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Title: Dorset dear
Idylls of country life
Author: M. E. Francis
Release date: February 3, 2025 [eBook #75281]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Longmans, Green, and Co, 1905
Credits: Susan E., David E. Brown, Joyce Wilson, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DORSET DEAR ***
DORSET DEAR
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
IN A NORTH COUNTRY VILLAGE
THE STORY OF DAN
A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL
MAIME O’ THE CORNER
FRIEZE AND FUSTIAN
AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS
MISS ERIN
THE DUENNA OF A GENIUS
YEOMAN FLEETWOOD
PASTORALS OF DORSET
FIANDER’S WIDOW
NORTH, SOUTH, AND OVER THE SEA
THE MANOR FARM
CHRISTIAN THAL
LYCHGATE HALL
DORSET DEAR
_IDYLLS OF COUNTRY LIFE_
BY
M. E. FRANCIS
(MRS. FRANCIS BLUNDELL)
“Vor Do’set dear,
Then gi’e woone cheer,
D’ye hear? woone cheer!”
--WILLIAM BARNES
[Illustration]
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
91 AND 93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
LONDON AND BOMBAY
1905
_These stories originally appeared in_ Country Life, The Graphic,
Longman’s Magazine _and_ The Illustrated London News. _The Author’s
thanks are due to the Editors of these periodicals for their kind
permission to reproduce them._
To the Memory
OF
LADY SMITH-MARRIOTT,
KIND NEIGHBOUR AND TRUE FRIEND.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
WITCH ANN 1
A RUNAWAY COUPLE 28
POSTMAN CHRIS 43
KEEPER GUPPY 60
THE WORM THAT TURNED 89
OLF AND THE LITTLE MAID 109
IN THE HEART OF THE GREEN 127
THE WOLD STOCKIN’ 149
A WOODLAND IDYLL 168
THE CARRIER’S TALE 192
MRS. SIBLEY AND THE SEXTON 207
THE CALL OF THE WOODS 222
THE HOME-COMING OF DADA 246
THE MAJESTY OF THE LAW 256
THE SPUR OF THE MOMENT 279
“A TERR’BLE VOOLISH LITTLE MAID” 296
SWEETBRIAR LANE 317
WITCH ANN.
Ann Kerley had lived in great peace and contentment for more than
seventy-three years. Her neighbours considered her a good plain ’ooman,
who always had a kind word for every one, and was so ready to do a good
turn for another body as heart could wish. But, lo and behold! one fine
morning old Ann Kerley awoke to find herself a witch.
The previous day had been sultry and wild, with spells of fierce
sunshine that smote down upon honest people’s heads as they toiled
in cornfield or potato-plot, bringing out great drops of sweat on
sunburnt faces, and forcing more than one labourer to supplement the
shade and comfort of his broad chip hat by a cool moist cabbage leaf.
Withal furious gusts of wind rose every now and then--storm-wind, old
Jan Belbin said, and he was considered wonderful weather-wise--wind
that set the men’s shirt-sleeves flapping for all the world like the
sleeves of a racing jockey, and blew the women’s aprons into the air,
and twisted the maids’ hats round upon their heads if they so much as
crossed the road to the well. Yet this wind would drop as suddenly as
it had sprung up; the land would lie all bathed in fiery heat, and a
curious sense of uneasiness and expectancy would seem to pervade the
whole of Nature. The very beasts were disquieted in their pasture; the
corn stood up straight and stiff, each ear, as it were, on the alert;
not a leaf stirred in hedgerow or tree-top; and then “all to once,”
as Jan Belbin pointed out, the storm-wind sprang up again, tossing
the golden waste of wheat hither and thither like a troubled sea, and
making every individual branch and twig creak and groan.
Twilight was at last closing in with brooding stillness, and a group
of lads, who had been working for an hour or two in the allotments,
gathered idly round the gate, gossiping, and some of them smoking,
before proceeding homewards. It was too dark, as Joe Pilcher declared,
to see the difference between a ’tater and a turnip, and ’twas about
time they were steppin’ anyways. He was in the act of relating some
interesting anecdote with regard to last Saturday’s practice in the
Cricket field, when he broke off, and pointed up the stony path which
led past the allotments.
“Hullo! Whatever’s that?” he cried.
The bent outline of a small figure could be seen creeping along the
irregular line of hedge. It was apparently hump-backed, and wore a kind
of hood projecting over its face.
“’Tis a wold hag, seemin’ly,” said Jim Ford, craning forward over the
top rail.
“There!” cried Joe, “I took it for a sprite, but I don’t know as I
shouldn’t be just so much afeared of a witch any day. It be a witch,
sure.”
“Don’t be a sammy,” interposed an older man. “’Tis nothin’ but some
poor wold body what has been gatherin’ scroff. They’ve felled a tree
up-along in wood, an’ she’ve a-been a-pickin’ up all as she can lay
hands on for her fire. There, ’tis wold Ann Kerley. I can see her now.
She’ve a-got a big nitch o’ sticks upon her back, an’ she do croopy
down under the weight on’t, an’ she’ve a-tied her handkercher over her
bonnet, poor body, to keep it fro’ blowin’ away. There’s your hag for
you, Joe!”
“I be afeared, I say,” insisted Joe, feigning to tremble violently.
He considered himself a wag, and had quite a following of the village
good-for-noughts. “’Tis a witch, sartin sure ’tis a witch. Don’t ye go
for to overlook I, Ann Kerley, for I tell ’ee I won’t a-bear it!”
As the unconscious Ann drew nearer he squatted down behind the
gate-post, loudly announcing that he was that frayed he was fair
bibbering. Two or three of the others made believe to hide themselves
too, pretending to shiver in imitation of their leader; and peering out
like him between the bars of the gate.
Such unusual proceedings could not fail to attract the old woman’s
attention, and she paused in astonishment when she reached the spot.
“Why, whatever be to do here?” she inquired.
Joe uttered a kind of howl, and burrowed into the hedge.
“She be overlookin’ of we,” he shouted. “The witch be overlookin’ of
we.”
“Don’t ye take no notice, my dear woman,” said Abel Bond, the man
who had before spoken. “They be but a lot o’ silly bwoys a-talkin’
nonsense.”
“Witch!” cried Joe.
“Witch! witch!” echoed the rest.
Ann looked from one to the other of the grinning faces that kept
popping up over the rail, and disappearing again.
“Whatever be they a-talkin’ on?” she gasped.
“You be a witch, Ann,” cried Joe. “If you was served right you’d be
ducked in the pond. E-es, that you would.”
A small boy, fired with a desire to distinguish himself, picked up a
clod of earth, and flung it at her with so true an aim that it grazed
her cheek.
“Take that, witch!” he cried.
Joe, not to be outdone, threw another; pellets of earth and even small
pebbles began to assail the old woman from the whole line.
Abel Bond promptly came to the rescue, knocking the ringleaders’ heads
together, and impartially distributing kicks and cuffs among the
remainder.
“Bad luck to the witch!” cried the irrepressible Joe, wriggling himself
free; and the shout was taken up by the rest, even as they dodged the
avenger.
“Bad luck, yourself,” retorted poor Ann, trembling with wrath and
alarm. “I’m sure nar’n o’ ye do deserve such very good luck arter
insultin’ a poor wold ’ooman what never did ye no harm.”
And she went on her way, grumbling and indignant.
But when she had reached her own little house in the “dip,” and had
walked up the flagged path between the phlox bushes and the lavender,
and pussy had come rubbing against her legs in greeting, her anger
cooled; and by the time her kettle had begun to sing over a bright wood
fire, and she had laid out her modest repast of bread and watercress,
she fairly laughed to herself.
“Lard! they bwoys be simple!” she said. “They did call I a witch, along
o’ my havin’ tied my handkercher over my head. Abel did give it to ’em,
but I reckon he didn’t hurt ’em much. Bwoys! there, they do seem so
hard as stoones very near. ‘Witch!’ says they. Well, that’s a notion.”
She chuckled again, and set down a saucer of milk for the cat to lap.
“They’ll be callin’ you a witch next, puss,” said she laughing.
Ann carried her bucket to the well as usual next morning, feeling
rather more cheerful than was her custom. Rain had fallen shortly after
daybreak, but the sky was now clear and limpid, and the air cool. On
her way to the well her attention was caught by a loud clucking in her
neighbour’s garden, and looking across the dividing hedge she descried
a hen violently agitating herself inside a coop, while a brood of
yellow downy ducklings some few hours old paddled in and out of a pool
beside the path.
“Well, of all the beauties!” cried Ann, clapping her hands together
until the bucket rattled on her arm; “why, Mrs. Clarke, my dear, you
must have hatched out every one--’tis a wonderful bit o’ luck.”
“E-es, indeed,” agreed Mrs. Clarke, “hatchin’ out so late an’ all. I
hope I may do well wi’ ’em.”
“I hope so, that do I,” agreed Ann heartily, and hobbled on towards the
well.
One or two women were there, who responded to her greeting with a
coldness which she did not at once realise.
“Fine rain this marnin’,” she remarked cheerfully, as her bucket went
clattering down the well; “we’ve had a good drop to-year, haven’t we?
Farmers may grumble, but, as I do say, ’tis good for the well. We’ll
be like to draw a bit less chalk nor we do in the dry seasons. There
be all sarts in our well, bain’t there? Water an’ chalk, an’ a good
few snails. There, when I do hear folks a-talkin’ about the Government
doin’ this an doin’ that, I do say to myself, I wish Government ’ud see
to our well.”
Usually such a sally would have been applauded, but, to poor old Ann’s
astonishment and chagrin, her remark was received on this occasion in
solemn silence. To hide her discomfiture she peered into the moss-grown
depths of the well.
“Don’t ye go a-lookin’ into it like that, Ann,” cried a vinegary-faced
matron in an aggressive tone. “Chalky water, e-es, an’ water wi’ snails
in’t is better than no water at all. ’Tis sure--’tis by a long ways.”
“Ah, ’tis!” agreed the others, eyeing Ann suspiciously.
She straightened herself and looked round in surprise.
“I never said it wasn’t,” she faltered. “Why do ye look at me so nasty,
Mrs. Biles?”
“Oh, ye don’t know, I s’pose?” retorted Mrs. Biles sourly. “How be your
’taters, Ann Kerley, this marnin’?”
“Doin’ finely, thanks be,” said poor Ann, brightening up, as she
considered the conversation was taking a more agreeable turn.
“Not blighted, I s’pose?” put in a little fat woman who had hitherto
been silent.
“Not a sign o’ blight about ’em,” said Mrs. Kerley joyfully. “There,
I did just chance to look at ’em when I did first get up, an’ they’re
beautiful.”
“That’s strange,” remarked Mrs. Biles, with a meaning sniff. “Every
single ’tater at the ’lotments be blighted, they do tell I. Mrs.
Pilcher did say when her husband went up there this marnin’ he could
smell ’em near a quarter of a mile away.”
“Dear, to be sure!” groaned Ann, sympathetically, being quite willing
to condone any little asperities of temper on the part of folks
suffering from such a calamity. “’Tis a terr’ble pity, Mrs. Biles.
There, ’tis along o’ the ’lotments layin’ out so open like, I d’ ’low.
Now my bit o’ garden be sheltered.”
The little fat woman, usually a meek sort of body, snorted fiercely.
“’Tisn’t very likely as your garden ’ud suffer, Mrs. Kerley,” she
cried, in a voice that trembled with wrath. “Your garden is safe
enough--an’ so was the ’lotments till yesterday.”
“Well, I be pure sorry, I’m sure,” said Ann, looking from one to the
other in bewilderment. “’Tis just as luck would have it, I s’pose.”
“Luck, indeed!” cried Mrs. Biles meaningly. “There’s them as went by
yesterday as wished bad luck, an’ bad luck did come.”
Ann fairly gasped. Mrs. Biles threw out her hand warningly.
“Take your eyes off I, Mrs. Kerley. Take ’em off, I say! I bain’t
a-goin’ to have ’ee overlookin’ of I, same as you did do to poor Joe
Pilcher--’tis well if the poor bwoy don’t die of it.”
Ann obediently dropped her eyes, a nightmare-like sensation of
oppression overwhelming her.
“I d’ ’low ye won’t deny ye did overlook Joe Pilcher,” went on Mrs.
Biles; “there, ye did no sooner turn your back yesterday, nor the lad
was took wi’ sich a bad pain in his innards that he went all doubly up
same as a wold man.”
“Well, that’s none o’ my fault,” expostulated Ann warmly, for even a
worm will turn. “He’ve a-been eatin’ summat as disagreed wi’ he.”
“Nothin’ o’ the kind!” cried the women in chorus.
“It comed so sharp as a knife,” added one, “all twisty turny.”
“The poor bwoy did lie upon the floor all night,” put in another,
“a-pankin’ and a-groanin’ so pitiful. ‘Ann Kerley has bewitched I,’
says he. E-es, the bwoy come out wi’ the truth. ‘’Tis Mother Kerley
what has overlooked I,’ says he.”
“Well,” returned Ann vehemently, “I never did nothin’ at all to the
bwoy. ’Tis nonsense what you do talk, all on you. He’ve a-been eatin’
green apples--that’s what the matter wi’ he.”
“Green apples!” exclaimed Mrs. Biles, with shrill sarcasm. “Dear, to be
sure, if a bwoy was to be upset every time he ate a green apple, there
wouldn’t be a sound child in village. He hadn’t had above five or six,
his mother did say herself, an’ he can put away as many as fourteen
wi’out feelin’ the worse for it. Ye must agree ’tis very strange,
Ann--there, ye did say out plain for all to hear: ‘Bad luck, yourself,’
says you to the innercent bwoy. ‘Ye won’t be like to have such very
good luck, nar’n o’ you,’ says you, an’, sure enough, there be the
’taters blighted, an’ there be the poor bwoy upset in’s inside.”
“I didn’t really mean it, neighbours,” faltered Ann, looking piteously
round. “I was a bit vexed at the time, an’ when the lads did start
a-floutin’ me wi’ stones an’ that, and a-callin’ ill names and
a-wishin’ me bad luck, I just says back to ’em, quick like, ‘Bad luck,
yourself!’ an’ ’twasn’t very like they’d have good luck; but I didn’t
mean it in my heart--not me, indeed. The Lard sees I hadn’t no thought
o’ really wishin’ evil to nobody--that I hadn’t, neighbours. You don’t
believe I did have, do ’ee now, Mrs. Whittle?”--turning in despair to
the little woman on her right--“you, what has knowed I sich a many
year--you did ought to know I wouldn’t wish no harm to nobody.”
Mrs. Whittle looked sheepish and uncomfortable. Despite the sinister
aspect of things, her heart melted at her old crony’s appeal.
“Why, I scarce can believe it,” she was beginning, when Mrs. Biles
struck in:--
“Deny it if you can, Ann Kerley. There’s the ’taters blighted, an’
there’s the bwoy took bad, an’ it’s you what wished ’em ill-luck. What
can ye make o’ that, Mrs. Whittle? Ye’ll ’low ’tis strange.”
Mrs. Whittle shook her head dubiously, and Ann, deprived, as she
thought, of her only ally, threw her apron over her head, and wept
behind it.
“Don’t ’ee take on, Mrs. Kerley, that’s a dear,” said Mrs. Whittle,
softening once more. “’Twas maybe a chance thing. You did say them
words wi’out thinkin’ an’ they did come true to be a warnin’ to ’ee. We
do all do wrong sometimes; this ’ere did ought to be a warnin’ to all
on us.”
“I’m sure ’twill be a lesson to I,” sobbed Ann inarticulately. “So long
as I do live I’ll never say such things again. ’Twas very ill-done o’
me to ha’ spoke wi’out thought, sich a wold ’ooman as I be, an’ so near
my end an’ all, an’ the Lard has chastised I. I can’t do more nor say
I’m sorry, an’ I hope the A’mighty ’ull forgive me.”
“There, the ’ooman can’t say no fairer nor that,” said Mrs. Whittle,
looking round appealingly; “she can’t do more nor repent.”
“Oh, if she do repent it’ll be well enough,” said Mrs. Biles darkly.
“’Tis to be hoped as she do repent. But by all accounts ’tis easier for
to begin that kind o’ work nor to leave it off again.”
She turned on her heel with this parting innuendo, and, taking up her
full bucket, walked away. The others followed suit, and Ann, left
alone, sobbed on for a moment or two with a feeling akin to despair,
and then, drawing down her apron, wiped her eyes with it sadly, wound
up her pail from the depths where it had lain forgotten, and made her
way homewards.
For days afterwards she was ashamed to show her face, and rose at
extraordinarily early hours in order to procure her supply of water,
and crept out of her own quarters at dusk to make her necessary
purchases.
One morning, about a week after the affair at the allotments, when Ann
sallied forth as usual for water, she paused incidentally to look over
her neighbour’s gate. The hen-coop was still in view, the hen cackling,
and the ducklings waddling up and down the path. But how few of them
there were! Only three! What could have become of the others? Possibly
they were squatting at the back of the coop. She was craning her head
round in order to ascertain if this were the case, when a window in
Mrs. Clarke’s house was thrown open, and that lady’s voice was heard in
angry tones:--
“I’ve catched you at it, have I? I’ve catched you at it! Well, you
did ought to be ashamed of yourself, Ann Kerley. To try an’ do me a
mischief--me, as has been sich a good neighbour to ’ee.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” returned Ann, backing away from the gate, and
raising dim, distracted eyes.
“I’ve catched you in the very act,” continued Mrs. Clarke vehemently.
“Says I to myself when the ducklin’s kep’ a-droppin’ off like that, ‘I
wonder if it can be Ann?’ says I, an’ then I thinks, ‘No, it never can
be Ann; her an’ me was always friends,’ I says. Ah, you ungrateful,
spiteful creetur’!”
An arm, clad in checked flannelette, was here thrust forth, and the
fist appertaining thereto emphatically shaken.
“I’m sure,” protested the unfortunate Ann, staggering back against her
own little gate, “I don’t know whatever you can mean by such talk,
Mrs. Clarke; I never touched your ducks. I be a honest ’ooman, an’ I
wouldn’t take nothin’ what didn’t belong to I.”
“I don’t say you stole ’em,” retorted Mrs. Clarke, “but I say you
overlooked ’em, an’ that’s worse; a body ’ud know what to be at
if ’twas only a thief as was makin’ away wi’ ’em, but when ’tis a
witch--Lard, whatever is to be done? I couldn’t ha’ thought ye’d ha’
found it in your heart to go striking down they poor little innercent
things. What harm did they do ye? Sich beauties as they was. But there,
ye must go gettin’ up in the very dummet that ye mid overlook the poor
little creetur’s, so that, one after another, they do just croopy down
an’ die.”
“Mrs. Clarke,” said Anne, solemnly and desperately, “I can’t tell how
sich a thing did come about--I can’t indeed. ’Tis no fault o’ mine,
I do assure ye. I wouldn’t ha’ had they poor little duck die for
anything. I never wished ’em ill. I was admirin’ of ’em. I never had no
other thought.”
“Well, see here,” returned Mrs. Clarke, somewhat mollified. “Don’t
ye look at ’em at all, that’s a good ’ooman. Maybe ’tis no fault o’
yourn, but ’tis very strange, Mrs. Kerley, what do seem to have come
to you to-year. You do seem to bring bad luck, though you midn’t do it
a-purpose.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” protested Ann, “an’ I can’t believe, Mrs. Clarke,
as a body can do bad wi’out knowin’ it.”
“Well, ’tis queer, I d’ ’low,” agreed her neighbour, “but when a body
sees sich things for theirsel’s as do happen along o’ you, they can’t
but believe their own eyes. Ye mind that there bar-hive what Mr. Bridle
got last month?”
“E-es,” returned Ann feebly, “I mind it well. I never see sich a
handsome contrivance nor so clever. Mr. Bridle showed it to I.”
“E-es, I d’ ’low he did,” agreed the other, with a certain triumph. “I
d’ ’low ye was a-lookin’ at it a long time.”
“I was,” confessed Ann, with a sinking heart.
Mrs. Clarke nodded portentously. “That’s it,” she said. “The bees be
all dead, Mrs. Kerley. Bridle, he did say to I yesterday, ‘I couldn’t
think,’ says he, ‘whatever took the bees. I had but just moved them out
of the wold skip and they did seem to take to the bar-hive so nice,’ he
says, ‘an’ now they be all a-dyin’ off so quick as they can. I couldn’t
think,’ he says, ‘what could be the reason, but I do know now. I do
know it was a great mistake to ha’ brought Ann Kerley up to look at
’em.’”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” cried the last-named poor old woman, wringing her
hands, “do he really think I did hurt ’em?”
“He do, indeed,” said Mrs. Clarke firmly. “There, my dear, it do seem
a terr’ble thing, but you be turned into a witch seemin’ly, whether it
be against your will or whether it bain’t.”
Ann stood motionless for a moment, her hands squeezed tightly together,
her face haggard and drawn.
“I think I’ll go indoor a bit,” she said, after a pause. “I’ll go
indoor an’ set me down. I don’t know what to do. Mrs. Clarke----?”
“E-es, my dear. There, you needn’t look up at I so earnest--I can hear
’ee quite well wi’out that.”
Ann turned away with an impatient groan, and went staggering up her
path. The other looked after her remorsefully.
“Bide a bit, Mrs. Kerley, do ’ee now. What was ye goin’ to ax I?”
“I was but goin’ to ax,” faltered Ann, still with her face averted, “if
you’d be so kind as to fetch I a drop o’ water this marnin’ when you do
go to get some for yoursel’. There, I don’t some way feel as if I could
face folks--an’ there mid be some about. ’Tis gettin’ a bit late now.”
“E-es, sure; I could do it easy,” agreed Mrs. Clarke eagerly. “I could
do it every marnin’--’tisn’t a bit more trouble to fill two pails nor
one. An’ ’t ’ud be better for ee, Ann, my dear, not to go about more
nor you can help till this ’ere visitation wears of.”
“’T ’ull never wear off,” said Ann gloomily, as she walked unsteadily
away.
Now, as Mrs. Clarke subsequently remarked, those words of Ann’s made
her fair bibber, same as if a bucket of cold water were thrown down her
back. She was full of compassion for her neighbour, and, though she was
willing to believe that the strange, unpleasant power of which she had
suddenly become possessed was unwelcome to her and unconsciously used,
she was nevertheless forced to agree with Mrs. Biles that that didn’t
make the thing no better, and that the more Ann Kerley kept herself to
herself the safer it would be for all parties.
Meanwhile, the anguish of mind endured by the unwilling sorceress
defies description. Day by day her deplorable plight became more
evident to her. Now an indignant farmer’s wife would come to complain
that butter had not come, and on poor Ann’s protesting that she had
never so much as set foot near the dairy, would retort that she had
been seen gathering sticks at nightfall in the pasture, and had
doubtless bewitched the cows. Now a village mother would hastily snatch
up a child when it toddled towards the witch’s house; even the baker
tossed the weekly loaf over the gate in fear, and left his bill at Mrs.
Clarke’s, saying he would call for the money there. That lady informed
her of the fact through the closed door as she dumped her morning
bucket of water on the path without, adding that if she would like to
leave the money in the bucket when she put it ready overnight, it would
save trouble to every one.
Ann Kerley understood: even her old crony was now afraid to meet her
face to face.
As she realised this she fell to crying feebly and hopelessly, as
she had done so often of late, and Pussy came and jumped upon her
knee, rubbing herself against her, and gazing at her with golden
inscrutable eyes. The warm contact of a living creature, even a cat,
was comforting, and the old woman hugged her favourite closely; but
presently, struck by a sudden thought, she pushed it away, and turned
aside her head.
“There! get down, love! do--get away with ’ee, else I’ll maybe be
doin’ thee a mischief. Oh dear, Puss, whatever should I do if anything
happened to thee?”
The idea positively appalled her, and from that moment she was careful
to avert her face when she set the cat’s food before her.
Perhaps the greatest trial of all was the Sunday church-going.
“I d’ ’low the Lard won’t let I do nobody no harm in His House,” she
had said to herself at first, almost hopefully; and she had donned her
decent Sunday clothes eagerly, not to say joyfully. She was by nature
sociable, and had suffered as severely from the inability to indulge in
an occasional chat, a little harmless gossip, with this one and that
one, as from a sense of being under a ban.
So she had set forth cheerily, volunteering “A fine marnin’,
neighbours,” to the first group she had passed upon the road. But dear,
to be sure! how the folks had jumped and squeezed themselves against
the wall to let her go by! She had not had the heart to greet the next
couple, staid elderly folk, who were pacing along in front of her,
full of Sabbath righteousness; but presently the man had looked round,
and had then nudged his wife, and she had gathered up her skirts and
scuttled on without so much as a glance over her shoulder. Poor Ann had
fallen back and turned aside into a by-path until all the congregation
had streamed in, and then had crept up the steps alone, and made her
way to her place blindly, for her eyes were full once more of piteous
tears.
But even there humiliation awaited her, for she found herself alone in
her pew, none of its accustomed occupants being willing to worship in
such dangerous proximity.
“I must be a terr’ble wicked ’ooman, sure,” groaned Ann to herself, and
raised her poor smarting eyes to the east window, whence the figure of
the Good Shepherd looked back at her, full of compassion and benignity.
But Ann quickly dropped her eyes again. Was He not carrying a lamb upon
His shoulder? It seemed to her that even the painted innocent would
droop and falter beneath her gaze.
And so thenceforth she started for church long after the other members
of the congregation, and instead of seeking her own place, stole humbly
to a dark corner, where, hidden away behind a pillar, she worshipped in
sorrow of heart.
Such a state of things could not have continued if the old rector had
been at home, but he was away holiday-making in Switzerland, and the
_locum tenens_, a young curate from the neighbouring town, could not be
expected to notice a matter of the kind.
One Sunday afternoon it chanced that Farmer Joyce, who lived up
Riverton way, drove over to Little Branston, and was good enough to
give a lift to his neighbour, Martha Hansford, Ann’s married daughter,
who was feeling, as she confessed, a bit anxious at not hearing from
her mother.
“There, she haven’t a-wrote since I can’t say when,” she explained to
the farmer, as the trap went spinning along the road; “she don’t write
herself, mother don’t, but she do generally get somebody to drop me a
line for her, and I haven’t heard a word to-month; no, nor last month
either.”
“Rheumatics perhaps,” suggested the farmer.
“I’m sure I hope not, Mr. Joyce. My mother have never had sich a thing
in her life, an’ ’tis to be hoped she bain’t a-goin’ to begin now.”
“The wold lady’s busy, very like,” hazarded Mr. Joyce, after ruminating
a while. “The time do slip away so quick, an’ one day do seem so
like another, folks can’t always be expected to put their minds to
letter-writin’.”
“Lard love ’ee, sir,” returned Martha, startled into familiarity,
“farmer folks mid be busy enough, an’ lab’rin’ folks too--I can scarce
find the day long enough to put in all as I’ve a-got to do--but mother!
what can a poor wold body like mother have to work at, wi’out it’s a
bit o’ knittin’, or some such thing. No, it’s summat else, an’ I’m sure
I can’t think what it can be.”
Mr. Joyce was not imaginative enough to assist her by any further
hypothesis; therefore, he merely touched up the horse and remarked
reassuringly that they would soon be there. And for the rest of the
drive Martha devoted herself to the somewhat difficult task of keeping
her three-year-old boy, Ally, from wriggling out of her arms.
Dropped at the bottom of the “dip” wherein was situated Mrs. Kerley’s
cottage, Martha hastened towards it, Ally trotting gleefully beside
her. Instead of finding the cottage door open--as might have been
expected this sunny October afternoon--and catching a glimpse of her
mother’s quiet figure in its elbow-chair, she found the house shut up,
and apparently no sign of life about the place. The very garden had a
neglected look, or so it seemed to her; and the little window, usually
gay with flowers, was blank and desolate, the check curtain within
being drawn across it.
“Mother!” cried Martha, in a tone of such anguish that Ally immediately
set up a corresponding wail. “Oh mother, whatever is to do? Be you
dead? Oh, mother! be you dead?”
To her intense relief she heard the sound of a chair being pushed back
over the flagged floor within, and her mother’s well-known step slowly
cross the little kitchen.
“Martha! be it you, my dear?” But she did not open the door, and when
Martha eagerly tried the latch she found that it did not yield.
“Mother, mother,” she cried in an agony of fear, “oh, mother, what is
it? Why don’t ye let I in?”
“I can’t, my dear,” came the tremulous voice from within. “No, don’t ax
it of I. I dursen’t, Martha! There, I mid do ’ee a mischief.”
“Mother, what be talkin’ on?” Martha was beginning incredulously, when
her small son, impatient of the delay, fairly drowned her voice with
shrill clamour for admittance, and vigorous kicking of his little
hobnailed boots at the panels of the door. Martha snatched him up
and impatiently clapped her hand over the protesting mouth. In the
momentary pause that ensued she heard her mother weeping.
