"Much sorrow didst thou bring to me of old, Tainted my life by poisonous words and deeds, Turned holy thoughts to evil--made me dread To face the fearless looks of honest men, Lest they should spy my quick learnt devilries, And cry, 'Off, off; this fellow is a knave.'"

Garsworth was one of those queer, old-fashioned villages which, owing to their isolated positions, yet retain the primitive simplicity of earlier ages. The nearest railway station, Duxby Junction, to which steam and electricity continually carried the news of the world, was fully twenty miles distant, so that in this out of-the-way village the rustics heard but little of the doings of the nations, being content to remain in a state of Arcadian ignorance as their forefathers had done before them.

There was not even a stage-coach to Duxby, and the only means of communication was by the carriers' carts, which went weekly along the dusty high road, drawn lazily by their sleek horses. The nearest market town was Shunton, almost as quiet and primitive as Garsworth, and the sturdy farmers going there on market days sold their cattle and wheat, picked up such small items of news as had drifted thither from Duxby, then returned to their homes perfectly satisfied with life and with themselves. Well-to-do folks were these yeomen, for many rich farms lay hidden in the wide fen lands--farms which had descended from father to son through many generations, and as neither agrarian agitation nor vexed questions of rents had penetrated to this remote spot, they tilled their lands, looked up to their landlords, and pursued their monotonous lives in peace.

The village, built on a primitive plan, consisted of one long, wide street, with a similar one running crosswise to it, so that the little town was divided into four almost equal sections. Where the four roads met appeared a large open space doing duty as the village green, in the centre of which stood an antique stone cross with elaborate carvings thereon, much worn by time, said to have been erected by one Geoffrey Garsworth on his return from the third crusade. As a proof of this, there could be seen amid the carvings, representations of palm branches and scallop shells, both symbolical of eastern vegetation and pilgrim wanderings; but Dr. Larcher, the vicar of Garsworth--an ardent archaeologist--maintained that the cross had been placed there by the Cistercian monks, who once occupied a monastery near the village. The worthy vicar, being of a somewhat polemical nature, was wont to wax warm on the subject, and held strong opinions as to the cross and the church, which opinions he was willing enough to impart to any curious stranger who might chance to have antiquarian leanings.

And a beautiful old church it was, of irregular architecture, with heavy stone pillars supporting both round and pointed arches of the Norman Romanesque style, remarkably fine stained glass windows, and a high, elaborately carved roof of dark oak. Standing at the end of the village, near the bridge, the graveyard in which it was placed sloped down to the river's edge, and at times the mighty shadow of the square tower fell across the stream.

A little further down was the vicarage, built of grey stone in the quaint Tudor fashion, enclosing a green square on three sides, while the fourth was open to the Gar. From its grounds could be seen the graceful span of the bridge, a somewhat modern structure, which led on to a wide common overgrown with golden gorse, and far away in the distance amid a thick forest of beech and elm and oak, arose the towers of Garsworth Grange, wherein lived the Lord of the Manor.

The village possessed only one inn, quaintly entitled "The House of Good Living," an ancient building as fantastic as its name. Standing somewhat back from the street it was built of grey stone, with heavy beams set into the walls in the old-fashioned style, and the upper storey projected over the lower one in a cumbersome manner, apparently threatening every moment to overbalance itself. There were wide, diamond-paned casements, with rows of flower-pots containing bright, scarlet geraniums standing on the broad ledges, and on the left a tall gable jutted out some distance from the main building, while in the corner, thus formed, was the huge porch, with its cumbersome benches for the convenience of village cronies. The space in front was of cobbled stones down to the street, and there stood the tall pole with the swinging sign, whereon was bravely painted a baron of beef and a tankard of beer as an earnest of the good cheer within. The roof was of thatch, grey and weatherworn, neatly trimmed round the windows and eaves, while above towered the great stacks of twisted, red-tinged chimneys. Altogether, a typical English inn of the stage coach period, severely respectable and intensely conservative.

It was quite dark when Dr. Nestley reached this haven of rest, but the generous light within gushed from the windows in ruddy streams with a most inviting air of comfort. The door stood wide open, letting out a flood of mellow light into the chilly darkness, and the new comer could hear the murmur of men's voices, with every now and then a coarse laugh, while the smell of stale tobacco permeated the atmosphere. Evidently the village gossips were holding high festival, and as Nestley passed into the porch he saw dimly through the smoke-clouded air a number of them seated in the taproom, puffing steadily at their pipes and draining their tankards with great contentment.

