The oldest inn in Seacomb was the ‘New London Inn,’ built upon the site of a still more ancient hostelry, but itself nearly two hundred years old. The quadrangular yard, in which the coaches were wont to stand, was now embellished with a glazed roof, and served for the assembling of farmers on market days. Here was held the corn exchange and samples of grain were exhibited, and bargains made, amidst a lively hubbub, while the odour of roast beef and pastry pervaded the atmosphere.
Here Maurice and Martin parted, the former telling his friend that he had business to transact in Seacomb, the young Cornishman bidding his companion a reluctant farewell.
As soon as the dog-cart had driven off, Maurice strolled into the bar, called for soda and sherry, and surveyed his ground. On the other side of the shining counter a comfortable-looking elderly matron, in a black silk gown and a cap with rose-coloured ribbons was engaged in conversation with a stalwart grey-coated farmer, who had been admitted to the privileged sanctorum within. ‘The landlady, evidently,’ thought Maurice.
He sipped his sherry and soda, and asked if he could be accommodated with an airy bedroom.
‘Certainly, sir. You’d like a room on the first floor, perhaps, overlooking the street?—Chambermaid, show Number 10.’
‘I won’t trouble to look at the room, thank you, ma’am. I’ve no doubt it’s all that’s comfortable.’
‘There’s not much fear about that, sir. I look after my bedrooms myself, and always have done so for the last thirty years. I go into every room in the house every morning, after the chambermaids have done their sweeping and dusting; and that’s neither more nor less than a housekeeper’s duty, in my opinion.’
‘Just so, ma’am. It’s a pity that kind of housekeeping should ever go out of fashion.’
‘It is indeed, sir. You intend staying for some days at Seacomb, perhaps? There are a good many objects of interest in the neighbourhood.’
‘I am sorry to say that I shall have to leave to-morrow.’
‘Well, good morning, Mrs. Chadwick,’ said the farmer, having drained his glass, and wiped his lips with a flaming orange handkerchief.
Mrs. Chadwick opened the half-door of the bar for him to go out, and then, holding it open politely, invited Mr. Clissold to enter.
‘You may as well sit down, sir, and take your soda and sherry,’ she said, nothing averse from a little gossip with the stranger.
‘I shall be very glad to do so,’ answered Maurice. ‘The fact is, I want a little friendly chat with some one who knows Seacomb, and I dare say you know pretty well as much as any one else about the town and its inhabitants.’
The landlady smiled, as with inward satisfaction.
‘It’s my native town, sir. I was born here, and brought up here, and educated here, and I could count the months I’ve spent away from Seacomb on my fingers. It isn’t everybody can say as much.’
‘You were educated at Seacomb,’ said Maurice. ‘Then perhaps you may remember Miss Barlow’s school for young ladies?’
‘Yes, sir. I remember Miss Barlow well, but her school flourished after my schooling days, and it was above my father’s station. No Seacomb trades-people ever went to Miss Barlow’s. Their money might be good enough for most people, but Miss Barlow wouldn’t have it. She set her face against anything under a rich farmer’s daughter. She had a good deal of pride—stuckupishness some people went so far as to call it—had Miss Barlow. And a very pretty show she used to make with her young ladies at the parish church, in the west gallery, on the left of the organ.’
‘Do you happen to remember the daughter of a Mr. Trevanard, of Borcel End?’
‘Remember Miss Trevanard! I should think I did. She was about the prettiest girl I ever saw, and the Seacomb gentlemen would go out of their way to get a look at her. I’ve seen them hanging about the church door to watch Miss Barlow’s young ladies come out, and heard them whisper, “That’s the belle of the school! That’s Trevanard’s daughter!” I thought she’d have made a rare good match when she left school; but she never married, and I believe she went a little queer in her head, or was bedridden, or some affliction of that kind, while she was quite young. I haven’t heard anybody mention her name for the last twenty years—not her own father even, though he dines here every market day. That was young Mr. Trevanard drove you here, wasn’t it? I just caught a glimpse of him in the hall.’
‘Yes, Martin and I are great friends.’