“Be that Ally? Oh, my blessed lamb! Oh, dear heart! Oh, oh!” Then in
a louder key came the words broken by sobs: “Take en away, Martha,
do--take en away, lovey! Somethin’ bad might happen else!”
Here Ally, wrenching himself free, burst into a roar of indignation,
and his mother, popping him down on the ground, threw herself upon the
door, and, exerting all her strength, succeeded in bursting it open.
With a wail Ann shrank away from her into the farthest corner of the
room, hiding her face against the wall.
“Don’t ye come a-nigh me, Martha, don’t ye--don’t ye! And take the
blessed child away! Take him away this minute!”
“I’ll do nothin’ o’ the kind,” returned Martha vehemently. “Be you gone
crazy, mother? Whatever is the matter?”
“Nay, my dear, I bain’t gone crazy--it be worse, a deal worse. I can’t
tell however it did come about, Martha, but, there, I be turned into
a witch! I be evil-eyed, they d’ say! There, ye’d never believe the
terr’ble things what have a-come about along o’ me jist lookin’.”
Martha dropped down in a chair and burst out laughing. She was a hale,
hearty young woman, who had had a bit of schooling, and took a sane and
cheerful view of life.
“God bless us, mother!” she cried, wiping her eyes at last and
springing up, “what put such a notion as that in your head? You a
witch! You hurtin’ things wi’ lookin’ at ’em! I never did hear such
nonsense-talk in my life!”
“But it be true, Martha--it be true!” returned Ann, still hiding her
face in her trembling hands. “There, I’ve seed it myself. Don’t you
come too nigh, my dear, and for mercy’s sake keep the darlin’ child
away!”
“Nay, but I won’t,” retorted Martha; and, catching up the child, she
advanced with a determined air. “You shall look at us--both of us--that
you shall! Kiss grandma, Ally, love--that’s it! Pull away her hands,
and give her a big hug. There, the mischief’s done now, if mischief
there be. Bain’t he growed, grandma? Bain’t he a fine boy? There, come
an’ sit ye down and take en on your knee and feel the weight of en.”
Ann could not withstand the spell of the little clinging arms, the
kisses rained upon her withered cheek. She suffered the child to climb
from his mother’s arms into hers, and hugged him back passionately.
“Bless you, my lamb! Bless you, my darlin’ little angel! Dear, but he
be a fine boy, Martha. Bless you, love! E-es; grandma ’ull find en a
lump o’ sugar. Ah, Martha, I be a-feared--it do seem a terr’ble risk;
but, there, I can’t think but what the Lard ’ull purtect the innercent
child.”
“Now, you come along, mother, and sit ye down, an’ don’t ye go so
trembly. You’ll not hurt Ally; he be a deal more like to hurt you, such
a mischievous boy as he be. Now, then, whoever has been frightenin’ of
ye with such talk?”
“My dear, they do all say it,” murmured Ann, looking fearfully round.
Brokenly, and with many digressions, she told her tale. Long before
she had ended Martha was weeping too--weeping with indignation and
with a sense of despair; for, argue as she might, she could not divest
her mother of her persuasion in her own fell powers. If Ann herself
could not be convinced of the folly of the supposition, what hope could
Martha have to do away with the unjust suspicions of the neighbours?
Each fresh proof of the ostracism which had become her mother’s
portion added to her wrath and woe. She had not had a bit of meat to
her dinner, as was invariably the case on Sunday, not having dared to
venture forth to buy it. There was not so much as a drop of milk in
the house, the child who usually brought it having declined to perform
that office. Ann had not liked even to go out and get herself a few
“spuds”--there were so many folks about on Saturdays, she explained.
There was no fire in the grate, though the autumn day was sharp, for
Farmer Cosser had “dared” her to pick up any more sticks in his field.
“I d’ ’low ye’d ha’ been dead afore long, if I hadn’t ha’ come,” cried
Martha, and then fell a-sobbing again. What was the use of her having
come? What good could she do?
The two women were sitting together in very melancholy mood, when
Farmer Joyce called to say that he would hitch the horse at six
o’clock, and Martha must meet him at the top of the road.
“Hullo!” he cried, breaking off short at sight of their tearful faces,
“be you all a-cryin’ in here?”
And then Martha, eager for sympathy, made bold to clutch at his stout
arm and pour forth her tale. The farmer, leaning against the door-post,
listened at first in amusement, afterwards with an indignation almost
equal to the daughter’s own.
“I never did hear such a thing!” he cried emphatically, as she paused
for breath. “They must be a pack o’ sammies in this place--and wicked
uns, too. Dear heart alive! they’ve fair gallied the poor wold ’ooman
out of her wits. Be there any one about? I’ll soon show ’em what I
think of ’em.”
“There’s a good few folks just goin’ their ways to church,” cried
Martha, eagerly pointing up the lane.
“Then I’ll step up and give ’em a bit o’ my mind,” returned he. “You
come along wi’ I, Mrs. Kerley--don’t ye stop for to put on your
bonnet--throw this ’ere ’ankercher over your cap--else we’ll not be in
time to catch ’em, maybe.”
“No, I dursen’t do that,” protested Ann, plucking away the handkerchief
which he had thrown over her head; “’twas that which did first start
the notion. ’Twas a windy day, d’ye see, an’ I was going to pick a bit
o’ scroff, an’ I just tied my handkercher round my head--an’ when the
bwoys did see I, they did pelt I wi’ stones and call I witch.”
“Young rascals!” ejaculated the farmer, who had by this time hauled
her out of the house, and was hurrying with her up the lane. “Come on,
Martha! Make haste, ’ooman! There be a lot of ’em yonder.”
In a few moments he and the breathless women found themselves in the
midst of quite a little crowd, for Farmer Joyce had waylaid the first
group he came across, and the sound of his stentorian tones, raised in
wrathful accusation, speedily summoned others.
“You be a wise lot here, you be!” he cried; “you do know summat, you
do. Tell ’ee what--you be the biggest lot o’ stunpolls as ever was
seed or heerd on. This be your witch, be it?--thikky poor wold ’ooman
what have never done anybody a bit o’ harm in her life--poor wold
Ann Kerley what was born and bred here, and did get married to a
Little Branston man an’ all, and what have lived among ye so quiet an’
peaceful as a body could do. Why, look at her! Look at the poor wold
frightened face of her; d’ye mean for to tell I that’s the face of a
witch?”
“Well, she did blight our ’taters,” growled somebody.
“An’ she did overlook Mrs. Clarke’s young duck----”
“Did she?” retorted Farmer Joyce, sarcastically. “Well, she didn’t
overlook my young duck, and they be dead--the most on ’em--what do ye
make o’ that? Did ye never hear, you wise folk, as duckling do mostly
die in thunder weather? And I’ll warrant you be too wise hereabouts
to have heerd that this be a blight-year. A lot o’ my ’taters be
blighted----”
“I’m sure,” put in poor Martha, eagerly, “our ’taters be blighted too.
There, my husband do say ’tis scarce worth while to get ’em up.”
“I s’pose,” cried Farmer Joyce, looking round with withering sarcasm,
“I s’pose this ’ere witch have a-gone and wished ill-luck to her own
darter’s ’taters. ’Tis very likely, I’m sure. And there’s another
thing--I did hear some tale o’ bees a-dyin’ arter they’d a-been put in
a new hive.”
“That’s true enough.” “’Tis true, sure,” came one or two voices in
reply, not with any great enthusiasm, however; then a man’s sullen
tones--“’Tis so true as anything. They was my bees, an’ I can answer
for ’t bein’ true.”
“How much food did ye put in for ’em when ye did shift ’em?” inquired
Joyce, fixing his eyes on the speaker.
“How much food? I d’ ’low bees be like to keep theirselves.”
“Not when you do take their store off ’em so late in the season. You’ve
a-killed your own bees, good man; they were too weak, d’ye see, to keep
wosses off when they did come a-fightin’ of ’em. I’d ha’ thought you’d
ha’ been clever enough to ha’ knowed that, seein’ what knowin’ folks you
be in Little Branston. There, you did know poor wold Mrs. Kerley tied
her ’andkercher over her head to make herself a witch--’twas that what
made her a witch, weren’t it? Now I be a witch, bain’t I?”
He whisked off his hat suddenly, and drawing a cotton handkerchief from
his pocket threw it over his head and tied the ends beneath his chin.
The sight of his large red face with its fringe of grey whisker looking
jubilantly out of the red and yellow folds, was irresistibly comic;
the bystanders fairly roared. The farmer was quick to follow up his
advantage.
“I must be a witch,” he persisted, “seein’ as I’ve a-got a witch’s head
on;” then, seized by a yet more luminous inspiration, he crowned the
meek and trembling Ann Kerley with his own broad-brimmed and shaggy
beaver.
“Now, Mrs. Kerley be a farmer. She must be a farmer, sure, for she be
a-wearin’ a farmer’s hat. There be jist so mich sense in the one notion
as t’other. Here we be--Farmer Kerley and Witch Joyce!”
The merriment at this point grew so uproarious that the clergyman in
his distant vestry very nearly sallied forth to inquire the cause;
but it died away as suddenly as it had begun. The sight of poor old
Ann’s lined face looking patiently out from beneath its ridiculous
headgear was, on the whole, more pathetic than ludicrous; folks began
to look at each other, and to own to themselves that they had been not
only foolish, but cruel. Every word that the farmer spoke had carried
weight, and he could have employed no more forcible argument than the
practical demonstration at the end. He was the very best advocate
who could have been chosen to plead for her--a good plain man, like
themselves, who thoroughly understood the case. By the time Farmer
Joyce had resumed his hat and restored his handkerchief to his pocket,
the cause was won. People had gathered round Ann with rough apologies
and kindly handshakes, and she was escorted homewards by more than one
long-estranged friend.
When little Ally, who had been asleep on the settle, woke at the sound
of the approaching voices, and came trotting out of the banned house,
rubbing his eyes and calling loudly for “Grandma,” the good women
nodded to each other meaningly, and said that he was a fine boy, bless
him, and he wouldn’t be likely to look so well if---- And then somebody
sniffed the air, and observed that he shouldn’t wonder but what Mrs.
Kerley’s ’taters was a bit blighted too, and Mrs. Kerley replied that
she was sure they mid be, but she didn’t know, for she hadn’t had the
heart to look. And then the expert returned authoritatively that he was
quite sure they was done for, which seemed wonderfully satisfactory to
all parties.
And then Farmer Joyce bethought him that it was time to hitch the
horse, and the rest of Ann’s friends remembered that “last bell” would
soon ha’ done ringing; so gradually the little crowd melted away,
and Martha embraced her mother with a thankful heart, and went away
likewise, leaving Ally behind, according to the farmer’s advice, who
had reminded her in a gruff whisper that the little chap would be more
like to take off the wold body’s mind from that there queer notion nor
anything else.
So the little house, which had been so desolate a few hours before, was
now restored to homely joy and peace; and when Martha looked back from
the summit of the lane, she saw her mother standing, all smiles, in the
open doorway, shading her eyes from the sun, which was making a glory
round the curly head of the child in her arms.
A RUNAWAY COUPLE.
Summer dawn; a thousand delicate tints in the sky above and dewy world
beneath; birds stretching drowsy little wings and piping to each other;
dumb things waking up one by one and sending forth their several calls.
But as yet nothing seemed astir in the old house; the windows, open for
the most part, were still curtained; no thin spiral of smoke wound its
way upwards from the kitchen chimney. Ruddy shafts of light made cheer,
indeed, on the mullioned panes and the moss-grown coping, picked out
the stone-crops and saxifrages on the roof, ran along the stone gutter,
bathed the old chimney stacks with a glow that would seem to mock at
the empty hearths within.
Presently a great clucking and crowing was heard from the poultry-yard
at the rear of the house, and a moment or two after a little old lady
came trotting along the mossy path behind the yew hedge and picked her
way daintily between the apple-trees in the orchard. As she proceeded
she looked to right and to left as though in fear, yet her face was
wreathed in the broadest of smiles, and every now and then she uttered
an ecstatic chuckle. Now out at the wicket-gate and down the lane to
the right. Lo! standing outlined against the purple expanse of moor a
hundred paces or so from the gate an equipage was drawn up; two men
were stationed by the horses’ heads, one of whom hurried forward to
meet her, while the other stiffly climbed up on the box. The first,
a tall burly old man, wearing a white top-hat, an old-fashioned
embroidered waistcoat, and a spick-and-span suit of broadcloth,
beckoned eagerly as he hastened towards her, while the figure on the
box waved his whip, and jerked his elbow with every sign of impatience.
“So there ye be at last, my dear!” cried the old gentleman. “Blest if
I didn’t think they’d catched ye. Come along, hurry up! Let’s be off;
it’s close upon four o’clock.”
The lady, who was plump and somewhat short of breath, merely chuckled
again by way of rejoinder, and suffered herself to be hoisted into the
waiting chaise. It was an extremely old-fashioned chaise with a hood
and a rumble; the coachman was equally antiquated in appearance, and
wore a moth-eaten livery of obsolete cut and a beaver hat.
“Now off with ye, Jem,” cried the old gentleman in a stage whisper.
“Let ’em go, my lad. Don’t spare the cattle! We must be miles away from
here before the folks yonder have time to miss us. But whatever did
keep ye so long, Susan?” he inquired, turning to the lady.
“My dear,” said she, with a delighted giggle, “I’ve been to feed the
chickens.”
Thereupon her companion fell into a paroxysm of suppressed merriment,
growing purple in the face, and slapping his thigh in ecstacy. The old
coachman turned round upon the box and bent down his ear to catch the
joke.
“Missus has been to feed chicken, Jem,” laughed his master. “Ho! ho!
ho!--she wouldn’t leave out that part, ye may be sure.”
Jem grinned. “No, I d’ ’low she wouldn’t. Missus be a grand hand at
feedin’ chicken; she’ve a-had prac_tise_, haven’t she, Measter? I’ll go
warrant she have.”
“And I’ve been doing something else too, John,” continued she, when the
explosion had in some measure subsided. “See here!”
She opened the lid of the little covered basket which she carried, and
displayed three nosegays of white flowers.
“I thought we might wear these,” she remarked. “I very nearly brought
favours for the horses, too, but I was afraid it would excite remark.”
“And you were right,” said he; “but I think we’ve managed pretty well
to put ’em off the scent. Jem did drive a good bit along the Dorchester
road, and back very quiet over the heath. ’Twas very artful of ’ee, my
dear, to be talkin’ so innercent-like about Weymouth yesterday--they’ll
think we’ve a-gone there, for sure.”
The old lady drew herself up with a little conscious air.
“It takes a woman’s wit to think of them things,” she said: “But I do
feel sorry for them all, too. I left just a bit of a line for Mary to
say she wasn’t to be frightened and we was just gone for the day, and
they mustn’t think of looking for us. But I can’t help thinking it does
seem a shame. There, all the poor things will be comin’ from this place
and that place and bringing the children, and making ready their little
speeches, and getting out their little presents----”
The old man began to chuckle again.
She looked at him reproachfully, and he laughed louder and rubbed his
hands.
“’Tis very unfeeling of you to laugh like that, John. I’m sure it is.
Haven’t you got no feeling for your own flesh and blood?”
“If you come to that,” said John, “whose notion was it? Says I, ‘I do
wish,’ I says, ‘we could give ’em all the slip and spend the happy day
quiet by our two selves.’ And says you, ‘Why shouldn’t we, then?’ says
you. ‘Look here,’ you says, ‘why shouldn’t we do it over again, John?’
‘What?’ says I. ‘What we done fifty years ago,’ says you. ‘Well,’ I
says, and I say now, ‘it takes a woman’s cleverness to think o’ such
things.’ So here we be a-runnin’ away again, love; bain’t we?”
She extended her little mittened hand to him with a gracious smile that
had in it a droll assumption of coyness.
“There’s the ring, though,” said he; “that there ring ought to come
off, Susan, else it ’ull not seem real-like.”
His gnarled old fingers were already fumbling with the ring, but she
jerked away her hand quickly.
“No, indeed!” she cried. “Have it off! I wouldn’t have it off for a
thousand pounds. It’s never been off my finger all these years, John,
and I’m certainly not going to have it off to-day.”
She pinned the nosegay in his coat, assumed a similar decoration
herself, and handed one to Jem. Then they drove onwards with renewed
speed. Jem, following his master’s advice, was not sparing the cattle;
the old chaise rocked from side to side, the horses flew along the
road. They had now left the heath behind and found themselves on the
highway; the country was looking its best this fine sunny morning;
the hedges were still white with bloom; the leafage of the woods
through which they passed was yet untarnished by heat or dust; a spicy
fragrance was wafted towards them from the fir plantations; in the
villages the folks were beginning to stir; chimneys were smoking; women
moving to and fro, here and there a man sauntering fieldwards.
They looked after the rattling chaise with astonishment.
“I hope nobody will set up a hue and cry,” ejaculated the old lady
nervously. “There’s nobody coming after us, is there, Jem?”
“Don’t ye be afeared, mum,” returned Jem valiantly. “You sit still,
Mrs. Bussell; nobody’s thinkin’ o’ sich a thing, an’ if they was, we’d
soon leave ’em behind. I brought ye safe to Branston this day fifty
year ago, an’ I’ll do the same to-day, dalled if I don’t.”
“So ye did, Jem, so ye did,” exclaimed his master. “Dear heart alive,
do ye mind, Sukey, that time we heard such a clatterin’ behind us, and
you thought all was lost, and Jem turned right into Yellowham Wood. How
he done it I can never think. But we crope out of sight and the folks
rattled past. And ’twasn’t nobody thinkin’ of us at all. ’Twas young
Squire Frampton drivin’ for a wager.”
“Yes, my father was looking for us along the Dorchester road,” said
she, laughing again.
“He! he!” chimed in Jem, “I mind that well. ’Twas my cousin Joe what
took yon empty shay. He couldn’t for the life of en make out why he
were to ride so fast wi’ nobody inside. ‘Never you mind, Joe,’ says I,
‘ride away for your gold piece,’ I says. I weren’t a-goin’ to tell he
what was a-goin’ on. He weren’t to be trusted same as me. He understood
about the gold piece right enough, and, dally! he did understand Squire
Sherren’s horsewhip, too, when he comed up wi’ en and couldn’t make Joe
tell en where he was gone. I d’ ’low ye was half-way to Lunnon by that
time.”
“Poor Joe!” said Mrs. Bussell compassionately.
“Pooh!” exclaimed bluff old John, “a gold piece would mend many broken
bones. Well, my dear, I’m gettin’ sharp-set, what do ye say to a bit of
breakfast? Pull up at the first sheltered place you come to, Jem.”
“But let it be somewhere where you can keep a look-out,” put in the old
lady anxiously. “Don’t let’s be caught.”
By-and-by they arrived at a suitable place, and Jem duly pulled up,
and John brought out a well-packed hamper from the rumble, and Mrs.
Bussell made tea from a spirit-lamp, and dispensed goodly portions of
buttered roll, and ham, and hard-boiled eggs, and John and Jem took
turns to act sentry, and little Mrs. Bussell raised an alarm about
every five minutes and entered more and more into the spirit of the
enterprise. Her husband, setting his white hat rakishly on the back of
his head, and looking extremely jocose, endeavoured to throw himself
into the part which he had played a half-century before, but did not
altogether succeed in representing the trembling young lover, even
though he called the old lady by her maiden name, and delivered himself
of sundry amorous speeches with a fervour that was occasionally mixed
with hilarity.
“Faith, my dear,” he cried when she took him to task, “you must let me
talk as I please. I was your lover then, and I am your lover now, for
all we’ve been man and wife this fifty years. What signifies it whether
your hair is gold or silver, or whether you are fat or slim? Handsome
is as handsome does, I say, and you’ve a-been the best wife a man could
have.”
“La! John,” said she, and winked away a tear. John put out his rugged
old hand and gripped hers.
“The best wife a man could have,” he repeated earnestly. “Fifty
years!--I wish we mid have fifty years more together.”
“I wish we was back at the beginning,” said she. “I’d like to go
through it all over again, John. I’d take it all and be thankful--the
rough and the smooth, and the joy and the sorrow. Except maybe--poor
little Ben, you know--I don’t think I’d like to live through those
years again. How we hoped, didn’t we? And he was took at the last.”
“Well, ye have the other seven, Susan, my dear, alive and well, and
their children. Why, you mid say that one loss has been made up to ye
by more than a score of other blessings.”
Mrs. Bussell shook her head, but smiled, and presently wondered aloud
if John’s Annie would bring the baby.
“I’d like to have seen it, too,” she added. “I hope Mary will have
the sense to keep them. I told her a good many of them would stop the
night.”
“Somebody’s coming!” announced Jem at this juncture.
And then what a bustle and clatter ensued, what hasty packing of the
hamper, what tremulous climbing into the chaise on the part of the
“missus”; with what an air of firmness and resolution did the master
straighten his hat and square his shoulders as though preparing to defy
all pursuers. And after all it was only the mail cart bowling merrily
along; and the driver gave the runaway couple a cheery good-day as he
passed. Then, though they laughed long and loud over the false alarm,
they realised that the time was getting on, and that it behoved them to
hasten to their destination.
The little town of Branston was not yet very wide-awake when they did
arrive at the Royal George, and Jem pulled up with a flourish, and
threw the reins to a gaping stable-boy with as great an air as would
have befitted a coachman in the palmy days when the Flying Stage used
to change horses at Branston. The little old lady alighted demurely,
her husband supporting her while she planted first one neat little
foot, clad in a buckled shoe and clocked white stocking, on the
step, and then its fellow, and lifting her off bodily, with much the
same tender gallantry as that with which he had doubtless performed
a similar office fifty years ago. At his request, Mrs. Bussell was
conducted to the best private room; she seemed to have quite identified
herself with those bygone days, and clung to his arm fearfully as
they mounted the stairs; while in her husband past and present were
pleasantly mingled. Thus, when, having deposited his fair charge in the
George’s largest sitting-room, he strolled down to the lower premises
to give certain orders regarding the horses, he made no ado about
taking the landlord into his confidence.
“This ’ere is a runaway trip,” he remarked, with a jocular wink. “’Tis
our golden weddin’ day, and the missus and me had a notion o’ spendin’
it quiet, just by our two selves. They’re makin’ a great to-do at our
place--children and grandchildren comin’ from all sides, but we just
thought we’d give them the slip, and keep the day here same as we done
fifty year ago.”
“Ah,” put in the landlord, much interested, “I heard somethin’ about
that. You and your lady run off, didn’t ye?”
“We did,” returned John. “Her father, ye see, old Sherren--they did
use to call en Squire--she was the only child, and he reckoned on her
makin’ a grand match, takin’ up wi’ one o’ the reg’lar gentry, ye know;
but he wasn’t a bit better nor the rest of any of us yeoman farmers.
Well, I wasn’t much of a match in those days--my father had a long
family and not much to divide between us; but I liked the maid, and the
maid she did like me, so we took the law into our own hands. My missus,
she did use to go a-feedin’ of her chicken very early in the mornin’,
so the folks got accustomed to hearin’ her get up and go out before
daylight almost--and one mornin’ she did go out and she didn’t never go
back.”
“I remember,” cried the other, “you tricked them wi’ an empty
post-chaise, didn’t ye?”
“To be sure,” returned the old farmer chuckling. “’Twas Joe Boyt did
that. He did ride for all he were worth, the wrong way. And me and the
maid ran a couple of mile on our own legs, till we come to the high
road where Jem was awaitin’ for us wi’ the very same old shay as we
did drive over in to-day. I did swear I’d buy it if ever I had the
chance, and I’d take Jem into my service. And I did both.”
“The old Squire came round before long,” remarked the landlord; “yes,
I heard the tale often enough. There’s an old chap here as used to be
ostler in the old days, and he minds well how you and the lady came
here to hide, so to speak, till the coach came up.”
“That’s it!” cried old John delightedly, slapping his thigh to give
emphasis to his words. “The coach took us to Bath and we had the job
done there--licence, you know. And the missus and I, d’ye see, had
the notion o’ stoppin’ here to-day in memory of that time, and makin’
believe we was doin’ it over again. Between you and me,” said John,
poking the landlord in the waistcoat and winking knowingly, “I d’ ’low
my old woman does truly believe she is back in the old times again.
Women do seem to have a wonderful power of imagination. There, she was
a-feedin’ her chicken this mornin’, if ye please, just as she done the
mornin’ we made off.”
“Well, well,” commented the landlord. “You ought to let old ’Neas
Bright have a look at ye both. He’s up in the almhouse now, poor old
chap, through not bein’ able to work any more, but he’d hobble down if
he was to know ye were here.”
“Send for en, then, send for en,” cried John eagerly; “but look ye,
landlord--keep the secret. Don’t ye let the folks know who we are or
what we’ve come for, else maybe the children ’ull catch as yet.”
The landlord laughed and promised, and thereupon John went back to his
lady, whom he found peeping cautiously out at the Market Place from
behind the window curtain.
“Did you think about ordering dinner?” inquired she.
“No, my dear, I left that to you.”
“Oh, John,” she cried bashfully, “I feel nervous-like. I don’t want to
ring the bell and have folks starin’ at me. Go down again and order
it--at twelve sharp.”
“What shall we have?” he inquired.
“There now--to ask such a thing. Why, the same as we had this day fifty
year ago, of course.”
“And what was that?” asked he.
“Why, John, I never thought you would forget anything about that day.
We had a beefsteak-pudding and a boiled fowl with parsley-and-butter
sauce, and potatoes in their jackets, and greens.”
“So we had,” said John.
“And you had cheese and a crusty loaf, and I had a bit o’ rice puddin’.
And you had a tankard o’ best October ale, and I had a glass of sherry
wine. Don’t you remember, John, you would make me take the wine though
I wasn’t used to it and was afraid it might go to my head?”
“Yes, to be sure,” returned he. “Well, I’ll go and order all that.”
“And then come back to me--come straight back to me, John. Don’t stay
gossiping downstairs. I feel quite nervous.”
“Do you think this was the room we had?” inquired John, pausing
half-way to the door. “It don’t look the same somehow.”
“They’ve spoilt it with this new-fangled furniture,” returned she;
“but it is the same. I remember this little window at the end looking
towards the Market Place. Oh, John--see here.”
“What is that, my dear?”
“Why, look here at the corner of the pane. Here are our very name
letters, S for Susan, and J for John, and the true-lovers’-knot on the
top. I remember your scratching ’em quite well.”
“Why, so I did,” cried he. “I’d a glass-cutter in my big knife. Well,
to be sure! There they are--and here we are!”
“Here we are,” echoed she. “Thanks be to God for all His mercies.”
And thereupon she clasped both her little wrinkled hands round his arm
and gave it a tender squeeze, and he stooped down and kissed her round,
wholesome, pink old cheek.
Well, after John had ordered the dinner, and after old ’Neas Bright
had come limping down from the almshouse and had related divers
anecdotes, and drunk the couple’s health, and gone away rejoicing with
a half-crown piece in his pocket, John and Susan sat down behind the
screen which cut off one corner of the room from the rest, and gave
themselves up to repose and reminiscence.
Perhaps it was because they were so happy and so much absorbed in each
other, and also perhaps because they had both of them grown a trifle
hard of hearing of late years, that they did not notice a sudden bustle
and excitement in the street below.
Had they looked out they would have seen a string of vehicles
of different kinds drawn up just outside--spring-carts, gigs, a
waggonette, and last but not least, a waggon drawn by a team of
splendid farm-horses and filled to overflowing with country people.
All the occupants of these conveyances were dressed in holiday attire,
all wore enormous white nosegays, while the horses’ blinkers and the
drivers’ whips were alike decorated with snowy streamers. The door
opened suddenly, and some one ran round the screen.
“Why, there they are!” cried a child’s jubilant voice. “There’s grandpa
and grandma a-sittin’ hand-in-hand.”
And then from the staircase, and from the hall, and from the street
arose a sudden deafening cheer.
“I d’ ’low they’ve caught us!” cried John, with a whimsical glance
at his spouse; but she was already engaged in fondling the child and
scarcely heard him.
A moment afterwards the room was crowded with the descendants of the
old folks--three generations of them: middle-aged prosperous-looking
sons and daughters; rosy grandchildren and even one great-grandchild,
for young John’s Annie _had_ brought her baby, which proved to be the
finest child of its age that had ever been seen, and to have “come
on wonderful” since Mrs. Bussell last beheld it. And there was such
a kissing and hugging and scolding and laughing as had surely never
before been heard in that staid, respectable old room, and grandma
was very arch and coy on being reproached for her unkind notion, and
grandpa chuckled boisterously, and rubbed his hands, and Mary, the
only unmarried daughter, related how her suspicions had at first been
aroused on discovering that the chickens had been fed so early--all
the family knowing the history of that bygone ruse by heart; and how,
though she _did_ at first fancy they might have gone to Weymouth, she
had made inquiries in the neighbourhood, and had ascertained that a
chaise with three people wearing white nosegays had been seen driving
Branston-way very soon after daylight. And then John, the eldest son,
took up the tale, and related how they had settled to wait till all
the family had arrived, and how he had declared that the labourers and
their wives should not be baulked of their share of merry-making, and
how the whole party was come to keep the golden wedding at Branston.
