We must now follow the devious steps of the strange
being who has grown into the hero of this story.
He had left his apartment at daybreak long before
his servant was up, with his knapsack, and a small
portmanteau, into which he had thrust—besides
such additional articles of dress as he thought he
might possibly require, and which his knapsack could
not contain—a few of his favourite books.
Driving with these in a hack-cab to the Vauxhall station,
he directed the portmanteau to be forwarded to Moleswich,
and flinging the knapsack on his shoulders, walked
slowly along the drowsy suburbs that stretched far
into the landscape, before, breathing more freely,
he found some evidences of rural culture on either
side of the high road. It was not, however, till
he had left the roofs and trees of pleasant Richmond
far behind him that he began to feel he was out of
reach of the metropolitan disquieting influences.
Finding at a little inn, where he stopped to breakfast,
that there was a path along fields, and in sight of
the river, through which he could gain the place of
his destination, he then quitted the high road, and
traversing one of the loveliest districts in one of
our loveliest counties, he reached Moleswich about
noon.
CHAPTER II.
ON entering the main street of the pretty town, the
name of Somers, in gilt capitals, was sufficiently
conspicuous over the door of a very imposing shop.
It boasted two plate-glass windows, at one of which
were tastefully exhibited various articles of fine
stationery, embroidery patterns, etc.; at the
other, no less tastefully, sundry specimens of ornamental
basket-work.
Kenelm crossed the threshold and recognized behind
the counter—fair as ever, but with an expression
of face more staid, and a figure more rounded and
matron-like—his old friend Jessie.
There were two or three customers before her, between
whom she was dividing her attention. While a
handsome young lady, seated, was saying, in a somewhat
loud but cheery and pleasant voice, “Do not mind
me, Mrs. Somers: I can wait,” Jessie’s
quick eye darted towards the stranger, but too rapidly
to distinguish his features, which, indeed, he turned
away, and began to examine the baskets.
In a minute or so the other customers were served
and had departed; and the voice of the lady was again
heard, “Now, Mrs. Somers, I want to see your
picture-books and toys. I am giving a little children’s
party this afternoon, and I want to make them as happy
as possible.”
“Somewhere or other, on this planet, or before
my Monad was whisked away to it, I have heard that
voice,” muttered Kenelm. While Jessie was
alertly bringing forth her toys and picture-books,
she said, “I am sorry to keep you waiting, sir;
but if it is the baskets you come about, I can call
my husband.”
“Do,” said Kenelm.
“William, William,” cried Mrs. Somers;
and after a delay long enough to allow him to slip
on his jacket, William Somers emerged from the back
parlour.
Copyrights
Kenelm Chillingly — Complete from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
