbey Abbey, as one of the ministers of her will.

"First impressions are everything," as Lady Macaw observed to Sir Patrick, her meek little husband, who passed a quiet life of obscurity under the shadow of his wife.

What impressions had been made on Mr. Coffin may have been gathered from the conversation related in the last chapter; what impressions the new lord of the manor had himself made upon Thwayte society, shall be recorded in this.

Let me introduce my reader into the pretty country-residence to which Lady Macaw has given the name of the Villa of Roses. In her drawing-room is gathered together the little working-party of ladies who meet on each Tuesday to make pretty trifles for the fancy-bazaar, the proceeds of which are to place a bronze statue of a very distinguished statesman in the market-place of G—, the nearest county town.

The room is furnished in modern style, and with some regard to taste. Chromolithographs in elegant frames adorn the gilt papered walls, mirrors on either side reflect each other in endless perspective, from the ceiling hangs the bright chandelier, lighted only on grand occasions. Every angle and "coign of vantage" holds the narrow shelf laden with old porcelain, carved ivory, Italian cameos, or Chinese idols (Sir Patrick made his money, and won his title, in China). A large table, near the centre of the room, is heaped with muslin, silk, tape, bobbins, dolls, things made and in process of making, and at this table sits Lady Macaw, the presiding genius, a woman of portly dimensions, large nose, and prominent chin, dressed with strict regard to the fashion, and bearing herself with an air of stately condescension which she mistakes for dignity. Lady Macaw is the self-constituted patroness of the village of Thwayte in general, and of its three unmarried ladies in particular; Philomel Lamb having lost her mother, and Mrs. Langton, the doctor's sickly wife, being little better

than a cipher in the eyes of Lady Macaw.