“The folks are waiting for you outside now,” he concluded; “you’d best
show yourselves to them, else they’ll never forgive you.”
So over to the window marched the bridal couple, and there they stood
arm-in-arm, the illusion being a little damaged by the presence of
the baby which grandma would not relinquish, and by the background of
laughing folk, all of whom bore so strong a family likeness to their
progenitors that their relationship could not be doubted.
A rousing cheer went up once more, and John waved his hat in reply,
and Susan laughed and nodded, and was suddenly taken by surprise by a
dimness in the eyes and a choking sensation in the throat.
“I don’t know however I could have had the heart to run away from
them,” she murmured.
And then when the speeches had been made, and the presents delivered,
and the wedding-feast, supplemented by many substantial additions,
set forth upon the table, and when she sat down with John the elder
on her right and John the younger on her left, and Annie’s baby sound
asleep in her lap, and looked round at the kindly happy faces, she
surreptitiously squeezed her husband’s hand:--
“You and me was very happy this time fifty year,” she said, “but after
all--I don’t know--I d’ ’low this is best.”
POSTMAN CHRIS.
It was about four o’clock of the afternoon when Postman Chris set forth
on his second round. He swung along at a rapid pace, looking about him
with the pleased, alert air of one for whom his surroundings had not
yet lost the charm of novelty.
He had, indeed, that very morning entered on his duties as postman for
the first time, though he had served his country in another way before.
For Postman Chris Ryves had been Trooper Chris Ryves in a previous
state of existence. He had had his fill of warfare in South Africa, and
had indeed been wounded at Graspan; the left breast of his brand-new
blue uniform was decorated with a medal and quite a row of clasps.
Though Postman Chris walked at ease he held himself with the erectness
due to military training, and his straw hat was perched at the rakish
angle which in earlier days, when he had paraded at Knightsbridge
Barracks, had caused the heart of more than one artless city maiden to
flutter in her bosom.
But for all these past glories of his, Postman Chris was an eminently
pleasant and affable person; at any chance salutation of a passer-by
the white teeth would flash out in that brown, brown face of his with
the most good-humoured of smiles; he delivered up his letters with
an urbanity of demeanour that was only surpassed by his soldierly
promptitude, and he was willing to exchange the news of the day with
any pedestrian who cared to march a short distance in his company.
The bag which he carried was not unduly heavy, nor his way fatiguingly
long; it was a six-mile round in fact--starting from Chudbury-Marshall,
proceeding through Riverton and Little Branston to the market town of
Branston and so back again.
It chanced that as Chris approached Little Branston Schoolhouse on
this particular day, his attention was attracted by a hubbub of voices
and laughter proceeding from the adjoining field. Pausing a moment
in his rapid progress he looked through a gap in the hedge. A feast
was evidently in progress; some of the children still sat in rows on
the grass, armed with great cups of sickly-looking tea and munching
vigorously, buns or hunches of bread-and-jam; others, having finished
their meal, were already at play.
Here “Blind-man’s-buff” was going on, there “Drop Handkerchief”. In the
corner of the field directly under the postman’s observation a game of
Forfeits was proceeding. The schoolmistress, who sat facing him, was
holding up one object after the other over the blindfolded head of a
pupil-teacher, a bright little girl who had left school recently enough
to enter still with almost childish zest into such amusements.
“Here’s a Fine Thing and a very Fine Thing; what is the owner of this
Fine Thing to do?” cried the schoolmistress. She had a pleasant, clear
voice, and though she sat back upon her heels like many of her pupils,
there was something particularly graceful about figure and attitude.
“That’s a shapely maid,” remarked Postman Chris to himself; “yes, and a
vitty one too.”
It will be seen that Chris Ryves was a Dorset man, as indeed his name
betokened; he came in fact from the other side of the county.
The face which he looked on was as pretty as the figure, its fresh
bloom enhanced by the darkness of eyes and hair.
“What is the owner of this Fine Thing to do?” she repeated.
“She must bite an inch off a stick,” responded the pupil-teacher, with
a delighted giggle.
The owner of the forfeit, a peculiarly stolid-looking child, came
slowly up to redeem her pledge, and, after a mystified but determined
attempt to obey the mandate literally, was duly initiated into the
proper and innocuous manner of accomplishing it. Then the performance
was resumed.
“Here’s a Fine Thing and a very Fine Thing; and what must the owner of
this very Fine Thing do?” chanted the schoolmistress.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” asked the blindfolded oracle.
“Boy,” responded the schoolmistress.
“Then he must bow to the wittiest, kneel to the prettiest, and kiss the
one he loves best.”
A little round-faced urchin came forward to claim his cap, and, after
much prompting and not a little pushing, was induced to carry out the
prescribed programme.
He duly pulled a forelock to the pupil-teacher, bent his knee to a
small person with a necklace and a profusion of corkscrew ringlets, and
bestowed a careless salute on the chubby cheek of a smaller and still
more round-faced female edition of himself--evidently a sister.
“Well, I’m dalled!” said the postman. “Them children ha’n’t got no eyes
in their heads.”
And with that he stepped back from the hedge, hitched up his bag a
little higher on his shoulder, and strode off towards Branston.
The next day at the same hour Ruby Damory, the schoolmistress, was
standing on the threshold of the schoolhouse with a copybook in her
hand. She sometimes lingered after school had broken up and the
pupil-teacher had made things tidy and betaken herself homewards, to
look over the children’s exercises before returning to her lodgings;
and as the interior of the house was close and stuffy she preferred
to accomplish this task in the porch. The school-yard was as dusty
and bleak as such places usually are; but by some strange chance the
rose-tree which was trained over the porch remained uninjured by the
constant passing of little feet and contact of little persons. It grew
luxuriantly, and its clustering blossoms formed a pretty setting to the
slim figure which stood propped against the wall beneath.
All at once Ruby raised her eyes from her book; a rapid step was
advancing along the footpath from the direction of Riverton; over the
irregular line of hedge she could see a straw hat set at a knowing
angle on a head of bright red hair. It was the new postman from
Chudbury--she had seen him go past that morning before she had yet
left her room.
Now he was opposite the schoolhouse gate, but instead of passing it he
stood still, wheeled about with military precision, and took off his
hat with a flourish.
“I bow to the wittiest,” said Postman Chris.
Then, before she had time either to respond or to turn away, he was
marching on again, and soon disappeared behind the tall hedge on the
other side of the school precincts.
“Well, to be sure!” said Ruby, and she laughed to herself; “he must
have noticed our game yesterday. He was very complimentary, I must say,
though I don’t quite know how he could find out I was witty. I suppose
he thinks I must be because I’m the schoolmistress.”
And thereupon she returned to the exercise.
But in spite of herself her thoughts kept wandering to Postman Chris
and his odd proceedings, and she said to herself that, though his hair
was red it was not at all an ugly colour--in fact when he took off his
hat it flashed in the sun like burnished copper. The phrase took her
fancy for she liked a fine word or two when opportunity offered; and
she was pleased too with the aptness of the simile, for she possessed
a little copper tea-kettle which she only used on great occasions, and
which was, she fancied, precisely the colour of the new postman’s hair
in the sunshine. He had a nice smile, too, and such quick, bright,
brown eyes. And then that medal, and those clasps and orders--decidedly
Postman Chris appeared to the schoolmistress somewhat in the light of a
hero.
All the evening she thought of his brown face and his pleasant voice,
and of how his hair had flashed in the sun. On going home she got
down the copper tea-kettle and looked at it, turning it about in the
lamplight--yes, it really recalled the glow of the new postman’s hair.
When, on the next day, Ruby heard the regular and rapid steps
approaching, she stood for a moment in doubt; should she go indoors, or
should she give the man a civil good-day as he passed.
She chose the latter alternative, but as she opened her lips to speak
the words died on them, for Postman Chris, once more pausing in front
of the gate, dropped on his knees and bowed his head. Their eyes met
as he raised it again, and he said emphatically: “I kneel to the
prettiest.”
Then, springing to his feet, he was gone before Ruby had time to
recover from her astonishment. She went inside the larger schoolroom
and sat down on the nearest bench, trembling from head to foot.
What did the man mean? Was he laughing at her? No, the brown eyes had
looked into hers with as earnest and straightforward a gaze as was
to be found in the eyes of man. Was he courting her then? It looked
like it, but what a strange way to set about it. No preliminaries--no
permission asked--not even a question exchanged between them. Did he
intend to carry out the third part of the programme with the same speed
and decision with which he had set about fulfilling the first two?
Ruby blushed hotly to herself, and then tossed her head. She was not to
be won without due wooing, and after all was she, in any event, to be
won by this man? She knew nothing of him except that he was a reservist
with a small pension, and that he was a postman--a village postman.
Was it likely that a girl of her education and position would throw
herself away on a fellow like that--even if he had a kindly face, and a
nice way of looking at one, and hair the colour of a copper tea-kettle?
Besides, he should know better than to approach her with so light a
spirit.
The next day when Postman Chris came swinging along the Branston road
the schoolhouse porch was empty, the door bolted and barred. For a full
moment he stood gazing towards it, and Ruby, peering cautiously out at
him from behind the sheltering blackboard, saw his expression change
from the eager tenderness which had for the fraction of a second almost
made her wish that she were indeed standing in the porch, to one of
hurt and proud surprise.
He wheeled about without delay, and the sound of his steps fell like a
knell upon her heart.
Acting upon an unaccountable impulse she flung open the door and darted
to the gate, but Postman Chris never turned his head.
On the next day she again watched from behind the blackboard, and saw
the postman march past, without so much as a glance either to right or
to left. On the day after, strange to relate, Miss Ruby Damory, the
schoolmistress, happened to be correcting exercises in the porch when
the postman from Chudbury-Marshall walked by; but Postman Chris never
caught sight of the schoolmistress. He was whistling as he walked,
and held a little cane in his hand with which he switched at the
hedge. When he passed the school-gate he tapped it with his cane, and
subsequently drew it along the railings which bordered the yard; but he
never turned his head.
There was no afternoon post on Sunday, but Postman Chris was at Evening
Church, and there Ruby saw him with the light of the stained-glass
window falling on his uncovered head and making a very nimbus of his
hair.
When Monday afternoon came she was standing, not in the school-porch
but at the gate, and when Postman Chris drew near she accosted him in a
small voice which did not sound like hers. Indeed, she felt at the time
as though it were not she herself who was thus laying aside maidenly
dignity, but some wicked little spirit within her, who acted for her
against her will.
“Good-day, postman,” said Ruby, or the demon within her.
Postman Chris brought his heels together and saluted--not having yet
learnt to lay aside this habit--but his face wore an expression of
surprise.
“Have you got a letter for me, to-day?” went on the voice.
“Name?” said Chris succinctly.
“Miss Ruby Damory,” came the hurried answer.
The postman shook his head.
“I’m expecting a letter,” went on Ruby confusedly. “Perhaps you may
have left one at my lodgings in Little Branston? I live at Mrs.
Maidment’s at the corner of Green Lane.”
The postman looked at her with an expression which would seem
to indicate that Ruby’s place of abode was a matter of supreme
indifference to him.
“If any letter comes as is directed there, of course it will be left
there,” he said, with a coldly business-like air.
“You didn’t leave one for me, to-day, I suppose?” faltered Ruby.
“Not as I know on,” returned Chris stolidly.
Tears rushed to the girl’s eyes; she felt wounded, insulted by this
sudden change from warm admiration--admiration which possibly might
have ripened to something else--to complete indifference. She hastily
turned away her head to conceal them, but not before she had caught
sight of a kind of gleam in the postman’s brown eyes.
“Are ye so terrible disappointed?” he inquired roughly, not to say
harshly.
“I--oh, yes, of course I am.”
She spoke truly enough, poor girl, though her disappointment arose from
another cause than the ostensible one.
Chris eyed her sharply.
“Well, it’ll come in time, I suppose!” he remarked, still in the same
surly tone, “and when it _do_ come, you shall have it.”
And thereupon he saluted, hitched up his bag, and walked away.
Ruby went back to the school-porch, with a scarlet face and a mist
before her eyes:--
“He’s a rude fellow,” she said; “I’ll think of him no more.”
But she was in a manner forced to think of him.
It was an unkind Fate, indeed, which decreed that Postman Chris Ryves’
beat should bring him under Ruby Damory’s notice twice in the day.
Early in the morning, while still in her little lodging at the corner
of Green Lane, she heard his brisk step ring out beneath her window,
and looking down, as indeed she sometimes did from beneath the corner
of her blind, she caught a glimpse of a blue uniform and a red head;
but Postman Chris never looked up, and no letter was ever left for Miss
Ruby Damory, care of Mrs. Maidment.
Then as the church clock struck half-past four a tall figure was always
to be seen swinging along behind the green hedge, which drew near the
school-gate, and passed by the school-yard without a single glance at
the mistress correcting exercises in the porch.
It was out of pure contradictoriness of course that Ruby Damory learned
to listen for that step and to watch for that figure. She grew thin and
pale, slept brokenly, and dreamt frequently about Postman Chris; and
Mrs. Maidment averred almost with tears that Miss Damory seemed to have
no relish for her victuals, and could indeed be scarce persuaded to eat
a radish with her tea.
One day the girl took herself seriously to task. “I am a fool and
worse,” she said. “I must make an end of it. The man does not care a
snap of his fingers for me--I’ll try to forget he’s in the world.”
Therefore she refrained from peeping out from behind her blind on the
following morning, and, in the afternoon, she locked up the schoolhouse
directly the children had left, and proceeded homewards with the
exercise-books under her arm. But whether because Postman Chris was
more punctual than usual that day, or because Ruby Damory walked
slowly, this manœuvre did not have the desired effect, for, strange to
say, the postman overtook her on the road.
Ruby had heard him coming, and had made valiant resolution not to
look round, but when he came up with her she could not resist turning
towards him, and their eyes met.
“Did you speak?” said Postman Chris.
“No--I--I--” She stopped short; her heart was thumping so violently,
indeed, that she could scarcely breathe.
“I thought you might have a letter for me,” she murmured at last, in
the frantic endeavour to cover her confusion.
“Not I,” said the postman.
He made as if he would pass on, but wheeled round again. “What have you
been doing to yourself?” he asked sharply.
“I? Oh, nothing.”
“Ye bain’t half the maid ye was,” insisted Chris, eyeing her with
severe disapproval. “Been frettin’ about summat?”
If Ruby had been pale before, she was rosy enough now.
“What do you mean?” she stammered; “what makes you say that?”
“I thought you mid be disapp’inted-like about that letter,” responded
the postman.
“Oh, the letter. Yes--’tis very strange it doesn’t come.”
“Well, it’s none o’ my fault,” retorted Chris roughly. “Ye needn’t look
at me like that. I’d bring it to ye fast enough if ’twas there.”
“Well, of course--I never thought you wouldn’t. I’m sure I never said
anything----” cried poor Ruby, more and more agitated.
“Ye shouldn’t go frettin’ yourself though,” he remarked. “That won’t
make it come any faster. And you shouldn’t blame me.”
“I _don’t_ blame you,” gasped the girl. “I don’t--indeed I don’t”--but
here, in spite of herself, her voice was lost in a burst of sobs.
Postman Chris set down his bag and produced a khaki pocket
handkerchief--a relic no doubt of South African days. This he tendered
very gallantly to Ruby, who, if truth be told, was at that moment
at a loss for one, having used her own to wipe out a particularly
impracticable sum from a small pupil’s slate.
She accepted the offering in the spirit in which it was meant, dried
her eyes, and returned the handkerchief to the postman with a watery
smile. At that smile Chris changed colour, but he tucked away the
handkerchief in his sleeve without a word, respectfully saluted, and
departed. He never looked back at the girl, but as he walked away he
said to himself: “That there maid, she be all I thought her. ’Tis a
pity I didn’t see her afore she took up wi’ t’other chap. I wouldn’t
ha’ left her a-pinin’ so long, and a-waitin’ and a-waitin’ for a letter
what never comes. But she’ll stick to him--ah, sure she’ll stick to
him.”
And with that he heaved a profound sigh, and turned off in the
direction of the post-office.
The former mode of procedure was now changed. Ruby locked up the
schoolhouse every day after lesson-time and Postman Chris regularly
overtook her on the way home. By mutual consent they avoided the
painful subject of the letter and conversed on indifferent topics; and
more than once when Chris walked away he muttered to himself: “She be
the prettiest, and she be the wittiest, and she be--ah, ’tis a dalled
pity I weren’t on the field first.”
One day when the well-known step came up behind Ruby it was accompanied
by a shout:--
“Hi!” cried Postman Chris; “hi! Miss Damory! I’ve a-got summat for ye
at last.”
Ruby turned towards him without any very great elation, for, if truth
be told, a letter from her only correspondent had never caused her
heart to beat one tittle faster than its wont. But as Chris came up
with an excited face she felt she could do no less than simulate great
delight at his news.
“At last!” cried she, holding out her hand for the letter. But Chris
did not deliver it up at once. He looked up the road and down the
road--it was indeed little more than a lane, and at that hour solitary
enough; there was a strange flash in his eye.
“This’ll be the end of all between you and me, I suppose?” said he.
“Ye’ll have got your letter, and ye’ll not care for seein’ me come no
more. I’ve a mind to make you pay for it.”
Ruby’s extended hand dropped by her side, and she started back.
“Here’s a Fine Thing,” said Postman Chris, still with that gleam in
his eye as he held up the letter. “Here’s a Fine Thing and a very Fine
Thing; what’s the owner of Fine Thing to do?”
“What do you mean?” whispered Ruby.
“’Tis your turn to pay the forfeit now!” cried he. “I’ve bowed to the
wittiest and knelt to the prettiest; I’d have finished the job if you’d
ha’ let me. ’Tis your turn, I say; I’ll let you off all but the last.”
“I don’t know what you take me for, Chris Ryves,” cried Ruby
tremulously. “I think you should be ashamed of yourself. You ought to
know enough of me by this time to see that I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Well, I be that kind o’ man,” returned Chris obstinately. “This here’s
the end--this here’s my last chance. If you want your precious letter,
you must pay for it.”
“How dare you?” cried Ruby, turning as white as a sheet. “You are very
much mistaken, Mr. Ryves. I’d rather die--than--than----”
“Than have anything to say to me,” he interrupted fiercely. “Oh, I know
that very well, Miss Damory; you’re not for the likes o’ me, as you did
show me plain enough at the beginning of our acquaintance. But a chap
isn’t so very bad if he does ask for a crumb before the whole loaf is
handed over to another man. Give me one, Ruby--just one!”
Ruby backed away from him against the hedge.
“This is an insult,” she cried.
“An insult!” he repeated, suddenly sobered. “Oh, if you look on it
that way. There’s your letter,” he went on, dropping his voice.
“There’s your letter, Miss Damory; I hope it’ll give ye every joy and
satisfaction.”
And with that he handed the disputed document to the schoolmistress,
took off his hat with a flourish, and marched away quick time. Not so
quick, however, but that a little petulant cry fell upon his ears, and,
wheeling involuntarily, he saw that the letter had been flung upon the
ground, and that Ruby Damory was leaning against the hedge with her
face buried in her hands.
Chris came back at the double.
“There!” he cried penitently. “I’m a brute beast. I beg your pardon, my
maid. I’m truly sorry--truly, I am.”
“Oh,” sobbed Ruby, “how could you be so unkind?”
“I’m sure I don’t know how I came for to forget myself like that,” he
returned ruefully; “but I’ll never offend again, Miss Damory--never.”
“To expect me--to--to do that,” faltered Ruby, “when you’d never said a
word of love to me--when you’d never even asked to walk with me.”
The postman’s brown face assumed a puzzled air; he drew a step nearer,
and picked up the letter.
“But,” said he; then paused, and once more tendered the document to the
schoolmistress.
“Oh, bother!” cried she irritably. “It’ll keep.”
Chris’s countenance lit up suddenly.
“Will it, indeed?” cried he. “That’s a tale--a very different tale.
There, when I was comin’ along wi’ that letter, ’twas all I could do
not to bury it or to drop it into a ditch. I mastered myself, ye know,
but I were terr’ble tempted, and that was why,” he added with a sly
glance, “I did look for some reward.”
“But why did you want to destroy my aunt’s letter?” asked Ruby.
“Your aunt!” exclaimed Chris. “Your _aunt_! Well, that beats all.”
He took off his hat and waved it; he danced a kind of jig upon the
footpath; he threw himself sideways against the hedge, laughing all the
while, so that Ruby stared in amazement. Suddenly he composed himself.
“That be another tale, indeed, my maid,” said he. “I were a-thinking
all the time ’twas your young man you was expectin’ to hear from. But
why was you always so eager on the look-out for me?”
“I’m sure I wasn’t,” said Ruby, and she blushed to the roots of her
hair. She dared not look at Chris for a full moment, but at last was
constrained to raise her eyes to his face, and there, lo, and behold!
he was blushing too. And looking at her--yes--with that very self-same
expression which she had seen in his eyes on the morning when she had
first hidden herself behind the blackboard. He came a step nearer, and
his blue-coated arm began to insinuate itself between the hedge and her
trim waist.
“Then why, my maid,” he began gently--“that there game, ye know--why
didn’t you let me finish?”
“Why,” said Ruby, between laughing and crying, “because you hadn’t
begun.”
He whistled softly under his breath.
“Shall us begin now?” said he. “You and me--we’ll do it proper this
time.”
“Begin courting?” said she innocently.
“Yes, we’ll play the game right. Here’s a Fine Thing and a very Fine
Thing--that’s you, my dear--now what’s the owner of this Fine Thing to
do? The owner--that’s me--why--this----”
He accompanied the word with appropriate action.
“For shame!” cried she, in a tone which nevertheless was not
displeased, “you’ve begun at the wrong end after all.”
“Not at all,” he retorted, “’tis the proper way to start a courtship.
I’ll tell ye summat, Ruby, my maid. We’ll have the banns put up on
Sunday.”
KEEPER GUPPY.
“Lard ha’ mercy me! What be doin’, Jan? You that’s only jist out o’
your bed! Whatever ’ud Doctor say? Boots too! Where be goin’?”
Old John Guppy cast a lowering glance at his spouse, and continued
to button his gaiters in silence. This task concluded, he stretched
out his hand and pointed imperatively to the gun slung over the
chimney-piece.
“Reach that down,” he commanded.
“Ye’re never goin’ out! You as has been four month and more on your
back! What’s the use on’t? There’s a new keeper yonder--new ways, and
strangers pretty nigh everywhere. I’d ha’ had a bit more sperrit nor to
go up there where I bain’t wanted.”
“I be goin’, woman. Squire do pay I money, an’ I’ll give en his money’s
worth. I must have an eye to things, or they’ll be gettin’ in a reg’lar
caddle up yon. New keeper, he’ll not know so very much about the place,
and Jim--he were always a terr’ble sammy--he never did seem to see what
was under his nose wi’out I were there to rub it into it.”
“Well, but Jan, the bit o’ money what Squire gives ’ee is a
pension--same as what soldiers an’ sick-like do get i’ their ancient
years. Squire don’t expect ’ee to do no more work for en now, and ye
be so fearful punished wi’ the rheumatics, an’ all. No--‘Mrs. Guppy,’
says Squire to I, so considerate as could be, ‘Mrs. Guppy,’ he says,
‘Jan have served I faithful nigh upon two score year--now he can take
a bit o’ rest,’ he says; ‘I’ve a-made sure as he’ll be comfortable
in’s old age. The pension ’ull be paid reg’lar so long as he do live,’
says he, ‘or so long as I do live,’ he says, laughin’ cheerful-like,
‘for ’pon my word, I do think your Jan ’ll very likely see I down--he
be uncommon tough, so old as he mid be,’ says Squire. ‘And if I do go
first, my son ’ll see as he wants for nothin’ in his time,’ he says. So
let I light your pipe, Jan, my dear, and sit ’ee down sensible like, i’
the chimbley corner--’tis the best place for ’ee, good man.”
“You can light my pipe, if you like,” said John, still gloomily, “but I
be goin’ up-along all the same. Things ’ull be goin’ to ruin if I don’t
tell ’em how they used to be carried on i’ my time.”
“I d’ ’low ye’ll not get so far,” said Mrs. Guppy; “but of all the
obstinate men--well, there, ’tis a good thing as the A’mighty made half
the world o’ women-folk, else everythin’ ’ud be fair topsy-turvy.”
John wedged his pipe firmly in the corner of his mouth, put his gun
under his arm, and, taking his thick stick from the chimney corner,
set forth, without vouchsafing any answer; he limped painfully as he
walked, and Mrs. Guppy, looking sorrowfully after him, opined that he’d
have had enough of it afore he’d gone half a mile. But though she had
been wedded to John for thirty-five years, she had not yet learned the
quality of his spirit; he uttered many groans as he shambled along, and
lifted the poor limb, which had so long been well-nigh useless, with
increasing effort, but he held bravely on his way until he reached his
destination, a vast stretch of land, half park, half down, peopled by
innumerable rabbits and furnished with copses and plantations, which no
doubt afforded cover to game of every kind. Here John paused for the
first time, turned his head on one side, clicked his tongue and jerked
forward his gun with a knowing air as a rabbit crossed his path.
“If ’t ’ad ha’ been loaded I’d ha’ made short work o’ thee, my bwoy,”
he remarked. “There don’t seem to be so many o’ you about as there did
used to be i’ my time, though--not by a long ways. That there noo chap
’ull ha’ let ye go down, I reckon. There bain’t many like poor old Jan
Guppy--nay, I’ll say that for ye, Jan. You was worth your salt while
you were about--’e-es, and so long as ye be above ground I d’ ’low
you’ll make it worth Squire’s while to keep ye.”
Having delivered this tribute to himself with a conscientiously
impartial air, he proceeded on his way, and presently came in sight of
the keeper’s cottage, or rather lodge, set midway in the long avenue
which led to the Squire’s mansion, and smiled to himself at the sudden
out-cry of canine voices which greeted his approach.
“There they be, the beauties! That’s Jet--I’d know her bark among a
thousand. I d’ ’low she knows my foot,” as one voice detached itself
from the chorus and exchanged its warning note for a strangled whine of
rapture. “She’ll break that chain o’ hers if they don’t let her loose.
’Ullo, Jet, old girl! Hi, Rover! Pull up, Bess!”
All the barks had now ceased, and a pointer came scurrying to the gate,
followed by a large retriever.
“There ye be, my lads--too fat, too fat. Ah, they be feedin’ o’ them
too well now--not so good for work, I d’ ’low! Poor old Jet! Ye be
tied-up, bain’t ye? There, we’ll come to ye.”
Passing through the wicket-gate, he was limping unceremoniously round
to the back of the cottage, when the door was thrown open and the
astonished figure of the keeper’s wife appeared in the aperture.
“Mornin’, mum,” said John, lifting his hand half-way to his forelock,
which was his nearest approach to a polite salutation when in parley
with folks of Mrs. Sanders’ degree. “I be Mr. Guppy, what was keeper
here afore your master. I be jist come to take a look about.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Mrs. Sanders, who was a very genteel and superior
person; “my husband would have had great pleasure in taking you round,
Mr. Guppy, but he’s out just at present.”
“No matter for that, mum, I’ll go by myself. What, Jet! There ye be, my
beauty; dear, to be sure, a body ’ud never think ’twas the same dog.
She do seem to ha’ fell away terr’ble, mum.”
Jet, a curly-coated black spaniel, was at that moment straining wildly
at her chain, and wriggling her little black body in such spasms of
ecstasy at the sight of her old master that it would have needed a very
sharp eye to detect any alteration in her appearance, if, indeed, such
existed; but John spoke in a tone of conviction.
“She bain’t half the dog she were. What do you feed her on, mum? Jet,
she did used to be dainty--didn’t ye, Jet? Her coat do stare dreadful,
mum, now don’t it? A prize dog didn’t ought to have its coat neglected
like that. When I had the charge o’ she, dally! if I didn’t comb and
brush her morn an’ night, same as if she’d been a young lady. Be dalled
if I didn’t! Where be your master, mum?”
Mrs. Sanders’ face, always somewhat frosty in expression, had become
more and more pinched and supercilious during the colloquy, and she now
replied extremely distantly that she couldn’t say for certain where Mr.
Sanders might be, but that very likely he was looking after the young
pheasants.
“Ah!” commented John, with interest; “and where mid he ha’ got them
this year?”
“On this side of the North Plantation,” returned the lady unwillingly.
“A bad place, mum, a very bad place; no birds ’ull ever do well
there. If he’d a-come to I, I could ha’ telled en that. They’ll never
thrive up yon in that draughty place--no, that they won’t; and it’ll
be too cold for ’em. I’m afeared he’ll have a bad season. The North
Plantation--dear, some folks doesn’t know much! Well, I’ll go and have
a look at ’em, and if I do see your husband, I mid be able to gie en a
word or two o’ advice.”