‘A very nice young man he is too, and nice-looking, but not a patch upon his sister.’
‘Do you know what became of Miss Barlow when she left Seacomb?’
‘Well, I’ve heard say that she went to the Continent to cultivate music. She had a fine finger for the piano, and took a good deal of pride in her playing, and after she’d lived abroad some years, studying in a conservatory—I suppose they teach them that way on account of the climate—I heard that she came back to England, and settled somewhere near London, and gave lessons to the nobility and gentry, and stood very high in that way. She had made a nice little fortune at Seacomb before she retired, so she had no call to work unless she liked. But Miss Barlow wasn’t the woman to be idle. She had a vast amount of energy.’
A musical professor, and residing in the neighbourhood of London. It seemed to Maurice that, knowing this much, he ought to be able to find Miss Barlow. There was only the question of time.
‘How long is it, do you imagine, since you last heard of this lady?’ he asked, in a purely conversational tone.
‘Well, I can’t take upon myself to say very particularly for a year or so. But I think it might be about eight or nine years since I heard Dr. Dorlick, our organist, say that a friend of his in London had told him Miss Barlow was residing in the neighbourhood of the parks, and doing wonderfully well.’
‘Could I see Dr. Dorlick, do you think?’ asked Maurice eagerly.
‘Dr. Dorlick is in heaven,’ replied Mrs. Chadwick, with solemnity.
‘I’m sorry for that,’ said Maurice, with reference to his own disappointment rather than Dr. Dorlick’s elevation.
He passed onto another subject, also an important one in his mind.
‘How is it that you managed to do away with your theatre in Seacomb?’ he asked.
‘Well, you see, sir,’ returned Mrs. Chadwick, musingly, ‘I don’t think the theatre ever fairly took with the Seacomb people. Ours is a serious town, and though there’s plenty of spare room in our old parish church—a very fine old church, as you may have seen with your own eyes, but rather in want of repair—there’s always a run upon our chapels, revival services, and tea meetings, and love feasts, and what not. People must have excitement of some sort, no doubt, and the Seacomb people like chapel-going better than play-going; besides which it costs them less. I’ve no prejudices myself, and I know that a theatrical is a human being like myself; but I can’t say that I’ve ever cared to see theatricals inside my doors.’
‘But I suppose you used to go to the theatre sometimes, when there was one?’
‘Once in a way I have gone to our theatre, when there was a Bespeak night, or a London star performing, more to please my husband, who was fond of anything in the way of an entertainment, than for my own pleasure.’
‘Do you remember the names of the actors whom you saw there?’
‘No, I can’t call to mind one of them. But if you take any interest in theatricals, go and see Mr. Clipcome, our hairdresser. He’ll talk to you for the hour together of our theatre, and the people who’ve acted there. He never cut my hair in his life that he didn’t tell me how he once curled and powdered a wig for the celebrated Miss Foote to act Lady Teazle in. It’s his ’obby.’
‘Indeed! Then I shall certainly look in upon Mr. Clipcome. Where does he live?’
‘In a little court, by the side of Bethlehem Chapel, which was the theatre.’
‘Thanks, Mrs. Chadwick,’ said Maurice, rising. ‘I’ll step round to Mr. Clipcome at once, and get him to give me the county crop. I’ve been running to seed lately. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to order me a little bit of dinner in the coffee-room at half-past six.’
‘With pleasure, sir. Any choice?’
‘None whatever. I shall walk about your town for a few hours, and get an appetite for anything you like to set before me.’
‘A very agreeable gentleman,’ thought Mrs. Chadwick, as Maurice strolled out of the bar, ‘so chatty and friendly. Doesn’t give himself half the airs of your commercial gents, yet any one can see he’s altogether superior to them.’
Mr. Clissold strolled through the quiet old town, with its long straggling high street, graced here and there by a picturesque gable or an ancient lattice, but, for the most part, somewhat commonplace. At one point there was a kind of square, from which two lateral streets diverged—a square with a pump and police office in the centre, and a Methodist chapel on each side. One of these chapels, the newest and smartest, was Bethlehem, as an inscription over its portal made known to the world at large—Bethl............