Job Kossiter, the landlord of this house of entertainment, soon made his appearance in answer to Nestley's imperative summons, and stood waiting orders in stolid silence. A large, fat man was Mr. Kossiter, with a large, fat face ruddy with health, a brain of bovine slowness, and a habit of repeating all questions asked in a meditative manner, in order to give himself time to consider his answer.

"I want a bed for to-night, landlord," said Nestley, leaning against the wall and surveying the rotund proportions of mine host, "and at present, something to eat."

Mr. Kossiter fixed his ox-like eyes on the stranger and repeated the words slowly like a child learning its lesson.

"He wants," observed Job stolidly, "a bed for to-night and summat to eat; sir, you can have 'em both."

"Right you are," replied the doctor cheerfully. "Get something ready at once and show me to a bedroom. I want to wash my hands."

"He wants," repeated Kossiter mechanically, "to wash his hands. Margery!"

In answer to this call, a bright, brisk-looking young woman, in a neat print gown, stepped forward and confronted Nestley.

"He wants," said Job looking from Margery to Nestley, "a bed, summat to eat, a room and a wash;" then, having given all the requisite information he rolled slowly away to attend to the wants of the rustics in the taproom, while, Margery in a voice as sharp as her appearance, invited Nestley to follow her to his room.

"Lor, sir," she said shrilly, tripping lightly up the stairs, "if I'd only knowed as you was comin', I'd have got things a bit straight, but father never does tell, father don't."

"He didn't know I was coming," replied Nestley as he entered the bedroom and took off his knapsack. "I'm a bird of passage--bring me some hot water."

"Yes, sir," replied Margery, pausing with her hand on the handle of the door, "and anything to eat, sir?"

"Of course--cold beef, pickles--whatever there is. I'm too hungry to be dainty."

"You won't have supper with the other gentleman, sir, will you?" asked Margery, "Mr. Beaumont, sir."

"No, no," replied Nestley harshly, a dark shadow crossing his face. "I want to be alone."

"Very good, sir," said Margery, rather alarmed at his tone of voice. "I'll bring the hot water, sir--yes, sir."

She closed the door after her, and Nestley, sitting down on the bed, gnawed his moustache savagely.

"Under the same roof," he growled viciously. "I don't know if I'm wise--pshaw, it doesn't matter, he won't do me any more harm, I've got no money, and Beaumont doesn't care about doing anything for nothing--my poverty is my best shield against him."

At this moment Margaret knocked at the door and handed in his hot water, so he postponed his ideas on the subject of Mr. Beaumont while he made himself respectable. Having washed the dust of the road from his face and hands, he brushed his clothes, arranged his hair, and then descended to the parlour of the inn, where he found a plentifully-spread supper-table awaiting him and Margery lighting the lamp.

The parlour was a quaint, low-ceilinged room, all angles, with queer cupboards and unnecessary alcoves in unexpected places, heavy, black oak furniture, baskets of wax fruits and paper flowers, a small harmonium in one corner and a general air of intense cleanliness and comfort. Dismissing Margery, Dr. Nestley made an excellent supper from a round of corned beef, but pushing away the tankard of ale which stood near him, he filled a glass with water and drank it off. His meal being ended he lighted his pipe, and drawing his chair up to the fire, with a sigh of gratitude, gave himself up to his reflections. The lamp shone with a dim, yellow light, but the ruddy glare of the fire lighted up the room and gleamed on the polished furniture and plaster ceiling. Truly a pleasant place to dream in, but judging by the frown upon Nestley's face his thoughts were anything but agreeable, for as a matter of fact he was thinking about Basil Beaumont. Whether a sympathetic feeling or a vein of animal magnetism drew the subject of his reflections towards him it is hard to say, but in a very short time the door was pushed silently open and Mr. Beaumont, cool and complacent, sauntered into the room.

This unwelcomed intruder walked across to the fireplace and, leaning against the mantelpiece, looked down at the indignant Nestley with a bland smile.

"Enjoyed your supper?" he asked coolly, removing his cigarette.

"None the better for seeing you," growled the doctor, drawing hard at his pipe.

"Our excellent Duncan," observed Mr. Beaumont, airily, "is rather cross."

At which impertinent observation Nestley began to show anger.

"What right have you to come into this room?" he asked savagely.

"The best right in the world," retorted Basil, smoothly. "It is a public room; I am one of the public--ergo, I use it."