“Ho! no need for that, I think,” cried Mrs. Sanders wrathfully.
“’Tisn’t very likely as my husband, wot ’as lived in the fust o’
families, and been keeper to a markis, ’ud want to take advice from an
old gentleman like you, Mr. Guppy, as has never left the one place all
your life.”
“I could have advised en agen the North Plantation, anyhow,” said John
stolidly. “Well, I’ll wish ’ee good-day, mum. I’ll be goin’ my ways
up-along.”
And he hobbled off, muttering to himself as he went: “The North
Plantation! The chap must be a fool!... They poor dogs, they was glad
to see I!--jist about; but bain’t he a sammy! There he do go and feed
up the shooting dogs so as they be for all the world like pigs, and
Jet, what we used to keep same as a little queen, he do seem to take no
more notice of nor if she was a cat! Poor Jet! How she did cry to get
to I! Well, well! I may be able to put things straight a bit.”
Proceeding at his slow pace, the pilgrimage to the North Plantation
was a matter of considerable time, and it was noon before he halted at
length beside the enclosure where hundreds of tiny pheasant chicks ran
in and out of their several coops, with a venturesomeness much deplored
by their distracted hen foster-mothers.
A tall, middle-aged man was walking about amid the pens, with a proudly
proprietary air which announced him to be the head-keeper.
Guppy wiped the sweat of weakness and fatigue from his brow and uttered
a quavering “Hullo!” Mr. Sanders turned and walked majestically towards
him.
“What do you want,” he inquired briefly.
“I be jist come up-along to have a look round,” announced John. “I’m
Mr. Guppy, what was here afore you. You be in my shoes now, I mid say,
but I don’t bear ’ee no grudge for ’t--no, I don’t bear ’ee no grudge,”
he repeated handsomely.
“Right,” said Sanders, who was a good-humoured fellow enough, if a
little puffed up by the dignity of his position. “Glad to see you, Mr.
Guppy. We’ve got a nice lot here, haven’t we?”
“’E-es,” agreed Guppy, with a note of reserve in his voice; “’e-es, a
tidyish lot; but you’ll not bring up the half o’ them.”
“Won’t I, indeed?” retorted Sanders, somewhat warmly. “What makes you
say that?”
“I could ha’ telled ’ee as this here weren’t a fit place for young
pheasants,” returned the ex-keeper, not without a certain triumph. “If
you’d ha’ come to I, I could ha’ telled ye. I’ve a-been thirty-nine
year and nine month i’ this place, and I’ve never put the young
pheasants here once--never once. What do you say to that?”
“Well, I say as every man has his own notions,” returned the other.
“You might have a fancy for one place, as very likely I’d take agen,
and, on the other hand, you seem to have some notion agen this ’ere
place, as _I_ think most suitable.”
“Well, ye’ll find out your mistake, I d’ ’low,” said Guppy
unflinchingly. “Done pretty well wi’ eggs this year?”
“Yes, pretty well on the whole. We had to buy a few hundreds, but, as I
told Mr.----”
“Buy ’em! Buy eggs! You must ha’ managed wonderful bad. I’ve a-been
here nigh upon farty year, and never bought so much as one--not one.
Dally! ’Twill come terr’ble expensive for Squire if ye do carry on
things that way.”
“Something had to be done, you see,” cried Sanders, who was now
beginning to be distinctly nettled. “You seem to have been such a
stick-in-the-mud lot--there was hardly any game about the place that I
could see when I come.”
“Oh! and weren’t there?” retorted John sarcastically. “Ye must ha’ poor
eyes, Maister Sanders. There, ’twas what I did use to say to a cousin
o’ Squire’s as used to come shooting here twenty-five years ago, and
couldn’t hit a haystack. ‘There don’t seem to be anything to shoot,
keeper,’ he’d say; and I’d answer back, ‘Ye must ha’ wonderful poor
eyes, sir.’ Ho, ho! he were a stuck-up sort o’ gentleman as were always
a-findin’ fault and a-pickin’ holes, but I mind I had a good laugh agen
him once. ’Twas a terr’ble hot day, and we’d walked miles and miles,
and I were a bit done-up at the end, and thankful for a sup o’ beer.
And he comes up to I, and says, laughin’ nasty-like, ‘Well, Guppy, you
don’t seem much of a walker. Now, I could go all day.’ ‘’E-es, sir,’
says I, ‘and so can a postman. I d’ ’low your bags ’ad much same weight
at the end o’ your rounds.’”
Sanders vouchsafed no comment on this anecdote, and John, propping
his stick against the paling, proceeded with much difficulty to climb
over it, and to hobble from one pen to the other, stooping stiffly to
inspect the young birds and the arrangements made for their comfort.
“They big speckly hens is too heavy for these here delicate little
fellows,” he remarked. “Game hens is the best--’twas what I did always
have. ’Tis more in nature as the game hens should make the best mothers
to young pheasants. They be a poor-looking lot, Maister Sanders. I
did use to have ’em a deal more for’ard at this time o’ year. What be
feedin’ ’em on?”
“Now look ’ere, I’m not going to stand any more o’ this,” thundered the
keeper, fairly losing his temper. “I’m not going to have you poking and
prying about this place no longer. You’ve got past your work, and I’m
doing it now. If the Squire’s satisfied, that’s all I need think about.
If he isn’t, he can tell me so.”
“Ha! no man likes bein’ found fault with,” returned Guppy
sententiously; “but sometimes ’tis for their own good. Now you take
a word o’ advice from I, what was workin’ here afore you was born or
thought of very like.”
“I’ll not, then!” cried the other angrily. “Get out o’ this, you old
meddler, or I’ll report you to the Squire!”
“You did ought to thank I for not reportin’ of you,” returned John
firmly. “The Squire do think a deal o’ I--a deal; but I’d be sorry
to get a man into trouble as do seem to be meanin’ well. You mind my
words, keeper, and you’ll find as they’ll come true--ye’ll have a bad
season this year, and maybe ye’ll be a bit more ready to take advice
from them as knows more nor you do. ’Tis the first year, so I’ll not be
hard on ye.”
He had now recrossed the wire, repossessed himself of his stick,
and with a nod of farewell at his irate successor, turned his steps
homewards.
He spent the rest of that day lamenting the direful changes which had
taken place since his own withdrawal from active life, and privately
resolved to be astir early on the morrow in order to proceed further
with his tour of investigation.
With the first dawn, therefore, of a lovely spring morning he left his
bed cautiously, dressed in silence, and made his way out of doors. The
cottage which he had occupied since his resignation of the keepership
was situated at the very end of the village, and as he glanced up
the quiet street he could detect few signs of life. No smoke was yet
stealing upwards into the still air, no cows lowing in the bartons; the
pigeons, indeed, were astir, preening themselves somewhat sleepily,
and cooing in a confidential undertone, and the clucking of hens was
audible here and there, while more musical bird-voices resounded
from trees and hedgerows. The dew lay heavy on the long grass by the
roadside as John set forth. The morning mists had not yet disappeared,
and the glamour of dawn still enfolded the world. The dew-washed leaves
seemed to be on fire, as they caught the rosy rays of the morning sun;
every little wayside pool gleamed and glittered. The air was full of
sweet scents, the delicate, distinctive odour of the primrose being
predominant, though here and there a gush of almost overpowering
perfume greeted the old man’s nostrils, as he passed a wild apple-tree.
A kind of aromatic undertone came forth from damp moss, trunks of
fir-trees, springing young herbage, yet the exquisite fragrance of the
morning itself seemed to belong to none of these things in particular,
but rather to emanate from the very freshness of the dawn.
Old John, however, plodded onwards, without appearing to take heed of
his surroundings; once, indeed, he paused to sniff with a perturbed
expression; a fox had passed that way. His eyes peered warily into
the undergrowth, over the banks, beneath the hedgerows; he paused in
traversing a copse, stooped, uttering an exclamation of astonished
disgust, and some few moments later emerged from the brake with a
bulging pocket and an air of increased importance.
Jim Neale, the under-keeper, had not long started on his morning beat
when he was hailed by a familiar voice, and turning beheld his former
chief.
“Hullo, Maister Guppy, I be pure glad to see you on your legs again.
You be afoot early.”
John surveyed him for a moment with an air of solemn indignation.
“’Tis jist so well I were afoot a bit early, Jim. You do want I at your
back, I d’ ’low. Which way have you been a-goin’?”
“Why, same as usual--across the big mead, from our place, and up-along
by top side o’ the park.”
“Jist what I did fancy. You do seem to use your eyes wonderful well,
Jim--jist so well as ever. D’ye mind how I used to tell ’ee ‘some folks
has eyes and some has none’?”
“Why, what be amiss?”
John, without speaking, put his hand in his pocket, and drew forth a
number of rabbit snares, sticks and all, which he had picked up and
secreted in the copse before-mentioned.
“Oh!” said Jim. “Humph! I wonder who could have put them there?”
“Why, Branstone folks what be always a-hangin’ about seekin’ what they
can pick up.”
“Well, ’twas a good job ye did chance to come along, Mr. Guppy. I d’
’low they didn’t have time to catch nothin’. There weren’t no rabbits
in ’em, was there?”
“There was a rabbit in one of them though,” retorted John triumphantly;
“I’ve a-got en here i’ my pocket.”
“Oh, and have ye?” queried John, eyeing the pocket in question somewhat
askance. “Well, it’s lucky I’ve a-met ye--ye can hand en over to me
i’stead o’ going all the way up to Sanders.”
“I can hand en over to you, can I? Thank ye kindly, Maister Jim;
‘findins’ is keepins’--or used to be i’ my day. Well, of all the cheek!
‘Hand en over,’ says he to I what has been his maister, I mid say, for
fifteen year and more. Hand en over, indeed!”
Jim, temporarily abashed, pushed his hat a little to the back of his
head, and stared for a moment or two in silence; then his features
relaxed into a slow grin.
“’Pon my word, if it do come to cheek, be dalled if I could say which
of us has the most of it! Ye bain’t keeper here no longer, Mr. Guppy,
and I don’t know as Squire ’ud be altogether pleased if he was to catch
you a-pocketin’ one of his rabbits.”
John laughed derisively.
“Squire ’ud know a bit better nor that,” he remarked, as soon as he had
sufficiently composed himself. “Squire ’ud know better than grudge I a
rabbit arter all them hundreds as I’ve a-had the years and years as I
were here. Be ye a-goin’ on now?”
“’E-es I be,” returned Jim, somewhat sulkily.
“Then look sharp, else you’ll very like miss a good few more things
what be under your nose.”
Jim walked away growling to himself that he wasn’t a-goin’ to have two
masters if he knew it, and that it was enough to be at one man’s beck
and call without being hauled over the coals by folks what had no right
to be there at all.
John, leaning on his stick, watched the receding form, still with an
air of lofty sovereignty, till it had disappeared, and then took his
way homewards, feeling that he had done a good morning’s work.
It was marvellous how one so decrepit as he could manage to be as
ubiquitous as he thenceforth became. His bent figure and wrinkled face
were perpetually turning up in most unexpected quarters, to the wrath
and occasional dismay of Mr. Sanders and his underlings, his small
keen eyes frequently detecting some small error or omission which his
quavering voice was immediately uplifted to denounce and reprehend.
Matters reached a climax when, one sunshiny morning, he discovered the
eldest hope of the Sanders family in the act of climbing a tree in
search of a bird’s nest, and, not content with boxing the urchin’s ears
as soon as he descended to earth again, hauled him off by the collar to
the parental abode. The boy’s outcries brought his father to the door,
accompanied by Jim, who had chanced to call in for orders.
“See here what I’ve a-caught your bwoy a-doin’ of. His pocket be
chock-full o’ eggs--pigeon eggs. He ha’n’t a-got no right to go into
the woods arter pigeons’ eggs. I’ve brought en to ’ee, Maister
Sanders, so as ye may gie en a dressin’. I be too old to do it myself.
Nay, nay, at one time I could ha’ fetched him a crack or two what ’ud
ha’ taught en manners. But I bain’t strong enough for that now.”
“Let go of him--let go at once, I say,” shouted the indignant parent.
“Who gave you leave to interfere? The lad’s my lad, and it’s none o’
your business to go meddlin’ with him. Come here, Philip-James; go in to
your mother, boy. He’s mauled you fearful.”
“Well, you must be a soft fellow,” ejaculated John in a tone of deep
disgust. “I couldn’t ha’ believed it! If _I_ had a-caught a bwoy
a-trespassin’ i’ my woods when I was here, I’d ha’ thrashed him well
for ’t--let him be my son twenty times over.”
“Trespassin’ indeed! You’re a trespasser yourself,” cried the keeper.
“You’ve no business in these woods at all; you’ve no business to come
near the place. I’ll summons you, see if I don’t.”
“Well, that is a tale!” exclaimed John, leaning against the gate-post
that he might the better indulge in a kind of crow of ironical
laughter. “Trespass--_me_ trespass; me what was keeper here for nigh
upon farty year. Lard ha’ mercy me! What’ll ye say next?”
“Well, but it _be_ trespassin’, you know, Maister Guppy,” remarked Jim,
thrusting his head round the lintel of the door; “it be trespassin’
right enough. If you was head-keeper once, you bain’t head-keeper no
more. You ha’n’t got no call to be here at all. It _be_ trespassin’.”
“You hold your tongue, Jim Neale,” retorted John fiercely--“hold your
tongue! Who asked you to speak--you as did ought to be ashamed of
yourself for neglectin’ the ferrets same as you do. The big dog-ferret
have a-got the mange terr’ble bad. You bain’t the man to give a
opinion, I d’ ’low.”
Jim, incensed at this sudden home-thrust, uttered a forcible
exclamation, and proceeded with much warmth: “You’ve a-got a wrong
notion i’ your head altogether, Maister Guppy; you be a-trespassin’
jist the same as you was a-poachin’ t’other marnin’.”
“Poachin’!” cried John, his face purple with wrath and his voice
well-nigh strangled--“poachin’! Dall ’ee, Jim, I’ll not stand here to
be insulted. There, I’ve a-passed over a deal--a deal I have. I’ve
overlooked it on account of the many years as we’ve a-worked here
together, but this here be too much. I’ll report ye, Jim Neale, see if
I don’t; and I’ll report you too, Maister Sanders, for insultin’ of I
same as you’ve a-done. There’s things as a body can’t overlook, let him
be so good-natured as he mid be, and there’s times when a man’s dooty
do stare en i’ the face. I’ll report ye this very hour.”
“That’s pretty good,” laughed Sanders. “Upon my word, that’s pretty
good. Maybe Jim an’ me will have something to report to the Squire
too. You’d best come along with me, Jim, and we’ll see who the Squire
listens to.”
“Come along then,” cried John valiantly, before Neale had time to
answer. “Come along; we’ll see. I bain’t afeard o’ the Squire. The
Squire do know I so well as if I was his own brother. Come on, if you
be a-comin’.”
The three set out, walkin’ shoulder to shoulder in grim silence, the
younger perforce accommodating their pace to the slow gait of the old
man, who hobbled along between them, leaning heavily upon his stick,
his face set in resolute lines.
They were kept waiting for some little time until the Squire had
finished his breakfast, but were presently admitted into the
billiard-room where they found him smoking by a blazing wood fire, for
he was of a chilly temperament, and though the morning was sunny, the
air was still sufficiently sharp.
“Hallo, Guppy!” he cried cheerily, as his eyes fell on the old man.
“What! you’re about again, are you? You’re a wonderful old fellow!
You’ll see me down, I’m sure, though there are twenty years or so
between us.”
John pulled his forelock and then laid his gnarled hand in the Squire’s
outstretched palm.
“You’re a splendid old chap,” said his former master, as he shook it
warmly. “I must own I never thought to see you on your legs again after
that stroke, coming as it did on the top of the rheumatics. How are the
rheumatics, John?”
“Very bad, thank ye, sir. There, I can scarce turn i’ my bed, and when
I do try for to walk my limbs do seem to go all twisty-like. I be fair
scraggled wi’ it, Squire.”
“Well, men, what brought you here?” inquired their master, turning for
the first time to the keepers, and addressing them with some surprise.
“Why, a rather unpleasant matter, sir, I am sorry to say,” returned
Sanders respectfully, but a trifle tartly. “’Tis a bit difficult
to explain, seein’ as you seem so taken up with Mr. Guppy here. I
understood, sir, when I accepted your sitooation as I was to have a
free hand. I didn’t look for no interference from anybody but you
yourself, sir.”
“Well, haven’t you got a free hand? I’m sure I don’t interfere,”
replied the Squire, with a shrug of his shoulders.
“’Tis Maister Guppy what be al’ays a-meddlin’, sir!” put in Jim, with
a pull at his forelock. “He do come up-along mostly every mornin’,
a-horderin’ and a-pickin’ holes here, there, and everywhere. Mr.
Sanders and me do find it terr’ble ill-conwenient.”
“I was just going to say, sir,” resumed Sanders, “when Neale
interrupted me”--here he paused to glare at his inferior--“as it was
what I was never accustomed to--outside people comin’ and pokin’ and
pryin’ and fault-findin’ and interferin’----”
“Oh, dear, how much more!” exclaimed the Squire, looking from one to
the other in affected dismay, mingled with a little real vexation.
“Guppy, what’s all this about?”
“Playse ye, sir, I couldn’t a-bear to see you a-treated same as ye be
treated by them as ye puts your trust in. Everythin’ be in a reg’lar
caddle all over the place--everythin’ be a-goin’ wrong, sir, and when
I sees it, I tells ’em of it. I can’t do no different--’tis my dooty.
You do pay I by the week reg’lar, and I bain’t a-goin’ to eat the bread
o’ idleness--’t ’ud stick i’ my in’ards--’e-es, that it would. ‘So soon
as I do get upon my legs,’ says I, ‘I’ll have a look round;’ and I did
have a look round, and what did I find? Every blessed thing a-goin’
wrong--so I sarces ’em for ’t. I wasn’t a-goin’ to hold my tongue,
and see you tricked and abused. I was easy wi’ ’em--a dalled sight too
easy--I did ought to have reported of ’em before, but to-day I couldn’t
stand it no longer; when I did speak to ’em they up and insulted me,
both on ’em. ’E-es, they did. They insulted of I shameful.”
“I am sorry to hear that----” the Squire was beginning, when Mr.
Sanders, losing patience, interrupted him.
“Begging your pardon, sir, ’tis more than flesh and blood can stand;
’tis got to be him or me--that’s all I can say. Nobody could put up
with it. I found things in a very bad state when I came, and I’m
getting them better gradual, sir, and doing my dooty in all respects as
well as I can; but if Guppy is to be allowed to come pryin’ and spyin’
after me, and findin’ fault with all my arrangements----”
“He did call I a trespasser,” broke out John, who had been ruminating
over his private woes, without taking heed of the keeper’s indictment.
“He did call I a trespasser; he did say I was trespassin’ when I told
en I’d a-been walkin’ through the Long Wood yonder where I did catch
his little rascal of a son a-bird’s-nestin’ so bold as you playse. And
Jim there, what did ought to know better, up and said I was poachin’
last week. _Me_ poachin’! Me what brought him back that very day a
dozen o’ snares what I had picked up i’ the hedge as he went gawkin’
past without taking a bit o’ notice of.”
“’E-es, but you found a rabbit in one and popped it into your pocket!”
cried Jim irefully. “Popped it into your pocket and walked off wi’ it,
let I say what I would.”
“In course I did,” retorted John, with great dignity, “in course I did.
’Tweren’t very likely as I’d leave it wi’ you. As I telled ’ee at the
time--says I: ‘Squire wouldn’t grudge me a rabbit now arter all the
hundreds as I’ve a-had while I was keeper up yonder.’”
The Squire covered his mouth with his hand, but tell-tale wrinkles
appeared about his eyes, and the points of his moustache curled
significantly upwards. After a moment he recovered himself sufficiently
to desire the keepers to withdraw, announcing that he would have a
quiet talk with John Guppy, and that no doubt the matter could be
arranged.
“So you had hundreds of rabbits while you were in my service, John,” he
remarked, crossing one leg over the other, and looking at the old man
with a smile. “Didn’t you get very tired of them?”
“Well, sir, my old woman be wonderful with the cookin’, and she did do
’em up in a-many different ways. ’E-es, we did use to have a rabbit for
dinner four days out of seven.”
“Did you indeed?” returned his former master, much interested in these
revelations. “Do you suppose, John, the other men had hundreds of
rabbits every year, too?”
“Well, sir, it be a matter o’ taste. Some folks doesn’t fancy rabbit;
but, of course, they can take so many as they do want.”
“Of course,” agreed the Squire.
“’E-es; keepers takes rabbits same as gardeners helps theirselves to
cabbages. I knowed you’d never begrudge me that there little un.”
“No, to be sure; but we mustn’t be too hard on Jim. Jim was doing what
he thought to be his duty. Now, you know, no matter how many rabbits a
keeper may take for himself, he is not supposed to allow other people
to take any.”
“Nay, sir, nay; I wouldn’t expect it--not other folks. But I d’ ’low it
be different wi’ I, what was head over en for so many year. He didn’t
ought to ha’ gone and insulted of I.”
“No, no, of course not; but then, you see, you had vexed him. He was
too angry to discriminate between poaching and--just helping yourself.”
“And t’other chap, ’ee telled I I was trespassin’!” resumed John
wrathfully.
“Well, my dear John, we must consider the point of view. Every man has
his own, you know. As a matter of fact, I’m afraid, from Sanders’s
point of view, you were trespassing.”
John’s face was a study.
“I never thought to live to hear you say that, Squire.”
“I only said from his point of view,” cried the Squire, hastily. “He’s
naturally, perhaps, a little jealous; you were here so many years, you
know, and of course, like all young men--young men will have foolish
notions, John--he thinks his way is the best way. We old fogies must
just give in for the sake of peace and comfort.”
“Noo ways,” agreed the old man, sorrowfully; “noo folks and noo ways.”
“As you heard me say just now,” resumed his master, “_I_ don’t
interfere with him, and, upon my life, I think it’s better you
shouldn’t interfere, John. I fancy it would be wiser if you could just
keep away for a little bit--then no one could say you were trespassing,
you know.”
“I’ll keep away, Squire,” said John. “No fear; I’ll keep away. Ye’ll
not have to tell I that twice.”
“You and I are free to have our own opinions, of course,” urged the
Squire, smiling, “but we’ll keep them to ourselves--these young folks
you know----”
But John did not smile in return; his head, always bent, drooped almost
to his breast, his lips moved, but uttered no sound. After a moment or
two, he pulled his forelock, scraped his leg, and turned to depart.
“You’re not going, John?”
“’E-es, sir, I be goin’, I bain’t wanted here no more. As you do say,
noo times----”
“Now, now, I can’t have you going away offended. Don’t you see how it
is, John?”
“Nay, sir, I don’t see nothin’ but what you’ve a-gone and thrown over a
old servant for a noo un. That be all as I can see. You didn’t check en
for insultin’ of I, and you did uphold him and made little of I. I be
goin’, and you’ll never be troubled wi’ I again. I’m fit for nothin’. I
be a-eatin’ of your bread and a-takin’ of your money and doin’ nothin’
for ’t. Eatin’ the bread o’ idleness! I d’ ’low it ’ull fair choke I.”
The Squire, vexed and perplexed, in vain sought to soothe him, but he
waved aside all attempts at consolation, and made his way slowly out of
the room and out of the house.
The Squire watched him as he went tottering down the avenue. “What’s to
be done?” he said to himself. “The poor old chap is past his work; it
would be cruelty to allow him to attempt it. Sanders is an excellent
fellow, on the other hand--more go-ahead than dear old John, and, it
must be owned, a better keeper. He would certainly have given notice
if I had allowed John to continue his visitations here. It is the only
thing to be done, but I can’t bear to see the poor old fellow so cut
up.”
As Guppy passed the keeper’s lodge the dogs ran forward, leaping upon
him and whining. He patted them absently, and then pushed them off.
“Down, Rover, down! There, Bessie, off wi’ you; you should learn a
lesson fro’ your betters. Stick to the noo folks, and get rid of the
wold. Poor beasts! they be fain to see I, I d’ ’low. Dogs bain’t
like Christians. They don’t seem to know when a man be down. They be
faithful, all the same; they haven’t a-got no sense, poor things.”
He was spent and trembling when he arrived at his own home, and sank
down in his chair by the hearth.
“There, missis, put away my gun; I’ll not want it no more; I be done
wi’ it--I be done wi’ everythin’. I could wish that there stroke had
a-carried I off. I bain’t no use i’ this world as I can see. It do seem
a strange thing as the Lard ’ll leave ye to live on and on when folks
be tired o’ ye, and be a-wishin’ of ye under the sod. I wish I were i’
my long home--aye, that I do.”
Mrs. Guppy was at first alarmed, then affected, and finally burst into
tears.
“I’m sure I never did hear a man go on the same as you do, Jan; there,
I be all of a tremble. What’s amiss? What’s come to ye? What’s it all
about?”
“Gi’ I my pipe,” said John; “there’s things a woman can’t understand.”
Not another word could she extract from him till dinner-time, when she
summoned him to table.
He gazed at the food sourly. “All charity!” he murmured. “Charity,
woman. I be eatin’ what I haven’t earned. I may jist so well go to the
Union.”
A few days later the Squire’s dogcart drew up at the little gate, and
the Squire himself descended therefrom, carrying a couple of rabbits
which he extracted from under the seat.
“Good-day, John; good-day, Mrs. Guppy. Well, John, how are you?
Cheering up a bit, I hope.”
John shook his head slowly.
“I’ve brought you a couple of rabbits,” continued the Squire. “It never
struck me till the other day how you must miss them. I’ll send you some
every week. There are enough, Heaven knows.”
“I don’t want no rabbits,” growled Guppy; “I bain’t a-goin’ to eat of
’em.”
“John!” gasped his wife, hardly believing her ears.
“Put ’em back i’ the cart, woman,” he continued; “I bain’t a-goin’ to
eat no rabbits what they chaps up yonder have a-ketched.”
“Why, John,” said the Squire, sitting down beside him, “can’t you get
over it? I thought you would be all right by this time.”
“I bain’t all right, Squire, and I can’t get over it. Nay, look at it
which way I will, I can’t. Here be I, John Guppy, a bit scram and a bit
wambly; but so sound i’ the head as ever I was, whatever my legs mid
be. Here be I, anxious for to do my dooty, and able for to do my dooty,
and you won’t let I do it. You do give me money what I haven’t earned;
you do want I to sit here idle when I’m as ready for a day’s work as
any o’ they new-fangled chaps what you’ve a-set up yonder i’ my place.”
The Squire sighed and looked hopelessly at Mrs. Guppy, who stood with
her hands folded limply at her waist, and a most dolorous expression
on her countenance, shaking her head emphatically at every pause in
her husband’s speech. After a few further attempts at consolation, the
Squire rose and went to the door, followed by his hostess.
“What is to be done, Mrs. Guppy?” he inquired, when they were out of
earshot. “I positively can’t have him back up there--he isn’t fit for
it; and he has been setting all the other men by the ears.”
“He’s fair breakin’ ’is ’eart,” murmured Mrs. Guppy dolefully. “He
thinks he bain’t o’ no use--and he bain’t--and it’s killin’ ’im. If he
could even fancy he was doing summat and ockipy hisself in any way he’d
be a different man. ’Tis the thought as nobody wants en what do cut en
so.”
The Squire cogitated, and then a sudden light broke over his face.
“I have it,” he cried. “I have thought of a job for the old fellow!
We’ll put him to rights yet, Mrs. Guppy--see if we don’t!”
He re-entered the cottage, and approached the inglenook where John
still sat, leaning forward, and slowly rubbing the knees of his
corduroys.
“John,” he said, “I was almost forgetting a most important thing I
wanted to say to you. Sanders and Jim have got their hands pretty full
up there, as you know.”
“I d’ ’low they have,” agreed Guppy; “they’re like to have ’em too
full, seein’ as they don’t know how to set about their work nohow.”
“Yes, yes. Well, Sanders is very busy all day and Jim has a wide beat.
Neither of them ever find time to go near the river. It’s my private
belief, John, that that river is dreadfully poached. We’ve next to no
wild duck, you know.”
“We never did have none, sir,” interrupted Guppy.
“Just what I say,” agreed his master; “we never had the chance. You had
_your_ hands pretty full when you were head-keeper, hadn’t you?”
“I weren’t one what ’ud ever ha’ let ’em get empty,” growled Guppy.
“Well, I was thinking, now that you haven’t very much to do, you might
undertake the control of those meadows down there by the river, if you
feel up to it, and it’s not asking too much of you.”
“Oh! I could do it,” returned John, in a mollified tone; “I could do it
right enough if I was let.”
“I should be very much obliged to you,” resumed the Squire, “very
much obliged indeed. All that part of the property has got shamefully
neglected. I imagine the people think they’ve got a right-of-way.”
“Very like they do,” agreed John, whose countenance was gradually
clearing; “but I can soon show ’em whether they have or not.”
“Just so. Well, will you undertake to look after that part of the
estate for me? It will be a great relief to my mind. Don’t overtire
yourself, you know; but any day that you are feeling pretty fit you
might stroll round, and just keep a sharp look-out.”
“’E-es, I could do that,” said John, after considering for a moment; “I
could do it all right, Squire. I will look into the matter.”
“That’s right. Thank you very much, John. I shall feel quite satisfied
about it now.”
He nodded, and went away, John looking after him with a satisfied
expression.
“I never did mind obligin’ the Squire,” he remarked to his wife, “and
I’m glad to do en a bit of a good turn i’ my ancient years. ’Tis true
what he do say, that there bit down by the river have a-been fearful
neglected. I myself could never make time to go down there, and ’t
ain’t very likely as these here chaps ’ull go out of their way to look
round. I’ll put it to rights, though.”
“I’m sure it’s very good o’ you, John,” said Mrs. Guppy, who had
listened to the foregoing colloquy with a somewhat mystified air. “I
shouldn’t ha’ thought that there was anything worth lookin’ arter down
there. Why, the town boys do bathe there reg’lar i’ the summer.”
“They’ll not bathe there any more,” returned her lord resolutely. “I’ll
teach Mr. Sanders a lesson--I’ll larn ’em how to see arter a place as
it did ought to be looked arter! Reach me down that gun, woman!”
He sallied forth that very hour, drawing up his little, bent form to
as close an approach to straightness as he could manage.
His first care on reaching his destination was to examine the gates
that gave access to this stretch of meadow-land. He pursed his nether
lip and shook his head disapprovingly at their shaky condition, making
a mental resolution to repair them at the earliest opportunity, and
moreover to see that they were provided with padlocks. After diligently
hunting in the neighbouring wood, he discovered a half-defaced
board, which had at one time borne the legend, “Trespassers will be
prosecuted,” and, with a sigh of satisfaction, placed it in a more
prominent position.
His joy was extreme when, late in the afternoon, he discovered an
honest labouring man in the act of climbing a gate, which, owing to the
rickety condition of its hinges, could not be opened without risk of
falling flat upon the ground.
“Where be goin’ to?” inquired John, sternly.
“Why, jist home-along,” returned the other, with a good-humoured smile;
“’tis a bit of a short cut this way.”
“There’s to be no more short cuts here,” cried John, with a certain
almost malignant triumph. “These here meadows belongs to Squire. They’m
his private property.”
The man’s jaw dropped. “That’ll be summat noo,” he said doubtfully, but
still good-humouredly.
“’Tis noo times all round,” replied Guppy, with an odd contraction of
the face, “but these ’ere reg’lations ’ull be carried out strict. You
jist turn about, my bwoy.”
“I be three parts there now,” protested the other.
“Then you’ll have to step back three parts, that’s all,” responded
Guppy unmoved.
The man scratched his head, stared, and finally recrossed the gate, and
walked away, grumbling to himself, Guppy looking after him with a sense
of well-nigh forgotten dignity. He had vindicated the majesty of the
law.
All hitherto unconscious trespassers had thenceforth a bad time of it
under the reign of the new river-keeper. Would-be bathers, small boys
on bird’s-nesting intent, tired women with market-baskets, labourers on
their way to and from their daily work, were ruthlessly turned back by
old Guppy, whose magisterial air carried conviction with it. The other
keepers, laughing perhaps in their sleeves, let him pursue his tactics
unmolested, and the Squire was careful to congratulate him from time
to time on the success of his labours. John Guppy’s greatest triumph
was, perhaps, when he actually did discover a wild duck’s nest amid
the sedges of the now tranquil river. How tenderly he watched over it;
how proudly he noted the little brood of downy ducklings when they
first paddled from one group of reeds to another in the wake of their
mother; with what delight he imparted his discovery to the Squire, and
with what supreme joy did he invite him to set about the destruction of
these precious charges when they were sufficiently grown! Almost equal
rapture was his when, having struggled along the avenue with a brace of
ducks dangling from each hand, he encountered the head-keeper in the
shrubbery.
“Those are fine ones,” remarked Sanders, good-naturedly; he was a
good-hearted fellow in the main, and did not grudge the old man his
small successes.
“I should think they was,” returned Guppy, swelling with pride. “They
be uncommon fine uns, Maister Sanders; they be the only wild duck what
was ever seen on this here property. I be glad to hear,” he added,
condescendingly, “as you’ve done pretty well wi’ the pheasants, too.
Squire was a-tellin’ me about the good season ye did have.”
“Yes,” rejoined the keeper, with a twinkle in his eye; “they didn’t
turn out so bad, you see, Mr. Guppy.”
“I be very glad on’t, I’m sure,” said John, still condescendingly; “of
course it be easy to rear a good few pheasants if you do go in for
buyin’ eggs; it bain’t so very easy to get wild duck to take to a place
where they never did come afore.”
“No, to be sure,” agreed Sanders affably. “It was a wonderful piece of
luck, that was.”
“It wasn’t luck, Maister Sanders,” said John impressively, “it was
knowledge.”
And he walked on, with conscious pride in every line of face and
figure, leaving his successor chuckling.
THE WORM THAT TURNED.
“Where be goin’, William?”
“Oh, I be jest steppin’ up to the Pure Drop.”
And William Faithfull brought back his abstracted gaze from the
horizon, where it habitually rested when it was not required for
practical purposes in the exercise of his profession, and fixed itself
somewhat shamefacedly on his interlocutor.
He was a tall, loose-limbed man, of about forty, with an expression
of countenance chronically dismal, except at such times when he was
employed in some particularly genial task, such as making a coffin,
or repairing the church trestles, when his neighbours averred that he
became quite lively, and even whistled as he worked.
His crony now returned his glance with a jocular one, and slapped his
thigh ecstatically.
“Well, I never seed such a chap! Faithfull by name and faithful by
natur’--ah, sure you are. Why, ’tis nigh upon twelve year, bain’t it,
since ye started coortin’ Martha Jesty?”
“Somewhere about that,” replied William; and his countenance, already
ruddy in the sunset glow, assumed a still deeper tint.
“Well, I never!” returned the other with a shout of laughter. “She be
gettin’ on pretty well, now--I d’ ’low she’ll be a staid woman by the
time you wed her.”
William shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
“Well,” he said, after a pause, “I d’ ’low she be worth waitin’ for.
She be wonderful clever, Martha be--an’ that sprack! No, I don’t regret
it--not at all I don’t.”
“Bain’t the wold man anyways comin’ round?” inquired his friend with
his head on one side.
“No,” returned Faithfull gloomily. “Not at all. But he be so terr’ble
punished, poor wold chap, one can’t expect rayson off he.”
“’Tis the rheumatics, bain’t it?” was the next query in a commiserating
tone.
“’Tis the sky-attics,” replied the carpenter, not without a certain
pride in his pseudo-father-in-law’s distinguished ailment. “There, he
be so scraggled as anything--all doubled up by times. Martha do say he
goes twisty-like same as a eel, when it do take en real bad.”
“Lard, now!” ejaculated the other.
“’E-es,” said William, shaking his head--“that’s how it do take en.
So, as Martha do say, ye can’t expect the onpossible. ‘If my father,’
says she, ‘be so scram-like in his out’ard man, how can ye look for en
to act straight-forrard? He’ve a-set his mind again’ the notion of us
gettin’ wed, so we must just wait till he be underground. And then,’
says she, ‘I’ll not keep ’ee waitin’ a minute longer.’”
“Well, that’s handsome,” agreed the friend, “but I’m afeard, William,
that there complaint bain’t like to carry en off very soon--no, not so
very soon. Nay, I’ve a-knowed folks keep on a-livin’ in a way that ’ud
surprise ye, as was fair bent in two wi’ pains in all their j’ints. I
reckon you’ll very like go first yerself, William.”
After a pause of deep depression the carpenter’s face lighted up.
“The sky-attics, d’ye see, Tom,” he explained condescendingly--“the
sky-attics is a new-fayshioned ailment, an’ a deal dangerouser nor the
wold rheumatiz an’ newralgy and sich. Why, when I did mention to Parson
t’other day about wold Jesty’s sky-attics he did laugh. ‘Sky-attics,’
says he. ‘Then he’ll be like to go up’ards afore very long,’ says he.
Well, so long, Tom; I must be steppin’ up-along now.”
“Ye’ll find the wold fellow a bit tilty,” remarked Tom; “whether
them there ’attics was troublin’ en or not I can’t say, but he was
a-shoutin’ an’ a bally-raggin’ o’ that poor faymale while I was
drinkin’ my drap o’ beer jist now, till I wonder she wasn’t dathered.”
William’s recent elation disappeared; he vouchsafed no comment on the
unwelcome news, however, but with a sidelong nod at his crony, shambled
away, swinging his long limbs as though every joint of them was loose.
The Pure Drop was situated a stone’s throw from the village, and stood
at the junction of four cross-roads; a most excellent position, which
enabled it to waylay, as it were, not only the inhabitants of the
hamlet as they set forth for or returned from their day’s vocations,
but to capture most of the travellers who journeyed that way--cyclists
galore, wagoners, dusty pedestrians. It must be owned that the aspect
of the little place was inviting enough to tempt even a teetotaller;
the low red-brick house overgrown with creepers, the mullioned windows
winking brightly in the sun in summer, and in winter letting streams of
ruddy firelight flow forth. It was so clean and airy, so cosy and trim,
that those who went thither for the first time vowed they would return
again, and old customers nodded knowingly, and declared that the place
had not its like in the country. The liquor was good, while prudent
folk who called for tea might have it, and a crusty home-baked loaf
into the bargain, and a roll of fresh butter of Martha’s making.
Then Martha herself--though she was no longer in the first bloom of
youth, she was a tidy, clean-skinned, pleasant-looking little body;
and if her eye was sharp and her tongue ready, she was none the less
popular on these accounts; every one got hauled over the coals from
time to time, and when it was not your turn it was pleasant enough to
see other folks made to look foolish.
Miss Jesty was standing in the open doorway when her lover came up, and
immediately made a warning sign to him.
“Ye mustn’t come in to-night, William. Father--there! he’s something
awful this evenin’, an’ he’ve a-been on the look-out for ye, so to
speak, ever since dinner-time. Whenever the door do go, ‘There,’ he’ll
cry, ‘is that that good-for-nothin’ William Faithfull?’ Or if there’s a
knock, ‘’Tis that sammy o’ thine, for sure,’ he’ll say.”
“Oh, an’ does he?” returned poor William, with a deeper expression of
melancholy.
Martha nodded portentously.
“Ye mustn’t come in to-day,” she said with decision; “no, not even
for a minute. Father, he did say to I jist now, as whatever happened
he wouldn’t have no cwortin’ here. ‘If ye can have the heart to think
about cwortin’ when I’m so bad as I be,’ says he, ‘I’ll take an’ alter
my will.’ So there’s nothin’ for it but for you to turn about an’ go
home again.”
“I weren’t so much thinkin’ o’ cwortin’ this evenin’, Martha,” said the
swain very meekly. “I wer’ lookin’ for a drap o’ beer--I be terr’ble
dry.”
Martha hesitated for a moment, and in this interval a kind of bellow
sounded from the interior of the house.
“That’s him,” she cried in terror. “No, William, ye can’t have no beer
to-night. I dursen’t stay another minute. Go home-along, do, an’ if ye
be so thirsty as that comes to, can’t ye get a bottle o’ ‘pop’ off Mrs.
Andrews?”
William gazed at her blankly, but before he could protest his charmer
had disappeared within the house, and he was forced very dolefully to
retrace his steps. He did indeed purchase the bottle of “pop,” but
found it by no means exhilarating; in fact, as he laid his head on the
pillow that night he was tempted to think he might pay too high a price
even for the hope of becoming one day Martha’s husband.
When on the following Sunday evening, however, he walked in the shady
lane hand-in-hand with his sweetheart, he forgot how irksome was this
time of trial, and listened with the melancholy satisfaction which
was his nearest approach to cheerfulness (on ordinary occasions) to
the glowing picture with which she depicted the reward earned by his
constancy.
“I do r’alely think as poor father be a-breakin’ up,” she remarked
consolingly. “When winter comes I reckon he’ll not be able to hold
out. Well,” she added piously, “’tis what comes to us all, soon or
late, an’ I’m sure he be well prepared, for I don’t think he’ve a-had
a day’s health this twenty year. ’Twill be a mercy when he do go, poor
wold man. An’ the winter ’ud be a very nice time for us to get married,
William; ’twould suit us very well, wouldn’t it?”
“Ah, sure,” said William, with a slow smile.
“We shouldn’t be so busy then, d’ye see,” resumed Martha. “The
harvestin’ ’ud be done an’ the potato-gettin’; an’ there wouldn’t be so
many by-cyclists--there’s not so much goin’ backwards an’ forrards in
winter-time. We shouldn’t be at much loss if we was to take a holiday.”
“Ah,” said William, with mournful rapture, “you was thinkin’ of us
takin’ a holiday, was ye, Martha?”
“I thought we mid go to London,” cried Miss Jesty triumphantly. “I have
always longed to go to London an’ see the sights there, an’ go to the
theayters. There! Susan Inkpen as wed Miller Dewey did go up to London
for her honeymoon.”
“For her what?” interrupted Faithfull.
“For her honeymoon--her weddin’ journey--the jaunt what folks do take
when they gets wed.”
“Oh, to be sure,” said the carpenter. “An’ you an’ me be to go to
London for our honeymoon, be we?”
“’E-es,” cried Martha with a chuckle. “We’ll have a rale week’s
pleasurin’, you an’ me. If ’tis winter-time--as most like ’twill be, on
account o’ poor father’s sky-attics, you know--the pantomines ’ull be
goin’ on. Susan Dewey did go, an’ she said they was the wonderfullest
things, wi’ fairies an’ mermaids, an’ sich-like, an’ Clown an’
Pantaloon a-knockin’ of each other about. There, she an’ her husband
did fair split their sides wi’ laughin’.”
William appeared to survey this prospect stolidly, and made no comment,
and Miss Jesty continued eagerly:--
“Then there’d be the Waxworks, an’ the Zoo, where all the wild beasts
is kept; an’ we’d go an’ see the Tower o’ London, where all the king’s
jools an’ suits of armour is set out, an’ we’d go to Westminster
Abbey----”
“What’s that?” inquired Mr. Faithfull dubiously.
Martha was taken aback for a moment.
“Susan went to see it,” said she hesitatingly, “so I s’pose ’tis worth
lookin’ at. ’Tis a wold ancient church.”
“A wold church?” repeated William, shaking his head. “I d’ ’low
I shouldn’t care so much to see that. I’d sooner wait till ’twas
done-up fresh-like. I never cared at all for goin’ into our church
till the Rector had it cleaned and painted-up so good as new. I
think ’t ’ud be a foolish kind o’ thing to go trapesin’ off to
yon--what-d’-ye-call-it--Abbey till they get it repaired.”
“Maybe not,” agreed Martha cheerfully; “there’s plenty more to be seen
wi’out that. Well, I hope the Lord ’ull spare father so long as it be
good for en, poor dear man, but if he was to be took, I hope as it may
be in the winter, William.”
William, who had been trailing beside her arm-in-crook, suddenly
stopped short and faced her with a determined air.
“Whether he do go in winter or whether he do go in summer, Martha,”
said he, “you an’ me must be called home so soon as he be laid
underground, mind that.”
And having come to the turn in the lane where they usually parted,
William went his way, leaving Martha somewhat in doubt whether to be
pleased at this proof of ardour or indignant at the sudden display of
spirit.
A wilful woman is proverbially supposed to have her way, yet it
sometimes happens that, even when she proposes, Heaven disposes events
otherwise than she would have had them. Thus, though Martha Jesty had
made arrangements for her father to depart this life in the winter--a
time when business should be conveniently slack--that worthy old
gentleman was removed from this earthly sphere in the very height of
summer, when the harvest was in full swing, and more than an ordinary
number of tourists halted daily for refreshment at the Pure Drop.
Tidings of this melancholy event were imparted to William by a group
who entered his yard on the morning of the occurrence, each eager
to be the first to tell the news. That old Mr. Jesty was gone was
an incontrovertible fact, but none of the newsmongers could agree
as to the precise ailment which had carried him off. He had had a
bit of a cold for a day or two, but while some said it had turned to
“browntitus,” others were sure it was “poomonia,” and one shrill-voiced
old lady delivered it as her opinion that nothing short of an
“apple-complex” could have carried him off that sudden.
Beyond sundry “ohs” and “ahs” and grunts indicative of surprise
and sympathy, William made no remark, though when one facetious
bystander observed that it would be his turn next--a somewhat obscure
phrase, which might be interpreted in a variety of ways--he grinned
appreciatively.
No sooner had the gossips departed, however, than he went indoors and
assumed his coat, and immediately betook himself, not to the Pure Drop,
but to the Rectory.
“The Reverend,” as his parishioners frequently called him, was sitting
in his study, tranquilly reading his _Times_, when William Faithfull
was ushered in.
“You’ll have heard the noos, sir,” he began abruptly; “old Abel Jesty
up to the Pure Drop, he’s gone at last.”
“Oh!” said the Rector, looking rather startled; “that’s sudden, isn’t
it?”
“’E-es,” said William, with a wooden face; “sudden but not unpre-pared.
Martha has been a-lookin’ for en to go this ten year.”
“Oh!” said the Rector again, this time a little uncertainly.
“’E-es,” resumed William; “I thought I’d call an’ tell ye, so as ye
need lose no time in settling things.”
“About the funeral, I suppose you mean?” put in the clergyman as he
paused.
“No,” said William, who was gazing not only over the Rector’s head,
but apparently through the wall at some distant sky-line; “about the
weddin’--mine an’ Martha’s. Ye mid call us over on Sunday.”
“Really, William, I think that is too sudden,” said the Rector; “why,
the poor old man won’t have been dead a week!”
“He be so dead as ever he’ll be,” returned William, still gazing
impenetrably at that far point in an imaginary horizon. “Martha an’ I
have a-made it up years ago, an’ settled as she’d not keep me waitin’
no longer after her father was took. I’ll thank ye to call us home,
sir.”
And with that he scraped a leg and pulled his forelock and withdrew,
leaving the Rector, half-scandalised, half-amused, murmuring to himself
as the door closed something about “funeral baked-meats,” which William
set down as a “bit o’ voolishness”.
He found Martha plunged in the most praiseworthy grief, thereby much
edifying the neighbours who had gathered together to condole with
her; but William, who could only see the other aspect of the affair,
immediately beckoned her on one side and informed her of the step he
had taken.
“Lard!” cried she, genuinely taken aback, “whatever made ye do that?
Why, father ’ull only be buried o’ Thursday. You shouldn’t ha’ done it
wi’out axin’ me. ’Tis too sudden. The folks ’ull say we’ve no decency.”
“Let ’em say what they like,” returned William firmly. “I’ll keep to my
’greement, an’ I expect you to do the same. ’Twas drawed out ten year
ago an’ more. I’ve stuck to my word, an’ you must stick to your’n.”
“’Twill be a very onconvenient time,” said Martha reflectively.
“Three-week come Monday--the middle of August that’ll be, jist when we
do take more money nor any other month in the year.”
William cracked his finger joints one after another with great
decision, but made no verbal reply.
“There, I’ve a-been lookin’ forward to our honeymoon all these years,”
complained Martha, fresh tears rushing to her eyes; “it’ll be a shame,
I declare, if we have to give it up! I’ve never took a holiday, no, not
since mother died. I don’t see how we can get away then, William.”
“I don’t care so much about gettin’ away,” said Faithfull resolutely.
“’Tis the weddin’ I do want. I’ll not have no shilly-shally. I’ve
a-told ye hundreds of times as I wouldn’t wait a day longer nor I could
help--an’ I won’t wait. You’d best make up your mind to it.”
“Why, whatever’s come to ye?” cried Martha, really angry. “’Tis
downright indecent to go upsettin’ me like this in the midst o’ my
trouble. ’Tisn’t for you to be namin’ the day either. Jist you keep a
civil tongue in your head, William, an’ have a bit o’ patience--maybe
about Michaelmas----”
“Michaelmas!” ejaculated the carpenter, catching up his hat and fixing
it firmly on his head. “I’ll tell you summat, Martha--I’m goin’ to get
married o’ Monday three-week, whatever you mid be. If ye can’t make
up your mind to it there’s them as will. I’ll go warrant my cousin
Sabina, over to Sturminster, ’ud have me if I was to ax her. Her an’
me was always very thick. Gully, that’s her husband, left her very
comfortable, an’ she has but the one little maid.”
Martha thereupon came round in a twinkling, and flinging herself into
his arms, promised to agree to everything he wished. A tender scene
ensued, at the end of which William suggested that he had better go
upstairs to measure the poor old man for his coffin.
When he came down again he found Martha in the midst of her cronies, to
whom she had imparted, with a kind of regretful elation, the extreme
pressure which William had brought to bear upon her with regard to
their approaching nuptials, all her hearers being much impressed and
edified by the recital.
She turned to her lover as he was about to leave the house:--
“Ye’ll not be chargin’ me nothin’, I shouldn’t think,” she remarked
with mournful archness.
William, who had not hitherto considered the matter, hesitated for a
moment, and then observed handsomely:--
“Nothin’ but the price of the wood, my dear. You shall have the labour
free.”
“Lard bless the man!” cried she, with some irritation. “I believe he’s
goin’ to make out a bill for it. Why, don’t ye see, William, if we’re
to be man an’ wife in three-week, ’twill be but takin’ the money out o’
one pocket to put it in the other?”
“And that’s true,” agreed the friends in chorus.
After a pause, during which the carpenter had thoroughly mastered the
situation, he turned to his intended, and, with a sudden burst of
generosity, informed her that he would make her a present of the whole
thing.
“I haven’t gied you so very much afore now,” said he, “but I’ll make
you a present of this, my dear, an’ welcome.”
And he walked away, while Martha, looking after him through her tears,
observed that there wasn’t a better-natured man in the whole of
England.
William, indeed, was in such good humour at the approaching fruition of
his hopes that Martha found him more amenable than ever to her views.
Therefore, when, a day or two after the funeral, she encountered him
on his way to the tailor’s, where he intended, as he informed her, to
order his wedding-suit, she was emboldened to lay her hand on his arm
and beseech him tearfully to be married, like her, in “deep”.
“’Twill show proper feelin’,” said she. “All the neighbours ’ull know
that you are showin’ respect to poor father; an’ since ye’ll be jist
comin’ into the family, ’twill be but decent as you should wear black
for him what’s gone.”
William, who had been dreaming of a certain imposing stripe which
had dazzled him, days before, in the tailor’s window, among the pile
labelled “Elegant Trouserings,” now dismissed with a sigh the alluring
vision, and promised to appear in mourning as requested.
But when later on Martha unfolded to him another plan, he gave in his
adherence to it with some reluctance. It was no less a proposition than
that they should take their honeymoon by turns.
“You see,” she explained, “it just falls out that the weddin’s the very
week o’ the Branston show--the house ’ull be full from morn till night
for three days or more; an’ we turn over enough that week to pay the
year’s rent, very near. ’Twouldn’t do for us both to be away.”
William gazed at her with a more rueful face than she had ever yet
beheld in him.
“Dear now! don’t you take on,” urged Martha. “I thought, d’ye see, I’d
just pop up to London for a few days by myself, an’ you can stop an’
mind the house, an’ maybe some time in the winter we mid both on us
take a few days together somewhere.”
William gazed at her reproachfully.
“Ye didn’t ought to want to go a-pleasurin’ wi’out I,” said he.
“No more I would, my dear,” returned his future better-half, “if it
could be helped. But ’twas yourself as named the day, an’ if ye won’t
have it put off----”
The carpenter, with a vigorous shake of the head, intimated that he
certainly would not have it put off.
“Well, then,” summed up Martha triumphantly, “ye must agree to let me
have a bit o’ honeymoon. ’Tis what every bride expects, an’ ’tis the
one thought what have kept my heart up all these years. I’ve always
promised myself this holiday afore I settled down to wedded life.”
William stared at her gloomily, but made no further opposition; and she
informed him in a cheerful tone that he need not fear her staying away
too long.
“We’ll have the weddin’ o’ Monday mornin’,” said she, “quite
private-like. The neighbours all know we can’t have a great set-out
here, on account o’ poor father. An’ you can carry my bag to the
station directly we leave church, an’ I’ll be back again Saturday
night, so as we can go to church together Sunday mornin’. Will that do
ye?”
“’Twill have to do me, I s’pose,” returned William, still with profound
melancholy.
“’Tis by your own wish, ye know,” said the bride; “if you hadn’t held
out for us to be married all in such a hurry, I’m sure I should have
been glad for us to take our honeymoon together, my dear. But ye can’t
have everythin’ in this world.”
“No,” agreed Faithfull, with a groan; “no, that ye can’t. ’Twould ha’
been more nat’ral-like to go on our honeymoon together; but what must
be, must be.”
On the Monday morning the much-discussed wedding took place; bride and
bridegroom were alike clad in new and glossy black, Martha’s blushing
countenance being scarcely visible beneath her crape “fall”.
The villagers were all much impressed; there is nothing indeed that the
rustic mind so thoroughly appreciates as the panoply of woe, and to
find this mourning ceremonial united with marriage pomp was felt to be
a rare privilege, and, as such, productive of sincere admiration.
When the wedded pair left church, their friends and neighbours hastened
to offer congratulations, attuned to a becoming note of dismalness,
which intimated that condolence lay behind; and it was a rude shock
for all when William was suddenly hailed in a tone of most discordant
cheerfulness. A tall, black-eyed woman had suddenly rushed forward and
seized him by the hand.
“There, now! So I wasn’t in time after all! I made sure I’d get here
soon enough to see the weddin’. I did always say I’d come to your
weddin’, didn’t I, William? I thought it very unkind of ye not to ax
me.”
“’Twas very private-like, d’ye see, Sabina,” said William, who had been
energetically pumping her hand up and down. “Martha, here--I mean Miss
Jesty, no, I mean Mrs. Faithfull--she did want it private, along of her
father being dead.”
“Have ye been a-buryin’ of en to-day?” interrupted the newcomer with an
awe-struck glance at his sable garb. “No, no--of course not. But why
did ye go for to get married in deep?”
“My ’usband,” said Martha repressively, “thought it but right to show
respect to them that’s gone, Mrs. Gully--I think ye said your cousin’s
name was Gully, William; I s’pose this is your cousin?”
“’E-es, to be sure,” agreed the owner of that name, cheerfully.
“Half-cousin, if ye like it better--our mothers was two brothers’
daughters.”
“Indeed,” said Martha stiffly. “I must wish ’ee good-day now, for
William an’ me be in a hurry to catch train.”
Mrs. Gully’s jaw dropped, but the carpenter, after hastily explaining
that they weren’t having any party along of the mourning, invited her
to come home and take a bite o’ summat with him and his wife before
they went to the station.
A frown from Martha intimated that she considered this hospitality
ill-timed, but William stuck to his point, and they all three turned
their steps together towards the Pure Drop.
“I think I’ll hurry on an’ change my dress,” remarked Martha, after
stalking on for some moments in silence.
She was not going to travel in her best black and get the crape all
messed about with dust.
“Don’t mind me, William, my dear,” said Sabina, when the bride had left
them. “If you’re wanting to change your deep, ye’d best hurry on, too,
maybe.”
“I’ve no need to change my suit,” returned William sorrowfully. “I
bain’t a-goin’ on the honeymoon.”
“What!” cried the widow, in astonishment. “She’s never goin’ to leave
ye on your weddin’ day?”
“She be,” said Mr. Faithfull slowly. “It do seem a bit hard, but we
couldn’t both on us leave the house, an’ she haven’t a-had a holiday
for twenty year. Ye see, it fell out this way--”
And he proceeded to explain the circumstances, already related, on
which Mrs. Gully animadverted with much warmth.
They were still discussing the matter when Martha rejoined them in the
private room of the Pure Drop, where a slight refection had been set
forth.
This was partaken of hastily, and for the most part in silence, and at
its conclusion Mrs. Faithfull jumped up and took a ceremonious farewell
of her new cousin. William shouldered his wife’s bag and set forth
beside her. Martha beguiled the walk to the station by a variety of
injunctions, all of which the new landlord of the Pure Drop promised to
heed and obey. It was not until she had actually taken her seat in the
railway carriage that she found time for sentiment, and then, embracing
her husband, she expressed the affectionate hope that he would not be
lonely during her absence.
William clambered out of the compartment and carefully closed the door
before he answered:--
“Well, I shan’t be altogether that lonely. Sabina--she be a-comin’ to
keep I company till ye come back.”
“Never!” cried Mrs. Faithfull, thrusting a scared face out of the
window. “You don’t mean to say ye took on yerself to ax her to stop in
my house?”