Dr. Nestley frowned again, and his rather weak mouth quivered nervously as he looked at the placid countenance of the man leaning against the mantelpiece. On his part, Beaumont slipped his hands into his pockets, crossed his long legs and, after glancing curiously at the figure cowering in the arm-chair began to talk in a delicately-modulated voice, which was one of his greatest charms.

"We were friends five years ago, Nestley, yet now we meet as enemies. I am not, as a rule, curious; but I confess I would like to know the reason."

"You know well enough," said Nestley, sulkily.

"Ah! Let me see. I think in the road to-night you accused me of ruining your life. Pray tell me how--I don't think," observed Mr. Beaumont, reflectively, "I really don't think I borrowed money from you."

Dr. Nestley removed his pipe, and put his hand up to hide the nervous quivering of his mouth. The artist went on smoking placidly, waiting for the other to speak, so seeing this, Nestley, with a great effort, sat up in his chair and looked steadily at him.

"Listen to me, Basil Beaumont," he said, slowly. "Five years ago, when I met you, I was only a boy----"

"Yes, an awful cub," replied Beaumont, insolently. "I taught you all you know."

"You did," retorted Nestley, bitterly, rising to his feet. "You taught me things of which I had better have remained ignorant. I had a little money----"

"Fairly won by me at cards," murmured Beaumont, coolly.

"I didn't mind that," said Nestley, who was walking up and down the room in a state of uncontrollable agitation, "you had that, and welcome--one must pay for one's experience, I suppose. No; it was not the money, but I did blame you for teaching me to drink wine to excess."

"I!" said Basil, in surprise, "why, I never drink wine to excess, so how could I teach you?"

"Ah!" replied the other, significantly, stopping in his walk, "your head is too strong--mine is not. I was a clever boy, and likely to do well in my profession. You met me when I came up to London--liked me for some inexplicable reason, and undertook to show me what you called life. With my weak constitution and highly-strung organization drink was like poison to me--it turned me into a maniac. I did not care for it--I had no hereditary love for alcohol, but you were always at my elbow, tempting me to have another glass. My weaker will was overcome by your stronger one. I took drink, and it made me mad, causing me to commit a thousand follies for which I was no more responsible than a child. I got into the habit of taking drinks all day. You encouraged me--God knows why, except for your own selfish ends. Had I remained with you, I would have been in a lunatic asylum or in the gutter but, thank God, my better angel prevailed, and I broke the spell you held over me. Leaving you and the mad life I was then leading, I became a total abstainer, at what cost I need not tell you--no one can ever understand the struggles and agonies I underwent, but I conquered in the end. For five years I have not touched a drop of liquor, and now--now that I have subdued the devil that once possessed me I meet you once more--you who so nearly ruined me, body and soul."

Beaumont did not move during this long speech, delivered with intense emotion by Nestley, but at its conclusion shrugged his shoulders and addressed himself to the task of making another cigarette.

"A very excellent lecture," he said, scoffingly, "very excellent, indeed, but quite wrong. I did meet you in London, and out of kindness introduced you into decent society, but I certainly did not teach you to make a beast of yourself, as you did!"

"You were always urging me to drink."

"Hospitality only. I asked you to drink when I did, yet I did not make a fool of myself."

"True! You only made a fool of me. What you could take and I could take were two very different things. What was drunkenness in me was sobriety in you."

Beaumont laughed and lighted the cigarette he had just made.

"You were an idiot," he said, politely. "When you found drink did you harm you should have left it off."

"Ah! you think that an easy task?"

"It would be--to me."

"To you!" cried Nestley, vehemently, "yes, a practised man of the world like you has his nerves and passions well under control. I was young, inexperienced, enthusiastic, you were cool, calculating and cynical. You drank three times as much as I ever did, but the effect on our natures was different You were looked upon as a sober man, I--God help me!--as a drunkard!"

The artist smiled sarcastically.

"Well," he said, coolly, "all this was five years ago--why are you so disagreeable now?"

"I cannot forget how you tried to ruin me."

"Humph!" observed Beaumont, walking to the door, "there's nothing like putting our sins on other people's shoulders; it saves such a lot of unnecessary trouble. However, I don't wish to argue any longer. You reject my friendship, so I've nothing more to say. I daresay you'll be gone by the time I rise in the morning, so, as we're not likely to meet one another again in this life, I'll say good-bye."

He opened the door just as Nestley was about to answer him, when suddenly there was a noise--the voices of men laughing uproariously, then the sharp bark of a dog, and in another moment a large black cat, with her fur all on end, darted into the room, followed by an eager fox-terrier in a state of great excitement.