The whistle sounded at this juncture, but William walked beside the
train as it slowly moved off.
“I didn’t ax her. ’Twas she herself as did say, when she heerd you
were a-goin’ for to leave I all by mysel’, says she, ‘I’ll tell ’ee
what, Will’um; I’ll take a holiday, too, an’----’” A loud and prolonged
shriek from the engine drowned the remainder of the sentence, and the
train steamed away, the last sign of the new-made bride being the
agitating waving of a protesting hand from the carriage window.
The carpenter was smoking a ruminative pipe, about four o’clock on that
same afternoon, in the doorway of the snug little hostelry of which he
now found himself master, when he was suddenly hailed by a distracted
voice from the road.
“William! for the Lard’s sake, William, do ’ee come and ketch hold of
this here bag!”
William removed his pipe, stared, and then wedging the stem firmly in
the corner of his mouth, rushed down the path and up the roadway.
“Bless me, Martha, be ye comed back again? Tired o’ London a’ready?”
“No, my dear, I didn’t ever get so far as London,” cried Martha,
thrusting the bag into his hand, and throwing herself in a heated
and exhausted condition upon his neck. “I didn’t go no further than
Templecombe. There, I’d no sooner started nor I did feel all to once
that I couldn’t a-bear to leave ’ee. I fair busted out a-cryin’ in the
train.”
“Did ye?” said Faithfull, much gratified.
“I did indeed,” resumed his wife. “‘Oh,’ says I, ‘how could I ever
treat en so unfair,’ says I, ‘arter all them years as him an’ me was
a-walkin’? Oh,’ says I, ‘when I think of his melancholy face, an’
this his weddin’ day an’ all.’ So I nips out at Templecombe, an’
gets another ticket, an’ pops into the train as were just startin’
Branston-way--an’ here I be.”
“Well, an’ I be pure glad to see ye,” cried William heartily.
They had by this time reached the house, and Mrs. Faithfull, still
breathless with fatigue and agitation, stared anxiously about.
“Where is she?” she inquired in a whisper.
“Who?” said William, setting down the bag.
“Why, your Cousin Sabina!”
“Oh, her!” said William, with something like a twinkle in his usually
lack-lustre eye; “she be gone home-along to fetch her things an’ lock
up her house. She says she’ll come back to-morrow mornin’ first thing.”
“Well, but we don’t want her now, do we?” cried Martha, trembling
with eagerness. “I was thinkin’ maybe after all, ye’d fancy a bit of
a holiday, William. Ye might drop her a bit of a line an’ say ye was
goin’ to take the first honeymoon yerself. I fancy ye’d like London
very well, William. You _should_ have the first turn, by right, the man
bein’ master; an’ I mid be able to run up for a couple o’ days at the
end o’ the week. Here’s my ticket, d’ye see; you could catch the last
train, you know, an’ then, as I tell ’ee, I’d come an’ j’ine ye.”
“That won’t do,” said William firmly; “nay, ’twon’t do.”
“Why not?” gasped Martha.
“Ye may pop that ticket in the fire,” said William, speaking
slowly, and suffering his countenance to relax gradually.
“’Tain’t no manner of use to I. I--be--a-goin’--for to stop--an’
keep--my--honeymoon--here--along of ’ee.”
OLF AND THE LITTLE MAID.
Olf drove the cows up from their pasture by the river, whistling all
the way as was his wont. It was not a particularly tuneful whistle,
for he had no ear for music; nevertheless, blending as it did with the
morning ecstasies of a particularly early lark, with the chirp of the
newly awakened nestlings in the rambling hedges, with the drone of the
first bee, with the thousand and one other sounds of the summer dawn,
these vacillating notes added something to the general harmony. As
his troop of cows plodded tranquilly in front of him, they made green
tracks in the dewy sheen of the fields, the silvery uniformity of which
had hitherto been unbroken save for the print of Olf’s own footsteps,
large and far apart, where he had stridden forth half an hour before to
gather together his charges.
Arrived at the open gate, the cows passed solemnly through, crossed
the road and turned up the narrow lane which led to Farmer Inkpen’s
premises, made their way to the shed at the farther end and took
possession each of her own stall.
The farmer had just emerged from the house, and was in the act of tying
the strings of his white “pinner”; his wife and daughter, each carrying
the necessary three-legged stool, were walking slowly towards the scene
of their morning labours. Another female form was already ensconced on
a similar stool at the very farthest end of the shed, and edged itself
a little sideways as the leading cow stepped past it to her accustomed
place. In a few minutes the whole herd had ranged itself, and the
rhythmical splash of milk falling into the pails was soon heard.
According to custom, Olf’s next proceeding should have been to “sarve”
the pigs, but instead of directing his steps towards the adjacent
styes, he stood embracing one of the posts which supported the shed,
and gazing at his master with a vague smile on his habitually foolish
face.
“Well, Olf?” inquired the farmer, dropping his horny fingers from the
bow which he had just succeeded in tying in the middle of his portly
waist.
“Well, maister!”
The farmer glanced at him in amazement.
“Anything wrong?”
The smile on Olf’s face expanded into a grin. Clasping the post still
more firmly with one hand, he swung himself round it to the full length
of his arm, then swung himself back again and became suddenly serious.
“Nay, sir, nay, there’s nothin’ wrong. I thought I mid just so well
show you this ’ere.”
Down went his hand into the depths of his pocket, from which, after
producing sundry articles of no particular interest to any one but
their owner, he drew forth a piece of paper, folded small, and soiled
with much fingering. This he handed to his master, his face now
preternaturally solemn, his eyes round with an expression which might
almost be taken for one of awe.
Farmer Inkpen smoothed out this document and read it, his jaw dropping
with amazement when he had mastered its contents. He stared at Olf, who
stared back at him with palpably increasing nervousness.
“Whatever is it?” cried Mrs. Inkpen, thrusting her head round from
behind the dappled flank of her particular cow. “No bad noos, I hope.”
“Bad noos!” ejaculated her husband, recovering his wits and his voice
together, “what d’ye think? Olf there has come into a fortun’!”
“Never!” exclaimed Mrs. Inkpen, craning her neck as far as she could
round her charge, but not ceasing for a moment in her occupation. “You
don’t say so!”
“However did ye manage that, Olf?” cried Annie Inkpen. And the “spurt
spurt” of the milk into _her_ pail ceased for a moment.
“’Tis a prize drawin’,” explained her father, speaking for Olf, who was
notoriously slow with his tongue. “He’ve a-been an’ took a ticket in
one o’ them Dutch lotteries.”
“Four on ’em,” interrupted Olf, with unexpected promptitude.
“Eh?” inquired his master, turning round to look at him.
“I say I did take four on ’em!” repeated Olf. “They was a-talkin’ about
it in the town, an’ they said two tickets gave ye a better chance nor
one, an’ four was the best of all. So I did settle to take four.”
“Well, what have ye got? How much is the prize?” cried the “missus,”
now mightily excited, and feeling more at leisure to gratify her
curiosity, as the time had come for “stripping” her cow.
“A thousand pound, no less,” shouted her lord before Olf could open his
mouth. “Why, Olf’s as good as a gentleman now. Lard, I never had the
layin’ out of a thousand pound in my life. Why, ye can take a bigger
farm nor this if ye do like, an’ ye can stock it straight off wi’out
being beholden to anybody.”
Olf, who had again been swinging himself round the post, now paused to
digest this astonishing piece of information.
Mrs. Inkpen cackled as she picked up her stool and proceeded to operate
on the next of the long row.
“Why, he’ll be settin’ up so grand as you please,” she cried. “He’ll be
gettin’ married first off, I should think. Tain’t no use tryin’ to work
a farm wi’out a missus.”
At this juncture light steps were heard pattering over the
cobble-stones, and Maggie Fry, from the village in the “dip,” came up,
jug in hand, to fetch the milk for her father’s breakfast.
“What do you think?” shouted Annie, raising herself a little from her
seat in order to judge of the effect which her announcement would
produce upon Maggie, who was a crony of hers. “What do you think,
Maggie? Here’s Olfred Boyt come into a fortun’. He’ve a-been an’ won
the thousand pound prize in one of them Dutch bank drawin’s--he is a
rich man this mornin’!”
“He is,” chimed in her mother, with a crow of laughter. “I am just
tellin’ him he’ll have to look out for a wife first thing. Mr. Farmer
Boyt must have a missus to look after the grand noo property he be
a-goin’ to buy.”
“Ah, sure he will,” cried the farmer.
Olf swung himself round the post once more, and then slowly regaining
his former place, gazed thoughtfully at Annie, whose fair, curly head
was delicately outlined against the golden-red flank of her cow.
“I’d as soon have you as any one, Annie,” he remarked hesitatingly.
“Me!” cried Annie, jumping up and knocking over her stool. “Of all the
impudence! Me, Olf? Your master’s daughter?”
Her pretty face was flushed to the temples, her eyes were flashing
fire. Her mother and father burst into loud laughter, in which Maggie
joined.
“I d’ ’low he isn’t very slack once he do make up his mind,” cried the
farmer, wiping his eyes. “’Tis a bit strong, I will say, ’tis a bit
strong, Olf.”
“I’ll be a master myself now,” explained Olf, looking from one to
the other, “an’ I’d as soon have Annie as any one,” he added with
conviction.
“Well, I’d a deal sooner not have you,” ejaculated Annie, picking up
her stool, and sitting down again with a suddenness that betokened
great perturbation of mind. “I think ’tis most awful cheeky of you,
Olf, to ask me, an’ I don’t see as it is any laughing matter.”
Thereupon she fell to work again, the milk falling into her pail
in a jerky manner, which, while relieving her own feeling, was not
altogether satisfactory to her meek charge, whose horned head came
peering round as though to ascertain the cause of this unusual
disturbance.
Olf, after contemplating for a moment the resolute outline of the back
presented to him so decidedly, slowly turned his gaze upon Maggie, who
still stood by, laughing and dangling her jug.
“Will you have me, Maggie?” he inquired pleasantly.
“Dear heart alive!” ejaculated the farmer, while his wife once more
gave utterance to a shout of laughter.
It was now Maggie’s turn to flush and look disconcerted. “I’m not goin’
to put up wi’ Annie’s leavings,” she cried indignantly. “The idea! I
s’pose you reckon any maid is to be picked up for the axin’, Olfred
Boyt. You think you have nothin’ more to do nor just p’int your finger
at the first one you fancy an’ she’ll have you straight off. A pretty
notion!”
“A pretty notion indeed,” cried Annie, “and a pretty figure he’d be to
go out a-coortin’!”
“’E-es,” resumed Maggie, with ever-increasing indignation, “a pretty
figure, I d’ ’low. Tell ye what, Olf, next time you go a-coortin’ ye’d
best wash your face first.”
“Ah! ’tis true. ’Twould be a good notion,” laughed the farmer. “Ye
bain’t exactly the kind o’ figure a maid ’ud jump at.”
Olf raised a grimy hand to his sunburnt face as though to ascertain
what manner of appearance it presented. It was true he had not washed
it that morning, but there was nothing surprising in that. It would
indeed have been a manifestly sinful waste of soap and water to perform
one’s ablutions before “sarving” the pigs. In fact, according to
established custom, Olf’s toilet was accomplished at a late hour in
the afternoon when his labours were concluded. The condition of his
chin would have at once announced to any experienced observer that it
was then the middle of the week; from the appearance of his garments
he might have recently effected a change with a tolerably respectable
scarecrow. Altogether, after a moment’s reflection, Olf felt that
Maggie’s point of view was justified, and that he was not precisely
the kind of figure to go courting at such short notice. Presently he
remarked reflectively, “Ah! ’tis true, I mid ’ave washed myself a bit
afore axin’ the question. I will next time.”
Then he held out his hand to the farmer for the paper, pocketed it, and
went shambling across the yard towards the corner where the pig-bucket
stood.
Except for the clatter of the cans, and the sound of the spurting milk,
silence reigned in the shed for a moment after his departure. The
farmer stood scratching his chin meditatively, while the women-folk
appeared also lost in thought.
By-and-by Mrs. Inkpen’s voice sounded muffled from behind her cow. “A
thousand pound, mind ye, isn’t to be picked up every day.”
“It bain’t,” cried her husband.
Annie tossed her head. “He be a regular sammy,” she remarked.
“And ’tisn’t as if a maid hadn’t plenty of other chaps to walk with,”
chimed in Maggie.
From the farthest corner a little voice suddenly sounded, “He be a very
kind man, Olf be. He be a very kind man.”
“Do you think so, Kitty?” called out the farmer good-naturedly. “Hark
to the little maid! You think Olf be a kind man, do ye, Kitty?”
“Don’t talk so much and mind your work, Kitty,” said Mrs. Inkpen
severely. “Nobody axed your opinion. The idea,” she continued, in an
angry undertone to her husband, “of a little chit, the same as that,
puttin’ in her word. What does she know about Olf, or what kind of a
man he is? You will have to be lookin’ out for somebody else to take
Olf’s place, that’s what I’m thinkin’,” she remarked presently to her
husband. “’Tis a pity. Olf be a bit of a sammy, as Annie do say, but he
is a good worker and never gives no trouble. I could wish somebody else
had won the fortun’.”
The two girls were now gossiping together and interchanging various
opinions derogatory to Olf, and eulogistic of sundry other youths with
whom it would appear they “walked” by preference. By-and-by the milking
was concluded, and the farmer and his women-folk went in to breakfast,
Maggie having taken her departure some minutes before.
As the cows began to troop pasturewards again, Olf, standing by
the yard-gate, noticed a girl’s figure come darting forth from the
obscurity of the shed. It was Kitty, a workhouse-bred orphan, whom Mrs.
Inkpen had engaged as general help in house and dairy. She was a little
creature, small and slight, with a round freckled face and flaming
red hair. I say “flaming” advisedly, for it seemed to give forth as
well as to receive light. Her face, habitually pink and white, was now
extremely pink all over as she paused opposite Olf; a dimple peeped in
and out near the corner of her mouth, and her teeth flashed in a smile
that was half-shy and half-mischievous.
“Please, Olf,” said she, “if you are lookin’ for a wife, I’m willin’ to
have ye.”
Olf, who had been about to pass through the gate in the rear of his
charges, wheeled about and faced her, scratching his jaw meditatively.
“Oh, an’ are you, Kitty?” said he.
“E-es,” said Kitty, nodding emphatically.
Olf eyed her thoughtfully, and then his eyes reverted to the cows,
which, after the perverse manner of their kind, were nibbling at the
quickset hedge over the way.
“Who-ope, who-ope,” he called warningly, and then once more glanced at
Kitty. “We’ll talk about that ’ere when I come back,” he remarked, and
sauntered forth pulling the rickety gate to after him.
Kitty paused a moment with a puzzled look, and then, being a
philosophical young person, picked up her pail and betook herself
indoors.
She had finished a somewhat perfunctory breakfast, and was on her
knees scrubbing the doorstep when Olf returned. She heard his footfall
crossing the yard, but did not look round, neither did she glance up
when his shadow fell upon the sunlit flags. After the necessary pause
for adjustment of his ideas, Olf broke the silence.
“You’d be willin’ to take me?” said he.
“E-es,” returned Kitty, without raising her head.
Olf paused a moment, then--“You’d like to marry me, would ye, Kitty?”
“E-es,” said Kitty again.
“They two other maids wouldn’t so much as look at me,” pursued Olf, in
a ruminative tone. “I wonder what makes ye think you’d like to marry
me, maidie?”
Kitty sat back upon her heels and contemplated him gravely,
mechanically soaping her scrubbing-brush the while.
“You did carry my pail for I t’other day when ’twas too heavy,” she
replied presently, “and you did black my shoes on Sunday when I was
afraid I would be late for church. And besides,” she added, “I think
’twould be nice to get married, and there--I be so sick of scrubbin’
doorsteps and cleanin’ pots and pans!”
“That’s it, be it?” said Olf. “But you mid still have to clean pots and
pans after we was married, Kitty,” he added with a provident eye to the
future. “The missus, she do often do a bit of cleanin’ up, if she be
the missus.”
“That would be different,” returned Kitty. “I shouldn’t have no
objections to scourin’ my own pots and pans.”
“True, true,” agreed Olf.
Kitty dropped on all-fours again. “Well, I have told ye I’d be
willin’,” she observed in somewhat ruffled tones, “but of course ye
needn’t if ye don’t like.”
“Who says I don’t like?” returned Olf, with unexpected warmth. “I d’
’low I do like. I do think it a very good notion, my maid.”
Kitty gave a little unexpected giggle, and continued to polish her
doorstep with an immense deal of energy. Olf stood by for a moment in
silence. Then to her surprise, and it must be owned, dismay, he turned
about and walked slowly away.
If Kitty had been unwilling to turn her head a few moments before, no
earthly power would have induced her to glance round at him now; she
began to sing blithely and carelessly to herself, and made a great
clatter with her pail and scrubbing-brush. Not such a clatter, however,
but that after a moment or two she detected the sound of vigorous
pumping on the opposite side of the yard, and guessed, from certain
subsequent sounds, that Olf was washing his face.
Louder than ever sang Kitty when he presently crossed the yard again
and bent over her. But a wave of colour rushed over her downcast face,
and even dyed her little white neck. She could hear Olf chuckling, and
presently a large finger, moist from recent ablutions, touched her chin.
“Look up a minute, my maid,” said Olf.
Kitty looked up. Olf’s sunburnt face was scarlet from the result of
his late exertions, and was imperfectly dried, but it wore so frank
and kindly a smile that the little maid smiled back with absolute
confidence.
“So we be to start a-coortin’, be we?” inquired Olf pleasantly.
“I d’ ’low we be,” responded Kitty.
“How’s that for a beginnin’, then?” inquired Olf. And thereupon he
kissed her.
At this moment Mrs. Inkpen appeared on the threshold, and soon her
penetrating tones announced to the household that Olf was at last
suited with a bride. A good deal of jesting and laughing ensued--not
perhaps altogether good-natured, for in some unaccountable way both
Mrs. Inkpen and Annie felt themselves slighted by this sudden transfer
of Olf’s affection--but the newly-engaged couple submitted to their
raillery with entire good humour, and presently resumed their
interrupted vocations as though nothing particular had taken place.
Towards evening, however, Olf found a moment for a word with his little
sweetheart.
“I be a-goin’ over to take this ’ere bit of writin’ to the bank
to-morrow,” said he. “Maister says ’tis the best thing to do. He says
they’ll keep it and give I money when I do want it. I were a-thinkin’,
Kitty, I mid make ye a bit of a present--’tis all in the way o’
coortin’, bain’t it? I wonder now what you’d like?”
“Oh!” cried Kitty, her eyes dancing with excitement, “that’s real good
o’ ye, Olf. I can’t call to mind as anybody ever gave me a present. I
do want a new hat terrible bad.”
“A new hat,” repeated Olf, “that’s easy got. Wouldn’t ye like summat a
bit grander--a real handsome present? What would you like best in the
world, Kitty?”
“O-o-o-h!” cried Kitty again, and this time her eyes became round with
something that was almost awe. “What I’d like best in the whole world,
Olf, would be to have a gold watch. I did dream once that I did have a
real gold watch o’ my own, and I never, never, never thought that it
mid come true. O-o-o-h! if I was to have a gold watch!”
“Say no more, maidie,” exclaimed Olf, with doughty resolution, “you
shall have that there gold watch so sure as my name be Olfred Boyt.
There now! And you can show it to Annie and Maggie Fry, and they can
see for theirselves what they mid ha’ had if they had been willin’ to
take me.”
Kitty pouted. “You don’t want to marry them now you be a-goin’ to marry
I, do ye?” she inquired pettishly.
“No more I do,” cried Olf, “but they mid ha’ been a bit more civil.”
Kitty agreeing to this statement, harmony was at once restored, and the
pair parted with complete satisfaction.
Next day Olf duly conferred with his banker, and in an extremely bad
hand, and with difficulty, accomplished the writing of his first
cheque. It was for £5--a sum of money which he had never in all his
life hoped to possess at one time. In fact, he was more elated at the
sight of the five golden sovereigns than he had been in contemplating
his thousand pound bond. He expended a certain portion of this new
wealth on his own personal adornment--having his hair cut at a barber’s
for the first time in his existence, and investing in a new suit of
clothes, the pattern being a check of a somewhat startling description.
He also purchased a hat for Kitty with a wreath of blue flowers,
supplemented, at his particular request, by a white feather.
“We do not generally use feathers with flowers,” expostulated the
shopwoman.
Olf considered. “I think I will have the feather all the same,” said
he; “feathers is more richer-like.”
“I did not want for to grudge ye nothin’, ye see,” he subsequently
explained to Kitty, “and this ’ere is the gold watch.”
Kitty positively gasped with rapture. It was a very fine watch
certainly, extremely yellow, and with a little diapered pattern on the
case.
“It cost thirty-five shillin’,” explained Olf, with modest triumph.
“’Tis rolled gold, so you may think how good that must be.”
Kitty gasped again. Farmer Inkpen possessed a gold watch of turnip
shape and immense weight, but she felt quite sure it was not rolled
gold, and in consequence a highly inferior article. She turned towards
Olf with a sudden movement and clasped both her little hands about his
arm--“I do like ye, Olf,” she said, “I do. I do think ye be the kindest
man that ever was made. I’ll work for ye so hard as I can when I be
your missus.”
There being no reason to delay the wedding, preparations were made
at once for that auspicious event. On the following Sunday the banns
were put up; Kitty and Olf paid several visits to the upholsterer’s in
the neighbouring town and selected sundry articles of furniture, Olf
giving orders right and left in a lordly fashion which quite dazzled
his future bride. Farmer Inkpen made inquiries with regard to a certain
farm which he thought might possibly suit his former assistant, and was
moreover good enough to promise help and advice in the selection of
stock. All, in fact, was proceeding merrily as that marriage bell which
they both so soon expected to hear, when there came of a sudden a bolt
from the blue. The manager of the local bank sent a peremptory message
one evening to Olf requesting, or rather ordering, him to call without
delay.
The poor fellow obeyed the summons without alarm, without even the
faintest suspicion that anything was wrong, and it was indeed with
great difficulty that the manager conveyed to him the astounding
fact that the precious bond, which was to have been the foundation of
his fortune, was so much waste paper; the prize-drawing had been a
swindling concern, and the thousand pound prize did not exist.
“But I thought you told I that ’ere bit o’ paper _was_ a thousand
pound,” expostulated Olf, when for the fortieth time the manager had
explained the state of the case.
“That bit of paper represented a thousand pounds,” returned that
gentleman, with diminishing patience, “but when we came to collect it,
the money wasn’t there.”
Olf scratched his head and looked at him. “And what be I to do now?” he
inquired.
“Why, nothing, I am afraid. I don’t suppose you would be able to
prosecute, and even if you had the money to carry on your case, it
would not do you much good to get those swindlers punished. You will
just have to grin and bear it, my poor fellow. We will give you time
you know--we won’t be hard with you.”
“Time?” ejaculated Olf, staring at him blankly.
“Yes. We have let you have £5 on account you know. That will have to be
paid back, of course, but we won’t press you. You can let us have it
little by little.”
“Oh!” said Olf, “thank ye,” and he went out, absently stroking the
check sleeve of the beautiful new suit which had cost him so dear.
He shambled back to the farm and paused by the gate, across which Mr.
Inkpen was leaning.
“Hullo, Olf, back again?”
“’E-es,” said Olf, “I be back again, maister. Ye bain’t suited yet, be
ye?”
“Not yet,” said the farmer, “but ye can’t be married afore another
fortnight, can ye? I s’pose you’ll lend me a hand until you shift?”
“I bain’t a-goin’ to shift. I bain’t a-goin’ to get wed, I bain’t--” He
paused, his lip trembling for a moment piteously like a child’s. “It is
all a mistake, maister--there bain’t no money there.”
“Dear to be sure,” cried Farmer Inkpen.
Olf stood gazing at him. There was a dimness about his eyes, and he bit
his lips to stop their quivering.
Mr. Inkpen’s loud exclamation caused the women-folk to appear on the
scene, and in a moment the entire household was assembled and plying
Olf with questions.
“There is nothin’ more to tell ye,” he said at last. “’Tis a mistake.
There bain’t no money there--I can’t take no farm. I must ax the folk
o’ the shop to keep that ’ere furniture and things--I haven’t made no
fortun’, I be just the same as I was ’afore, ’cept as I have a-got to
pay back a matter of £5 to the bank.”
Little Kitty stood by, growing red and pale in turn, and fingering the
watch in her waistband. All at once she gave a loud sob and rushed away.
“Ah! she be like to feel it,” said the farmer, whose heart was perhaps
more tender than that of his wife or daughter. “She’ll feel it, poor
little maid. Sich a chance for her--and now to go back to her scrubbin’
and cleanin’ just the same as ’afore.”
Olf heaved a deep sigh. “Well,” he said, “I’ll go home and take off
these ’ere clothes, and I’ll come back and finish my work, maister.”
He then turned away, a very low-spirited and drooping figure, his
shoulders round under that astonishing plaid, his head sunk almost
on to his chest. After a little more talk the family separated, Mrs.
Inkpen feeling some irritation on discovering that Kitty was nowhere to
be found.
“She’s run off to cry,” said Annie. “However, don’t ye take no notice
of her for this once, mother; ’tis but natural she should be a bit
down, poor little maid.”
Olf had finished his work and was going dejectedly homewards that night
when, in the narrow lane which led from the farm towards the village,
he was waylaid by a well-known figure. It was Kitty. Her eyes were
filled with tears, her face very pale, yet nevertheless there was a
note of triumph in her voice.
“I’ve been to the town, Olf,” she cried. “I didn’t want ye to be at a
loss through me, and the folks was kind. They took back the watch all
right and gave me the thirty-five shillin’ for it. They wouldn’t take
back the hat at the shop where you got it, along ’o my wearin’ it you
know. They did tell me of a place where they buy second-hand things,
and they gave me seven shillin’ for it there. So that won’t be so bad
will it? You can pay that much to the bank straight off.”
Olf looked at her dejectedly. “There, my maid,” cried he. “I wish ye
hadn’t done that. I could wish ye had kept them two things what I did
give ye--’twas all I could do for ye. We can never do all we’d like to
do now.”
Kitty sobbed.
“I take it very kind o’ ye to be so feelin’,” said Olf. “I could wish
we could have got wed, my maid. I’d ha’ been a lovin’ husband, and I d’
’low you’d ha’ been a lovin’ wife.”
“I would,” sobbed Kitty.
“But there, ’tis all over, bain’t it? I be nothin’ but a poor chap
earnin’ of a poor wage. You be a vitty maid too good for the likes o’
me. I’ll never have a wife now.”
“I don’t see that,” said Kitty, in a low voice. She was hanging her
head and drawing patterns with the point of her shoe in the sandy soil.
Olf stared at her, and then repeated his statement. “A poor man earnin’
of a poor wage, Kitty. I’ll never have a wife.”
“Why not?” said Kitty, almost inarticulately. “Many poor men get wed,
Olf.”
Olf caught his breath with a gasp. “Kitty,” he cried, “Kitty, do ye
mean you’d take me now wi’out no fortun’, and just as I be? You’d never
take me now, Kitty?”
“I would,” said Kitty, and she hid her face on his patched shoulder and
burst into tears.
“Then I don’t care about nothin’,” cried Olf valiantly. “If you would
really like it, Kitty, say no more.”
“I would,” said Kitty again. And then raising her head, she smiled at
him through her tears. “But don’t tell nobody I axed ye,” said she.
IN THE HEART OF THE GREEN.
When the new keeper and his wife took possession of their cottage,
deep in the heart of Westbury Chase, summer was still at its height.
Jim Whittle’s real responsibilities had not yet begun--a little
breathing space was, as it were, allotted to the young couple before
settling thoroughly into harness. So Betty thought at least, though Jim
frequently reminded her that summer was as anxious a time as any other
for a man in his position.
“What with folks expectin’ the young birds to be nigh full-growed afore
they was much more than hatched out; and what wi’ the fear of there
being too much wet, or too much sun, and varmint an’ sich-like, I can
tell ye, Betty,” said he, “I’m as anxious in summer as in winter, very
near.”
Nevertheless, he found time to do many little odd jobs for her which he
could not have accomplished in the shooting season: knocking together
shelves, digging in the garden, chopping up the store of wood which she
herself collected as she strolled out in her spare hours. Betty was as
happy as a bird in those days. Their new home had been put in order
before their advent, and was spick and span from roof to threshold;
the fresh thatch glinted bravely through the heavy summer foliage;
the flowers in the little garden made patches of bright colour amid
the surrounding green. Betty herself in her print dress and with her
hair shining like polished gold, Betty carrying her six-months-old
child poised on her round arm, was an almost startling figure to those
who came upon her suddenly in the leafy aisles about her home. Brown
and grey and fawn and russet are the tones chiefly affected by forest
people; yet here were the mother and child, wood creatures both of
them, flaunting it in their pinks and yellows before autumn had so much
as crimsoned a leaf.
What wonder that the shy folk in fur or feather peered at them with
round astonished eyes, ere scuttling to cover or taking to flight.
Dick Tuffin, the woodman, looked up in surprise from the faggot he had
just bound together, when Betty and her baby-boy came towards him one
sunny morning from one of the many shadowy avenues which abutted on a
glade cleared by his own hands. As she advanced, he sat back upon his
heels amid the slender sappy victims of his axe, and frankly stared at
her.
He was a young man, dark as a gipsy, muscular and lithe, with
quick-glancing eyes and a flashing smile.
“Good-day,” said Betty, pausing civilly.
“Good-day to you, Mum. I d’ ’low you be new keeper’s wife?”
“Yes, I am Mrs. Whittle,” said Betty. “Are you cutting down my
husband’s woods?” she added, smiling.
“Ah! your husband’s woods ’ud not be in sich good order as they do be
if it wasn’t for I an’ sich as I,” returned the man. “I do cut down a
piece reg’lar every year, an’ then the young growth comes, d’ye see,
twice so thick as before, so that the game can find so much shelter as
they do like.”
“And what are you going to do with all these poor little trees?”
inquired Betty. “They are too green for firewood, aren’t they?”
“Well,” said Dick, with his infectious smile, “I make hurdles wi’ ’em
for one thing, an’ some of ’em goes for pea-sticks, an’ others is made
into besoms. They mid be green,” he added reflectively, “but folks do
come here often enough a-pickin’ up scroff for burnin’.”
Here the child on Betty’s arm began to whimper, and she nodded to it
and dandled it, her own person keeping up a swaying, dancing movement
the while.
Dick Tuffin watched her, at first with a smile; but presently his face
clouded.
“You have a better time of it, Mrs. Whittle,” said he, “nor my poor
little ’ooman at home. You do see your husband so often as you like;
but there, I must bide away from home for weeks and months at a time. I
mid almost say I haven’t got a home; and Mary, she mid say she haven’t
got a husband.”
“How’s that?” inquired Betty, pausing, with the now laughing child
suspended in mid-air, to turn her astonished face upon him.
“My place is nigh upon fifteen mile away from here. I go travellin’ the
country round, cuttin’ the woods and makin’ hurdles; an’ ’tis too far
to get back except for a little spell now and then. I didn’t think o’
wedlock when I took up the work, an’ now I d’ ’low I wouldn’t care to
turn to any other. But ’tis hard on the ’ooman.”
“She oughtn’t to let you do it!” cried the keeper’s wife firmly. “Ha’
done, Jim; ha’ done, thou naughty boy! I’ll throw thee over the trees
in a minute!”
The child had clutched at her golden locks, pulling one strand loose;
she caught at the chubby hand, made believe to slap it, and then kissed
the little pink palm half a dozen times.
“Your wife ought to make you get your livin’ some other way,” she added
seriously.
“It couldn’t be done now,” said the woodman. “I have done nothin’ but
fell trees an’ plesh hurdles since I was quite a little ’un. I couldn’t
do naught else,” he added somewhat dreamily; “I fancy I couldn’t bide
anywhere except in a wood.”
“Well, ’tis a fine life,” said she, willing to say something civil.
“Yes, pleasant enough,” he agreed. “If I could tole my missus about I’d
never complain; but, there! it can’t be done.”
He tossed the faggot on one side, and began to collect materials for
another. Betty noticed a great rent in his fustian waistcoat, and,
commenting upon the fact, volunteered to mend it.
“’Tis awkward for ye having no one to sew for ye,” she added, as Dick
gratefully divested himself of the garment in question.
“’Tis that,” agreed Tuffin. “I do move about so often the folks where
I lodge do never seem to take a bit of interest in I. My wife, she do
fair cry at times when she do see the state my things be in. Come, I’ll
hold the youngster for ye, Mum.”
“Oh, he’ll be all right on the soft grass here!”
“Nay, I’d like to hold ’en if ye’ll let me. I want to get my hand in,
d’ye see. There’ll be a little un at our place very soon.”
“I do call it unfeelin’ of ye to leave your wife alone at such a time,”
remarked Betty reprovingly.
“Her mother’s wi’ her,” returned Dick. “I’ll go home for a bit in a
fortnight or so, but I must be back in October.”
He chirruped to the child, swinging him high in the air, till Baby Jim
crowed and laughed again. Soon Mrs. Whittle’s task was accomplished,
and she handed back the waistcoat to its owner, receiving his profuse
thanks in return. As she walked away through the chequered light and
shade Dick looked after her.
“Some folks is luckier nor others,” he said. “Keeper can live in the
woods and have wife and child anigh him, too; but I, if I be to live at
all, must live alone.”
Then he thought of the little brown wife in that far-away village, and
wondered with a sudden tightening of the heart-strings how she was
getting on; but presently he whistled again, in time to the rhythmic
strokes of his axe, as he pointed the sowels for his next lot of
hurdles.
On the following morning when Betty was sweeping out her house a shadow
fell across the threshold, and, looking up, she descried the woodman.
“I’ve brought ye a new besom,” said he, with a somewhat shamefaced
smile. “One good turn do deserve another, Mrs. Whittle.”
“Thank ye kindly, I’m sure,” returned Betty, with a bright smile. “I
never thought of your making any return for the few stitches I set for
ye. The besom is a beauty, Mr. Tuffin.”
“Glad ye like it,” said Dick, turning to take his leave.
“If ye’ve any other bits o’ mending, Mr. Tuffin,” Betty called after
him, “I’d be pleased to do ’em for ye.”
“Nay, now, I don’t like puttin’ too much on your good nature, Mrs.
Whittle,” said Dick, glancing over his shoulder with a sheepish smile.
But the keeper’s wife insisted; and presently Dick confessed that there
were a good few socks lying by at his lodgings in sore need of repair.
On the morrow he brought them, with the addition of a large basket of
“scroff,” or chips, for firing.
Keeper Jim was much amused at this exchange of civilities; but was so
far moved with compassion for Tuffin’s lonely wife that he contributed
a couple of nice young rabbits to the little packet of comforts which
Betty sent her when Dick went home for his brief holiday; and he was
both touched and gratified when little Mrs. Tuffin sent a return
tribute of new-laid eggs and fresh vegetables to the woman who had
befriended her Dick.
Autumn came, scarcely perceptible at first in this sheltered spot;
little drifts of yellow leaves strewed Betty’s threshold of a morning;
there was a brave show of berries amid the undergrowth; maple bushes
lit cool fires here and there; and travellers’ joy and bryony flung
silver-spangled tendrils or jewelled chains across a tangle of orange
and crimson and brown. The delicate tracery of twigs, the gnarled
strength of boughs, became ever more perceptible as the leafage
thinned; Jim could see more of the thatch of his house as he tramped
homewards, and could mark through the jagged outline of the naked
boughs how the blue smoke-wreaths blew hither and thither as they
issued from his chimney.
There was a growing sense of excitement in the woods; their silence
was often broken by startled cries and the whirring of great wings.
Soon the glades would echo to the sound of the beaters’ sticks; dry
twigs would crack beneath the sportsmen’s feet; shots would wake the
slumbering echoes; and then a cart would come and bear away the rigid
bodies erstwhile so blithe. Betty almost cried as she thought of the
fate that awaited the pretty birds which she had so often fed with her
own hand and which the baby had loved to watch; but Jim chid her when
she said she hoped many of them would escape.
“Tell ’ee what,” he remarked sternly, “if the gentry don’t find more
pheasants nor in the wold chap’s time they’ll say I bain’t worth my
salt. There, what be making such a fuss about? ’Tis what they be
brought up for. D’ye think folks ’ud want to be watchin’ ’em an’
feedin’ ’em an’ lookin’ arter ’em always if ’twasn’t that they mid get
shot in the end? They must die some way, d’ye see; and I d’ ’low if ye
was to ax ’em, they pheasants ’ud liefer come rocketin’ down wi’ a dose
o’ lead in their innards nor die natural-like by freezin’ or starvin’
or weasels or sich.”
Jim grew more and more enthusiastic as the time drew nearer for the
big shoot, which was, as he expected, to establish his reputation.
This was not to take place till late in November, so as to allow time
for the trees to be fully denuded of their leaves. The keeper often
talked darkly of the iniquities of certain village ne’er-do-weels, who,
according to him, thought no more of snaring a rabbit than of lying
down in their beds.
“If they only kept to rabbits,” he added once, “it wouldn’t be so bad;
but when those chaps gets a footin’ in these woods there’s no knowin’
where they’ll stop. But they’ll find I ready for them. They’ll find I
bain’t so easy to deal wi’ as wold Jenkins.”
“Dear, to be sure, Jim, I wish you wouldn’t talk so!” said Betty. “You
make me go all of a tremble! I shall be afeard to stop here by myself
when you’re away on your beat if you ’fray me wi’ such tales. I don’t
like to think there’s poachin’ folk about.”
“There, they’d never want to do nothin’ to a woman,” said Jim
consolingly; “’tis the game they’re arter. They’ll not come anigh the
house, bless ye!”
“Well, but I don’t like to think they mid go fightin’ you,” she
whimpered.
Jim bestowed a sounding kiss on her smooth cheek.
“Don’t ye fret yoursel’,” he cried; “they’ll run away fast enough when
they do see I comin’. Why, what a little foolish ’ooman thou be’est!
There, give over cryin’. I didn’t ought to ha’ talked about such
things.”
Betty’s pretty eyes were still somewhat pink, however, as she came
strolling into Dick’s quarters that afternoon; and her lip drooped when
in answer to his questions she divulged the cause.
“Afeard o’ poachers!” exclaimed the woodman, with a laugh. “Bless ye,
Mrs. Whittle, poachers bain’t no worse nor other folks! Dalled if I
can see much harm in a man catchin’ a rabbit or two when there’s such
a-many of ’em about! The place be fair swarmin’ wi’ ’em o’ nights.”
Betty was much shocked; and returned reprovingly that it couldn’t
ever be right to steal. “And poachin’ is but stealin’,” she summed up
severely.
“Stealin’!” echoed Dick; “nay, ye’ll never make me believe that. I d’
’low the Lard did make they little wild things for the poor so well
as for the rich. Pheasants, now,” he continued, ruminating, “I won’t
say as any one has a right to take pheasants except the man what owns
the woods. I’d as soon rob a hen-roost, for my part, as go arter one
o’ they fat tame things as mid be chicken for all the spirit what’s
in ’em. I’d never ax to interfere wi’ a pheasant,” he continued
reflectively, “wi’out it was jist for the fun o’ the thing. But settin’
a gin or two--wi’ all these hundreds and thousands o’ rabbits runnin’
under a body’s feet--ye’ll never make me think there’s a bit o’ harm in
it.”
“Don’t let my husband hear such talk!” said Betty loftily.
The woodman laughed again. “I wouldn’t mind speakin’ out plain to his
face,” said he. “Him and me is the best o’ friends--I do like en very
well,” continued Dick handsomely; “better nor I ever thought to like a
gamekeeper. As a rule, I don’t hold with folks what goes spyin’ about,
a-tryin’ to catch other folks in the wrong. I never could a-bear a
policeman, now--’tis my belief they do more harm than good.”
“Gracious!” ejaculated the scandalised Betty. “I don’t know how you can
go for to say such things.”
“Well, d’ye see, ’tis this way,” explained Dick. “If a man do want for
to get drunk, drunk he’ll get if there be farty policemen arter him.
If he’s willin’ to make a beast of hisself, and to ruin his wife and
family, and to get out o’ work an’ everything, for the sake of a drap
o’ drink, ’tisn’t a policeman that ’ull stop him. And if a chap do
want to fight another chap--his blood being up, d’ye see--he’ll fight
en--ah, that he will! and give no thought at all to the chance o’ bein’
run in for it. And jist same way--if a body has a notion to trap a
rabbit, trap it he will, keeper or no keeper.”
Here Dick selected a sapling and began to trim it leisurely, pursing up
his lips the while in a silent whistle.
“I’ll not tell Whittle all you’ve said,” remarked Betty with dignity,
as she shifted her baby from one arm to the other, and prepared to walk
on. “He mid think you was a poacher yourself.”
“You may tell him if you like,” retorted Dick, and then he whistled
out loud and clapped his hands at the baby, which thereupon laughed
ecstatically, and almost sprang from its mother’s arms. The keeper’s
wife relaxed, and mentally resolved to make no allusion to Dick’s
unorthodox sentiments in conversing with her husband. Jim himself had
said that it wouldn’t be so bad if folks only kept to rabbits, and Dick
had intimated that he would never care to touch anything else. A body
should not be too hard, she reflected, on a poor fellow who had no
home, so to speak; why, he was almost like a wild creature of the woods
himself, living out in all weathers, sleeping often under the stars,
picking up a chance meal as he best could--there was no great wonder
if he had become as lawless as the four-footed “varmint” against whom
the keepers waged such fierce war.
One evening, shortly before the great shoot was to take place, Jim came
home to tea in a state of contained excitement. When the meal was over
he went to the door, and began, to his wife’s surprise, to examine the
fastenings carefully.
“’Tis a good stout bolt,” he remarked, “and the lock be a new ’un. I d’
’low if house was shut up you wouldn’t be afeard to bide alone in it?”
Betty immediately demonstrated the presence of mind which she would be
likely to display under such circumstances by uttering a loud scream.
“Oh, Jim, Jim!” she cried, “why be goin’ to stop out all night? I do
know so well as if you did tell me that you be goin’ into danger.”
“Danger!” cried the keeper, thumping his great chest, “not much fear
o’ that! There, don’t ye be so foolish. Me and Stubbs be a-goin’ over
t’other side o’ the park down to the river to see to that ’ere decoy
for duck, as squire be so set on puttin’ to rights. ’Tis five mile
away; we be like to be kep’ late, very late--till daybreak, most like;
but do you make the house fast, old ’ooman, and no harm ’ull come to
either of us.”
Had Betty not been so much absorbed in the main issue, she might have
detected something improbable about the keeper’s story; but, as it was,
her fears for him were almost lost in the horror of being left all
night alone in that desolate spot.
Jim, however, jested at her terrors, and himself made the round of the
cottage, fastening the casements and securing the seldom-used front
door. He stood outside the threshold while she drew the bolts and
locked the back one.
“Get to thy bed early,” he called to her. “Go to sleep so fast as thou
can; and first thing thou knows thou’lt hear me knockin’ to be let in.”
But somebody else knocked before Betty had any thought of going to bed;
before, indeed, she had finished washing up the tea-things.
“Who’s that?” cried she, thrusting a scared face out of the window.
“It’s me, Mrs. Whittle--Dick Tuffin. I’ve a-brought ye back your hamper
what I promised to mend for ye. Why, ye be shut up very early, bain’t
ye?”
“Whittle’s gone travellin’ off a long way,” she answered with a
scarcely perceptible sob. “There, he be gone to the river--’tis a good
five mile off, he do say. I’m frightened to death here by myself.”
She heard him laugh in the darkness.
“How ’ud ye like to be my little wife,” he asked, “as bides alone night
after night, wi’ nobody but the little ’un, now her mother have a-left
her? I wouldn’t be afeard, Mrs. Whittle. Your house be so safe as a
church; and there’s Duke--he’s big enough and strong enough to guard
ye. Hark to en barkin’ now, the minute he do hear my voice!”
“Well, and that’s true,” agreed Betty in a more cheerful tone. “Thank
ye for mendin’ the hamper, Mr. Tuffin. I’ll open the door in a minute.”
“No, don’t ye bother to do that,” said Dick. “The hamper’ll take no
harm out here till morning. Good-night to ye.”
“Good-night,” said Betty, closing the window.
She heard the sound of his footsteps die away, and then the loneliness
of the forest night seemed to close in upon her. Jim had often been
out as late as this, and later, but the mere knowledge that he did not
intend to return till daybreak made her more nervous than she had ever
been. When the logs crackled or fell together she started violently;
the moaning of the wind in the branches without filled her with
dread, though often, when she and her husband sat by the hearth, they
had declared the sound made them feel more snug. More than once she
opened the window and listened; a fine, close rain was falling, making
a dull patter upon the thatched roof, dripping from the eves; but
besides these sounds there were many others, strange, unaccountable,
terrifying--creakings and crackings of boughs; now what seemed to be
a stealthy tread, now whispering voices. She chid herself for these
fancies, knowing well that they must be without foundation, since Duke
remained silent; nevertheless her flesh crept and the dew of terror
started to her brow.
At length, making a strong resolution, she went up to her attic
bedchamber, undressed, and, taking the child into her arms, crept into
bed. But she lay there for a long time, quaking, and staring with
wide-open eyes into the darkness; until, overcome by sheer fatigue
after a long and busy day, she fell asleep.
She woke up suddenly, and sat for a moment vainly endeavouring to
disentangle the confusion of sound which filled her ears. Her heart was
beating like a drum, the blood surged in her brain--a dream-panic was
still upon her, and yet there were certain other unmistakable noises to
be heard without. Duke was barking in frenzied fashion and straining at
his chain; men were shouting at no very great distance, and now--what
was that? A single shot!
“It’s the poachers!” exclaimed Betty, with chattering teeth. “Pray God
they don’t come here!”
In the midst of her anguish of fear she felt a sudden rush of
gratitude. Jim was safe out of the way, thanks be! Jim would not be
back till the folks had got off with their spoil. But now Duke was
whimpering and crying in a most eerie and heartrending manner, and
presently uplifted his voice in long-drawn howls which jarred upon
Betty’s overwrought nerves beyond endurance. She jumped out of bed
and ran to the casement. It had ceased raining, and though the moon
rode between piles of angry clouds, she sent forth at that moment an
extraordinarily clear light. Betty could see the skeleton branches
of the trees all wet and shining as they tossed against the sky; the
little paved path glimmered white; yonder stood a dark patch--Dick’s
hamper. She could see Duke pacing round and round his kennel, at the
utmost length of his chain; now sniffing the ground, now lifting up his
head for another howl.
She rapped at the pane and called to him sharply; and the dog looked up
at her window, and suddenly wheeled in the opposite direction, pricking
his ears.
Steps were heard approaching--slow, lagging steps--and presently
two figures came staggering together out of the wood. Betty screamed
as they emerged from the shadow, and then leaned forth, paralysed
with dread; for as the two slowly advanced into the moonlit path she
recognised Stubbs, the under-keeper, and saw that he was supporting,
almost carrying, his companion.
“Be that you, Mrs. Whittle?” cried Stubbs. “Come down, Mum, come down
this minute! This be a bad night’s work!”
The man leaning upon him raised his head with an inarticulate attempt
to speak, and Betty saw that it was Jim--her own Jim--her husband! But,
oh! what tale was that told by the drawn features and glassy eyes?
She had screamed at the unknown terror, but she uttered no sound now.
Before they reached the door she had mechanically thrown on her dress
over her nightgown, and had come downstairs, pattering with her bare
feet. She flung open the door, and put her arms round her husband,
almost as if she grudged him any support but hers.
“My poor little ’ooman!” said Jim brokenly; “I d’ ’low I’m done for.”
With Stubbs’ aid she stretched him on the sofa, and unfastened coat and
waistcoat. She drew out her hand from his bosom suddenly, and looked at
it with a shudder: it was red!
“Ah, he’s got the whole charge in en somewhere,” groaned Stubbs. “There
was a lot of ’em out to-night, and we catched one of ’em; he fought
like a devil, he did--’twas in wrestling wi’ him poor Whittle’s gun
went off. Dear to be sure, ’tis awful to think on. His own gun!”
“Where’s the man?” asked Betty sharply; her face was as white as a
sheet--her lips drawn back from her gleaming teeth.
“Oh, he made off, ye mid be sure,” returned the other. “I don’t know
who he was. ’Twas in the thick o’ the trees yonder we come on ’em. Moon
had gone in and ’twas as dark as pitch.”
“Do you think my husband will die!” gasped Betty.
“Ah! ’tis a bad job--’tis surely,” responded the other, almost
whimpering; “and the worst on’t is we be nigh six mile from a doctor.”
“Oh, Mr. Stubbs,” cried the keeper’s wife earnestly, “let’s do
everything we can, any way! Will ye go for the doctor for me? Do!
I’ll--I’ll give ye every penny in the house if ye will!”
“Lard! my dear ’ooman, I don’t want no pay for doin’ what I can at
sich a time. I’ll go, to be sure, an’ make so much haste as I can;
but--won’t ye be afeard to bide here all alone--and him so bad?”
Betty saw that he expected her husband would die before his return, but
she did not flinch.
“I will do anything in the world so long as there’s a chance of saving
him!” she cried. “Run, Mr. Stubbs, run! Make haste--oh, do make haste!”
Stubbs drew his arm from beneath the wounded man’s shoulder, and
hastened away without another word. Betty went to her linen-drawer,
and found an old sheet, which she tied round Jim’s body to staunch
the bleeding; he seemed to have received the charge chiefly in his
right side. He opened his eyes and smiled at her faintly, and then she
dropped on her knees beside him.
“Jim,” she whispered, “you never went away arter all?”
He shook his head feebly. “I meant it for the best,” he said; “I heard
these chaps would be up to their tricks to-night, and I thought me and
Stubbs ’ud catch them.”
“Oh, Jim,” said Betty, “ye told me a lie!”
“I meant it for the best, my dear,” he returned faintly. “I didn’t want
ye to be frayed--poor little ’ooman! Ye mustn’t be vexed.”
Betty stooped and kissed him, and he closed his eyes.
“I reckon I’m goin’,” he said. “Well, I done my dooty. But what ’ull ye
do, my dear?”
“I’ll manage,” said Betty.
Her voice had a harsh note quite unlike its own; she sank down in a
heap on the floor, staring before her. She knew what she would do if
Jim died. She would first of all find the man who had killed him, and
then--oh, he should pay for it!
Jim had fallen into a kind of drowsy state, and presently his hand
slipped down and unconsciously touched hers: it was very cold. Betty,
rousing herself, went towards the hearth, drawing the embers together.
There was not enough fuel, however, to make much of a fire; and, softly
opening the door, she went out to the woodshed, her bare feet making
no sound on the damp stones. As she was returning with her burden the
wicket-gate swung open, and Dick Tuffin come up the path.
“Mrs. Whittle! Mrs. Whittle!” he called pantingly.
She turned and confronted him. The moon had dipped behind the trees
and she could not distinguish his face, but something in the aspect of
the man struck her with a lightning-like intuition.
“Come in,” she said hoarsely.
Dick followed her into the house, starting back at sight of the
prostrate figure on the couch. Betty dropped her wood on the hearth and
came swiftly across to him with her panther-like tread. There was an
expression on her face which might have recalled the beast in question.
She placed both her hands upon his breast, and he, giving way before
them, stepped backwards a few paces.
“Look at him,” said Betty; “he is dying! Dick Tuffin, it is you who
have killed my husband!”
“I swear I didn’t know it was him,” faltered Dick. “I’d no thought of
harm. I went out with the others for a frolic. You yourself did tell I
your husband was miles away.”
She had told him! He would make out that she had delivered him into
their hands! A red mist came before her eyes.
“Even when he did catch I,” went on Dick, “I didn’t know who ’twas. But
somebody told me jist now that Stubbs was runnin’ for the doctor for
en, so I come--I couldn’t rest, ye see. I had to come. Mrs. Whittle, I
don’t know what you’ll say to me.”
Betty said nothing at all, but the steady pressure of her hands upon
his breast increased, and, as before, Dick recoiled beneath it. Her
eyes were blazing in her white face; her dishevelled fair hair fell
about her shoulders. Dick gazed at her remorsefully, suffering her
unresistingly to push him the length of the little room and through an
open doorway. He imagined her to be ejecting him from the house, but
all in a moment she threw her whole weight upon him with such violence
that he stumbled and fell. Before he could recover he found the door
closed upon him and bolted. He heard hasty steps in the inner room and
the dragging across the floor of some heavy piece of furniture, which
was presently pushed against the door.
“Mrs. Whittle!” he called out, “what are you doing? Are you mad?”
Then came Betty’s voice, harsh and broken: “I’ve got ye, Dick Tuffin!
Ye can’t get out; there’s no window and no other door. I’ve got ye and
I mean to keep ye! Ye’ve killed my husband--ye’ve made me a widow and
my child an orphan--an’ I’ll not rest till I do the same by your wife
and your child.”
And then something else came battering up against the door. Dick had
no doubt but that the barricade was now complete. He felt about him in
the darkness, identifying shelves, one or two small barrels, a crock:
he was in the buttery most likely. He might possibly force his way out;
the bolt was in all probability not very strong, and once the door was
opened he could soon do away with all other obstacles; but then he
would have that fierce woman to encounter. He could not escape without
doing her some hurt, and the awful face of the wounded man would again
meet his gaze. Besides, of what use would it be to attempt to escape?
He was well known in the place, and the police would soon track him.
He sat down, therefore, with the resignation of despair, shivering
from time to time, and straining his ears for every sound in the next
room. He heard poor Jim groan now and then, and Betty speak to him in a
voice of such yearning tenderness that it was scarcely recognisable as
the same which had threatened himself a little while before. He thought
of Betty as she had first come upon him, so young and gay in her pink
dress, and with her yellow hair glancing in the sun, and of the child
which he had so often dandled in his arms. Widow and orphan! Widow and
orphan! And all because Dick Tuffin had gone out with a few idle chaps
for a night’s frolic. And then he thought of his own little woman at
home: he seemed to see her in her “deep”. And the little one, who would
never be able to hold up his head because they hanged his father.
Thus did he muse very sorrowfully until slumber overtook him in that
inexplicable fashion with which it will sometimes come upon the weary
and anxious of heart. And he slept until the grey light of morning
began to creep through the chinks of the barricaded door.
He heard voices in the adjoining room--men’s voices, and Betty’s; then
the tread of feet walking in unison. The little stairs creaked; the
heavy footfalls now tramped in the room overhead, then descended again,
and crossed the kitchen. Now the folks were leaving the house; he could
hear them clattering down the path, and caught the swing of the gate.
“It’s all over,” he said to himself, “they’ve carried the poor chap
upstairs.”
A sudden numbness came upon him: it was true, then, and not a bad
dream. Poor Jim Whittle was dead, and he, Dick, had killed him; and
now Betty would give him up to the police, and he would be tried and
convicted and hanged.
Dick was not very learned in the statutes of his country, and had no
manner of doubt that since the keeper had been killed in struggling
with him--by his hand, it might be said, for the gun had gone off owing
to Dick’s endeavour to wrench it away--he would have to pay the full
penalty of the law. To be hanged by the neck until he was dead. He put
his hand to his throat, and drew a long sobbing breath.
After what seemed an interminable time, he heard once more the sound
of voices in the kitchen--a man’s voice and Betty’s--then a quick firm
step crossing the room to the house-door, and finally the retreating
sounds of a horse’s feet. Then there was a scraping and bumping of
furniture; the rim of light which had been perceptible but half-way
down the door suddenly lengthened, the bolt grated in its hasps, and in
another moment Betty stood before him.
Dick had been so long imprisoned in the darkness that at first he could
hardly bear the flood of wintry light which burst upon him. And there,
in the midst of it, was the woman, with so bright a face that he could
scarce credit his eyes. She stretched out both hands to him and cried:--
“He be to live! Doctor says he be to live!” Her voice faltered and
broke, the tears leaped from her eyes. “Thank God!” she cried. “Oh,
thank God! He’ll live! My Jim’s to live!”
Dick came staggering forth from his cell. His brown face was blanched
to a sickly pallor; he trembled in every limb. Choking back her sobs,
Betty again extended her hand to him, and he wrung it; but, turning
from her, he leaned against the wall, hiding his face. His shoulders
were heaving.
“Doctor says he’ll not die,” pursued Betty betwixt laughing and crying.
“He’s young and strong, he says, and he’ll get over it. ‘We’ll get as
much lead as we can out of him,’ says doctor, ‘and he’ll carry the rest
quite comfortable, as many another has done before him.’”
She laughed a feeble, wavering laugh that ended in a sob. “He said we’d
best get him upstairs and put him to bed,” continued Betty. “Stubbs
and another man come up from the village, so they carried him up; and
doctor’s been with him a long time, and he’s sleepin’ now.”
She told her tale brokenly, with a little gasp between each word; but
Dick made no comment. Presently he turned round again, his face still
working.
“Mrs. Whittle,” he said unsteadily, “I’d like ye to hear me say so
solemn as I can, as I’ll never lay another finger on any creature in
the woods. I’ll never touch another feather----”
“Oh, it’s all right, it’s all right!” interrupted she quickly. “I’d
like ye to hear _me_ say summat too. I was mad last night, but I bain’t
so hard-hearted as I made out. Even if my Jim had died I wouldn’t never
ha’--I wouldn’t ha’ made a widow of your poor wife, nor yet an orphan
o’ the baby.”
THE WOLD STOCKIN’.
Farmer Hunt stood leaning over his farmyard gate with the reflective,
and at the same time pleasantly expectant, expression of the man who
awaits at any moment a summons to dinner. To him, picking her steps
cautiously down the muddy lane which led to his premises, came old
Becky Melmouth, her skirts tilted high and an empty basket on her arm.
Farmer Hunt nodded at her good-humouredly, and hailed her as soon as
she was within hearing.
“What!” cried he. “Have ye brought me another of ’em?”
“I’ve a-brought ye two,” returned Becky triumphantly. “But maybe you’re
too busy to attend to me just now,” she added, with a glance that was
half apologetic and half appealing.
“Oh, I can spare a minute for that,” said the farmer good-naturedly.
“Brewery hooter’s not gone yet, and we don’t have dinner till one. Step
in, Mrs. Melmouth.”
He preceded her into the house, and led the way to a small parlour,
empty save for a large yellow cat which lay curled up on the hearthrug.
With a mysterious air which assorted with the cautious glance thrown
round by Becky as she closed the door, he proceeded to unlock a large
oak chest, and thrusting in his hand, drew forth a faded worsted
stocking. As he handed this to the old woman the contents chinked
with a portentous sound. Mrs. Melmouth’s eyes glistened, and her rosy
wrinkled face wreathed itself with smiles, as she slowly undid the knot
at the upper end, and thrust in her hand. A further chinking sound
ensued, and she looked jubilantly up at the farmer.
“There be a lot on ’em now,” she remarked.
“Ah, sure!” he agreed. “An’ you be bringin’ two shillin’ more, you do
say?”
“Two shillin’ an’ a thruppenny bit,” corrected Becky gleefully. “I be
doin’ uncommon well wi’ my eggs an’ chicken jist now.”
“Dear heart alive! Keep the thruppence, ’ooman!” cried Mr. Hunt, with a
certain amount of impatience. “It ’ull maybe buy you a relish of some
sort as ’ull make ye fancy your victuals more. I reckon you do scrimp
too much.”
Becky pursed up her lips and shook her head.
“I’d sooner save it,” said she. “Can I have the book, sir.”
“Ah, sure ye can,” returned the farmer, and, after rummaging a moment
in the chest, he produced a small account-book with a pencil attached
to it by means of a much-worn bit of string.
Becky meanwhile had been fumbling for her spectacles, and having
now assumed them, she proceeded to enter the sum she had so proudly
mentioned, to her banking account.
“How much does that make?” she added, peering up at Mr. Hunt through
her glasses; her toothless gums parted in a smile which was already
rapturous.
“Let me see,” returned he, taking the book from her hand; “last time
I reckoned it up there was forty pound in it, an’ you’ve a-been here
twice since--and again to-day. You’ve got in that there wold stockin’,
Mrs. Melmouth, forty pound four shillin’ an’ ninepence. It do do
ye credit,” he added handsomely; “ah! that it do. ’Tisn’t many a
hard-workin’ body same as yourself would put by half so much. Ye’ve put
in over nine pound since I took charge of it for ye.”
“An’ that’s ten year ago come Michaelmas,” said Becky, with modest
pride. “But Melmouth an’ me had been savin’ for thirty year afore that.”
“An’ you yourself ’ull go on savin’ for another thirty year, I
shouldn’t wonder,” said Mr. Hunt, with a jovial laugh. “There ye be so
strong upon your legs as ever you was, an’ never sick nor sorry, be ye?”
“Well, not to speak on, thanks be,” responded Becky. “But I could feel
a deal easier-like in my mind if I could settle who it’s all to go to
when I be gone. I be puzzled what to do--ah! that I be. Thicky wold
stockin’ do lay upon my heart jist same as a lump o’ lead.”
“It didn’t ought to be such a trouble to ye,” said Mr. Hunt. “Divide
it, Mrs. Melmouth. Divide it fair and square among your nevvies and
nieces.”
“No,” cried Mrs. Melmouth, shaking her head vehemently and sucking in
her breath at the same time. “No-o-o, sir, ’twouldn’t never do, that
wouldn’t. It must go all in a lump. Melmouth and me settled it that
way years an’ years ago. He’d save a shillin’, d’ye see, an’ I’d scrape
together another to put to it, an’ so we’d go on--for a rainy day, he’d
say--but no rainy day ever did come----”
“And what a good thing that was,” chimed in the farmer; “there isn’t
many folks can say the same.”
“Very like there bain’t. Thanks be, as I do say, Mester Hunt; thanks be
for all mercies! But there ’tis, d’ye see.” Here her face assumed an
anxious expression and she dropped her voice cautiously. “Who’s it to
go to? Rector do tell I, I ought to be makin’ my will.”
“True enough,” said Mr. Hunt judiciously; “so you ought, Becky, so you
ought.”
“Well, but,” resumed Mrs. Melmouth, “who’s to have it? Melmouth, he
wer’ set on its going in a lump. Says he often an’ often, ‘Let it go in
a lump, Becky, whatever you do do. Settle it as you do like’--he did
say--‘for the dibs belongs to both on us equal. Let Simon (that’s my
nevvy) have ’em, or let ’em go to Rosy’--Rosy be his sister’s oldest
maid--‘but don’t divide ’em,’ says he; ‘let ’em go in a lump.’”
Here Becky paused, and the farmer looked at her in silence, scratching
his jaw in a non-committal manner.
“Sometimes,” resumed Becky, “it do seem as if ’twould be right to
leave it to Simon, him bein’ a man an’ my own flesh an’ blood. That
there bit o’ money--’twas me first had the notion o’ puttin’ it by,
and, as Melmouth did often use to say, there couldn’t be no savin’
done in the house wi’out I put my shoulder to the wheel. But, there!
Rosy--Melmouth was oncommon fond o’ Rosy’s mother, and o’ Rosy herself
when she was a little maid.”
“Ah! you haven’t seen Mrs. Tuffin an’ her family since they shifted to
Sturminster?” put in the farmer as she paused.
Mrs. Melmouth shook her head.
“I often wish I could,” she said; “but ’tis so far.”
“An’ have ye seen Simon?” inquired the farmer. “He be a dairy chap,
bain’t he?--’tis some time since he went to service.”
“Ah! he’ve a-got a very good place t’other side o’ Darchester. He do
write beautiful letters to my sister at Christmas. There, they be jist
same’s as if they come out of a book.”
“P’r’aps they are out of a book,” suggested Mr. Hunt. “There did
use to be a book about letter-writin’ when I was a young chap; but
what it wanted to say was never same as what I wanted to say, and my
mother--poor soul! couldn’t spell the long words, so I did give up
using it. But since ye haven’t seen either of these two young folks for
so long, Mrs. Melmouth, why not ax ’em both to come and stop wi’ ye,
an’ see which ye do like the best? You’d soon find out then what they
was both made on, an’ I’d pick out the one as did please ye most to
leave the stockin’ to.”
“Well, there, that’s a notion,” said Becky reflectively. “I mid do
that, I mid very well do that. Easter week, Simon mid very well get a
holiday--an’ Rosy--I mid ask her mother to spare her to me at the same
time.”
“Do!” said Farmer Hunt encouragingly. “I’ll reckon ye’ll find ’tis a
very good notion.”
“I reckon I will--and thank you, Farmer, for puttin’ it into my mind.
There, I should never ha’ thought on’t.”
“Two heads is better than one, ye see,” said Mr. Hunt.
And then he locked up the stocking again, handed Mrs. Melmouth her
basket, and betook himself to his midday meal with the comfortable
sensation which follows on a good-natured act that has cost nothing.
Mrs. Melmouth left the house and trudged homewards, revolving the new
idea in her mind. Simon could have the back bedroom, and Rosy could
sleep with her; ’twas a very good notion to have ’em both together;
a man always gave a deal o’ trouble in a house, and Rosy could help
a bit. Not but what Simon must make himself useful too. His aunt
privately resolved to hold over the setting of the potatoes until he
came; the bit o’ work he might do then would go a good way towards his
keep, reflected the thrifty soul.
With much thought and care she penned her invitations that afternoon;
they were brief and to the point, intimating in each case the writer’s
wish to become better acquainted with the young relative in question.
Rosy’s answer came by return of post, written in a beautiful, round,
clear hand which did credit to her schooling, and accepting with
rapture. Simon’s reply did not come to hand for two or three days. It
was ill-spelt and ill-written on a somewhat dirty piece of ruled paper,
which looked as if it had been torn off the bottom of a bill:--
“Dear Ant,” it said, “i don’t know if i can be spaired, but if the bos
is willin i will cum. Yours truly nevew, S. FRY.”
His aunt pursed up her lips as she perused this document.
“He mid ha’ taken a bit more pains,” she said to herself; “he ha’n’t
got this out of a book, anyhow.”
It was possible, indeed, that even _The Complete Letter-Writer_ did
not contain a missive from a young man who had been asked to spend his
holidays with an aunt in the country, and that Simon, in consequence,
was thrown on his own resources.
“But he don’t seem so very anxious to come,” she thought. “He mid
ha’ said ‘Thank ye,’ too--Rosy did seem to be far more thankful. But
Simon--p’r’aps he means better nor what he says.”
With this charitable reflection Becky laid aside the letters and went
to feed her chickens.
Rosy, who was living at home, and in consequence not tied down to any
particular date, arrived a day before the other guest. She was a pretty
girl of the dark-haired, clear-skinned type so often to be seen in
Dorset; her eyes were brown like her hair, and her complexion matched
her name to a nicety. The carrier dropped her and her tin box at the
corner of the lane which led to Mrs. Melmouth’s cottage, and she came
staggering down to her aunt’s door bent in two beneath the weight of
her belongings. Mrs. Melmouth stood on the threshold and watched her.
“That’s right,” she remarked, as the girl set down her trunk and
straightened herself, breathless and laughing, “I be main glad to see
ye. Ye be sich a handy maid, my dear. There, I declare ye’ve just come
in nice time to get the tea.”
Now Rosy, who was tired and thirsty after her long jolting in the
carrier’s van, had half-expected to find tea ready. She felt a little
bewildered and slightly annoyed on being sent first to the well and
then to the woodshed, and then having to reach down the best china from
the top shelf, and, moreover, to dust it, conscious all the time of
wearing her best frock with sleeves too tight at the wrist to turn up
comfortably. It was a very crestfallen Rosy indeed who finally sat down
to partake of that particularly well-earned cup of tea.
But Mrs. Melmouth was radiant.
“To-morrow,” said she, “I’ll get ye to make that there back room ready
for my nevvy.”
“Your nephew?” echoed Rosy, somewhat taken aback.
It had been well enough surmised by the Tuffin family that Aunt Becky
had a tidy sum put by, though they were as ignorant of the precise
amount as of the receptacle in which she had stored it. The invitation
to Rosy had awakened certain half-formed hopes in the girl’s own
breast, as well as in those of her parents, and she looked very blank
at the announcement that a rival aspirant was so soon to come upon the
scene.
“Ah!” said Mrs. Melmouth, stirring her tea vigorously, “my nevvy, Simon
Fry. He be comin’ to spend his hollerday here. That room ’ull want a
good doin’ out,” she continued placidly, “an’ there’s a lot o’ wold
things there as ’ull have to be shifted afore you can get to work. But
ye can get up pretty early--it’ll be ready time enough, I dare say.
He’ll not be here much afore tea-time.”
Rosy had formed certain private plans as to the disposal of her Good
Friday; there were friends of her mother’s to visit, old playmates of
her own to look up--these, being of the same age as herself, would
doubtless have some little jaunt in view. And now the whole day was to
be spent in cleaning up for Simon Fry. Simon, who was nephew by blood
to Aunt Becky, while she was only niece by marriage--there could not be
much doubt as to who would prove the favourite. Rosy felt she had been
inveigled from her home on false pretences; it was not out of affection
that Mrs. Melmouth had sent for her, but simply to secure her help with
the housework and to make her wait upon Mr. Simon Fry.
Her aunt glanced at her sharply as she flushed and bit her lip, but
made no remark; and presently Rosy regained her good humour.
For was it not the sweetest of spring evenings, and were not the
thrushes singing in the wood just behind the cottage, and were there
not primroses in bloom on either side of the path that led to the
gate? Rosy could see them through the open door and fancied she could
smell them, and the breeze that lifted her curly hair from her brow
was refreshing after her stuffy drive and recent labours. She had come
from a back street in Sturminster, where the air was not of the same
quality, and the surroundings far less inviting.
“’Tis nice to live in the country, aunt,” said she with a bright smile.
Next morning she rose with the lark, and being strong and capable had
got Mr. Simon’s room into excellent order before breakfast. As she
made the bed she could not resist giving a vicious thump or two to the
pillow.
“Set ye up, indeed,” she murmured. “Ye may make your own bed arter
this, Mr. Dairy Chap!”
If she had hoped that her matutinal labours would leave her free for
the remainder of the day she was disappointed. Mrs. Melmouth gave her
a pressing invitation to assist her at the wash-tub, having, as she
informed her with an engaging smile, expressly saved up the dirty linen
for her that week.
“To wash on Good Friday!” exclaimed Rosy, aghast. “Dear, to be sure,
aunt, ’tis the unluckiest thing you can do.”
“Unlucky? Fiddlesticks!” retorted Mrs. Melmouth. “A good day for a good
deed--so say I.”
Rosy therefore remained immersed in suds during the greater part of
that day; and though at first she could have cried with vexation, she
soon found herself amused by the old woman’s talk; and with every fresh
excursion to the hedge her spirits went up. The air was so fresh,
the sunshine so bright, the clean, wet linen smelt quite nice, she
thought, here in the country. Then the hedge itself, with its little
red leaf-buds gaping here and there so as to show the crumpled-up baby
leaves within--it had an attraction of its own; and she could never be
tired of looking at the primroses that studded the bank beneath.
As she stood by the hedge on one occasion after having tastefully
disposed the contents of a basket on its prickly surface, she was
hailed by a voice from the road.
“Be this Widow Melmouth’s?”
The girl peered over the hedge at the speaker, her curly hair flapping
in the breeze, her cheeks pinker than ever, partly from her recent
exertions, partly from excitement. There stood a stalwart young
countryman in corduroys and leggings, a bundle in one hand, a stout
stick in the other. He had a brown, good-humoured face, with twinkling
blue eyes, and a smile that displayed the most faultless teeth in the
world.
“This be Widow Melmouth’s, bain’t it?” he repeated, altering the form
of his question.
“It be,” returned Rosy; then she nodded towards the house. “My aunt’s
inside,” said she.
Both, from opposite sides of the hedge, directed their steps towards
the gate.
“Your aunt?” said the young man. “Then we be cousins, I suppose?”
And thereupon as each paused beside the gate, and before Rosy had time
to realise his intentions, he leaned across and kissed her.
“How dare you!” cried Rosy, springing back and rubbing her cheek
vigorously, while tears of anger started to her eyes. “How dare you,
Mr. Fry? Cousins, indeed! We be no such thing, and I’ll trouble you not
to take liberties. You’ll find your aunt indoor.”
With that she stalked back to her wash-tub.
“He’s come,” she announced as she passed Mrs. Melmouth, who was engaged
in rinsing out a few fine things in a crock.
“Who? Simon! I’m glad to hear it. Ye’d best come out a minute and make
acquaintance.”
“I’ve made quite acquaintance enough,” retorted Rosy, plunging her arms
into the suds. “He’s an impudent chap!”
“I’ll go warrant you are a bit jealous,” said Mrs. Melmouth, and with a
chuckle she went forth to greet her guest.
Indeed, from the very first it seemed evident that Rosy had good cause
for jealousy. Mrs. Melmouth seemed never tired of commenting on Simon’s
likeness to her family, prefacing her remarks with the assertion that
she had always been dearly fond of Sister Mary. She further observed
two or three times during the course of the evening that blood was
certainly thicker than water, and that a body should think o’ their own
afore lookin’ round for other folks. Poor Rosy, hot and tired after
her exertions at the wash-tub, took these hints in rather evil part;
not, indeed, that she was of a grasping nature, but that she had an
indefinable feeling of having been unfairly dealt with.
Simon, however, saw nothing amiss; it was apparent that he looked upon
his visit solely and wholly as an “outing,” and had no ulterior views
as to his aunt’s testamentary dispositions. If he had ever heard of her
savings he had evidently forgotten about them; he had left home young,
and, except for the wonderful epistolary effort which he sent to his
mother each Christmas, corresponded little with his family. He admired
Rosy very much, and could not understand why she was so short in her
speech and stand-off in her manner. It was perhaps her repellent tone
and evident moodiness which caused Mrs. Melmouth to lay so much stress
on Simon’s various good qualities.
During the course of the evening young Fry remarked with a yawn and a
stretch that he intended to have a good sleep on the morrow.
“Jist about,” he added emphatically. “Ah! ’twill be summat to hear
clock strikin’ and to turn over warm an’ snug thinkin’ I needn’t get up
to drive up the cows. To-morrow’s Saturday, too--if I were yonder I’d
ha’ had to clean out fifteen pigstyes afore breakfast.”
“Think of that!” said Mrs. Melmouth. “’Tater-settin’s different,
bain’t it? Ye wouldn’t mind so much gettin’ up a bit early to set
’taters--would ye, Simon?”
Simon’s jaw dropped, and he looked ruefully at his relative.
“I thought I wer’ goin’ to have a real hollerday for once,” he said
hesitatingly. “There, if you do want me to do any little job for ye
in a small way I don’t mind doin’ of it. But settin’ ’taters! You’ve
a goodish bit o’ ground, an’ there is but the two days--I did look to
have my sleep out to-morrow,” he concluded desperately.
“I did count on ye,” persisted Mrs. Melmouth mildly. “Ah! so did I.
Said I to myself, ‘I’ll save up them ’taters ’gainst the time my nevvy
do come’--I says. ‘He be a good-natured young man,’ I says, ‘and I know
he will do what I do ax him.’ ’Tis beautiful weather for early risin’,
Simon, my dear, and you’ll feel the air so nice and fresh while you’re
workin’. I’ll have a dew-bit ready for ye. Ye won’t disapp’int me, I’m
sure.”
“Oh! I’ll not disapp’int ye,” returned Simon dolefully. “I can’t work
on Sunday, of course,” he added, brightening up a little. “That’s
summat, an’ if I work real hard to-morrow I mid have a chance o’
gettin’ off a bit on Monday. Where be the ’taters, aunt? If we was to
cut up some o’ the sets to-night, we’d get on faster to-morrow.”
“Ah, to be sure,” agreed his aunt with alacrity. “I’ll fetch a basket
of ’em in a minute, an’ Rosy there can help ye. She’ll be busy
to-morrow cleanin’ up indoor; but she’ll give you a hand to-night.”
But Rosy now felt the time had come for her to assert herself. She
glanced at the drawerful of stockings which lay on the chair beside
her, and then raised her eyes to her aunt’s face.
“I know nothin’ about cuttin’ up sets,” said she, “an’ I don’t fancy
sich work. I’ve got all this darnin’ to do. That’s enough for anybody,
I think.”
“Oh, very well,” responded Mrs. Melmouth with some dudgeon. “I’ll help
you then, Simon. I’ll fetch ’taters, an’ then I’ll help you.”
When she returned she found Simon and Rosy sitting as she had left
them, in absolute silence, Simon drumming on the table and looking
dubiously at Rosy, who darned away without raising her eyes.
“There’s an odd stocking here,” she remarked snappishly, as her aunt
sat down. “What am I to do with that?”
Mrs. Melmouth, gazing at her sternly, determined to profit by the
opportunity her niece had unconsciously presented to her, and to give
her the lesson she deserved.
“That there stockin’,” she said impressively, as she took it from the
heap and held it up for their inspection, “that there stockin’ is more
vallyable nor it do look. It is feller to one what’s worth farty pound.”
Both exclaimed and stared.
“I’ve always kep’ it for that,” resumed Mrs. Melmouth. “’Tis nigh upon
farty year old--an’ the feller to it is worth farty pound. Your uncle
and me did begin savin’ the very year we was first married, an’ I’ve
a-gone on ever since. When Melmouth died there was over thirty pound in
it. I didn’t like to have so much money about, livin’ here all alone,
so I axed Farmer Hunt to take charge on’t for me. That’s ten year ago.
Well, since then I’ve a-gone on pinchin’ an’ scrapin’, a shillin’ here,
a sixpence there, till I’ve got together nigh upon ten pound more.”
“Well, I never heerd o’ such a thing!” exclaimed Simon heartily. “Ye
must have been wonderful clever an’ contrivin’, Aunt Becky!”
“Ah, I’ll take that much credit to myself,” replied his aunt. “I do
truly think I was. But there it be now, an’ it be all to go in a lump
to one o’ you two. I mid as well tell you straight-out. ’Tis to go in a
lump--Melmouth an’ me settled it that way. ‘We saved it between us, an’
you can leave it,’ he says, ‘either to my niece or to your nevvy--but
it must go in a lump.’”
“Well, I’m sure!” said Simon; and then he looked dubiously at Rosy, who
was holding her curly head very high. “’Twas very well said o’ the wold
gentleman,” he continued lamely.
“I couldn’t make up my mind no ways,” resumed Mrs. Melmouth, “till at
last I wer’ advised to have you both here together and see for myself
which I do like the best. So if you do have to make yourselves a bit
obligin’, it’ll p’r’aps be worth your while. Ye mid be sure my choice
will fall on the most obligin’.”
Rosy smiled disdainfully and returned to her darning. It was easy to
see, she thought, on whom the choice would fall.
Simon eyed her askance, realising now the reason of the girl’s evident
aversion to himself, but he made no comment beyond an occasional
ejaculation under his breath. “Farty pound! Well now! I’m sure ’twas
very well thought on,” and the like.
Next morning, just when Simon’s slumbers were at their deepest and
sweetest, he was awakened by an imperative hammering and scratching
at the partition which separated his room from that of Mrs. Melmouth;
and thereupon dutifully, if somewhat reluctantly, he arose, and soon
afterwards found his way to the garden.
Early as it was, Rosy was already at work shaking sundry bits of
carpet, worn almost threadbare and terribly dusty.
“Let me give you a hand,” exclaimed Simon gallantly. “Sich work’s too
hard for a maid.”
“No, thank ye,” returned Rosy sharply. “I shan’t get much credit
anyway; but what I said I’d do, I’ll do,” and she gave another vicious
shake to the ragged carpet.
“I be pure sorry you should think I want to rob ye of any credit,”
observed Simon mournfully. “There, you do seem to ha’ turned again’
me terrible; and ’tis quite other-way wi’ me--I did like ’ee from the
first.”
“No thanks to ye, then!” retorted Rosy; and, snatching up a stick, she
began to belabour the mat with so meaning an air that Simon felt as if
the onslaught were committed on his own shoulders.
“I wish you’d get on with your work,” she exclaimed presently. “You’re
the favourite, and you’ll get the reward, but you mid jist so well do
summat to earn it.”
“Now look ’ee here,” said Simon, and his usually merry eyes flashed
angrily; “this here bit o’ business bain’t to my likin’ no ways. What
do I care for the wold stockin’? I can earn enough to keep myself--ah,
that I can--an’ I could keep a wife, too, if I wanted one; an’ what’s
farty pound? The wold ’ooman had best keep it to be buried with.”
“For shame!” cried Rosy. “’Tis pure ongrateful of ye to speak so, and
Aunt Becky so took up wi’ ye.”
“Well, I can’t help it,” returned the young man bluntly. “The job
bain’t to my likin’. I did come out for a hollerday, and here I be
ordered to set ’taters--an’ what’s more, I get nothin’ but cross looks
and sharp words what I don’t deserve.”
“I’m sure your aunt speaks civil enough,” said Rosy in a somewhat
mollified tone.
“An’ so she mid,” responded he promptly. “She mid very well be civil
when she do expect so much. But there’s others what’s uncivil, and
’tis that what I can’t abide. I’ve a good mind,” he added gloomily,
“to cut an’ run--yes, I have,” he cried resolutely. “I’d sooner be
cleanin’ out pigstyes nor be treated so unkind as you do treat I. But
for that matter, my mother ’ull be glad enough to see I. I’ll step
home-along--that’s the very thing I’ll do; I’ll step home-along.”
“Oh, but what will Aunt Becky say?” cried Rosy in alarm.
“Aunt Becky be blowed!” exclaimed Simon with decision. “Let her say
what she pleases. I’ll leave her an’ you to make it up together. ’Tis
more nor flesh an’ blood can stand to be treated as you’ve a-treated I
since I did come to this house.”
“Oh, please--please don’t go!” gasped the girl. “There, I really didn’t
mean--I--I--I only thought my aunt a bit unjust.”
“Well, and very like she was,” said Simon magnanimously. “I think the
money what was saved out o’ the man’s wage did ought to go to the man’s
folk. You’ve the best right to that there stockin’, Miss Rosy, and I’ll
not bide here to stand in your light.”
This was heaping coals of fire on Rosy’s pretty head with a vengeance.
She looked up in Simon’s face with a smile, though there were tears
in her eyes, and she impulsively dropped the carpet and held out two
little sunburnt hands.
“Oh, please, Mr. Fry,” she said pleadingly, “please, Simon, do stay--do
’ee now. I’ll--I’ll--I’ll never be unkind again!”
“Is that a true promise, my maid?” asked Simon very tenderly.
Mrs. Melmouth, chancing at that moment to emerge from her house with
the view of ascertaining how the young folks’ labours were progressing,
discovered them standing in this most compromising attitude; Simon
clasping both Rosy’s hands, Rosy looking earnestly into his face; and
thereupon, true to her instincts, rated the couple soundly for their
idleness. In two minutes Rosy had returned to her carpet with a flaming
face, and Simon was walking slowly towards the potato-plot. As their
aunt, still full of virtuous indignation, was returning to the house,
her nephew’s tones fell distinctly on her ear:--
“How would it be if I was to give you a hand wi’ they things first, my
maid, and then you could be helping me wi’ the sets?”
“Well, I declare,” commented Mrs. Melmouth, stopping short, “I believe
they’ve started coortin’. It do really seem like it. Well, I never!”
She was turning about in preparation for a fresh outpouring of wrath,
when she was struck by a sudden idea, and paused just as Rosy, with a
nervous glance towards herself, walked sheepishly up to Simon, trailing
the carpet behind her.
“We’d certainly get on much faster,” she said, speaking ostensibly to
Simon, but really for her aunt’s benefit.
“I d’ ’low ye would,” said Mrs. Melmouth; and suddenly her brow
cleared, and she turned once more to go indoors with a good-humoured
smile. “I d’ ’low you’ll get on fast enough--wi’ the coortin’. But that
’ud be the best way o’ settlin’ it,” she added to herself--“I’ll leave
the wold stockin’ in a lump to ’em both.”
A WOODLAND IDYLL.
It was the first Monday of August; the shops were shut in the little
town of Branston, but life in the neighbouring villages was more astir
than usual, for the men were for the most part working in their gardens
and the women stood at their doorways or by their gates to view the
passing vehicles. These were not so numerous after all--one might never
have known it was a Bank Holiday--yet every now and then a brake or a
wagonette laden with noisy folk rattled by, leaving a trail of dust to
mark its progress that lingered in a kind of cloud about the hedgerows
long after it had passed.
Two miles away on the downs, another kind of haze caught the eye of
Robert Formby as he strode across them, the golden glimmering haze
which indicates intense heat; the sun had not yet set, but its rays
struck the short herbage as though they must scorch it, and made the
white streak of road which threaded the undulating tract positively
glitter. But yonder was Oakleigh Wood, heavily green in its luxuriance
of summer foliage. As Robert swung along, with the fierce sunshine
beating on his brown neck and hands, he pictured it to himself: first,
the grove of firs with all its spicy scents streaming forth at this
hour, then the open space where the rabbits would presently frolic,
then, stretching away, the wide dense coppice of hazel and oak and ash.
He thought of the broad drives where the feet sank deep in cool lush
grass, and of the narrow and more secret paths between serried green
walls, where scarce a single burning ray might penetrate, though far,
far away at the very end of a long vista, a peep of luminous sky was to
be had.
Robert dwelt on it all, not as a poet or an artist would have dwelt
on it, revelling in its beauty, but as a man thinks of familiar and
undeniably pleasant things.
The young gamekeeper shifted his gun to the other shoulder to ease
himself, and swung his now disengaged arm, whistling as he walked.
Oakleigh Wood was situated on a Dorset down, but Robert Formby was a
North-countryman. He had probably Danish blood in his veins, for his
big, loose-limbed figure, his blue eyes and yellow hair and beard,
would seem to belong to the race; his complexion, too, had been fair
but was now bronzed, though when, impatient of the heat, he threw open
the collar of his flannel shirt, the lower part of his throat showed
white as milk.
A very energetic, sensible, clear-headed fellow was Robert, full of
zeal, and most laudably anxious to do his duty. It was this zealous
anxiety which brought him to Oakleigh Wood on this particular occasion.
It was just possible that evil-disposed persons might take advantage
of the universal relaxation to trespass in these coverts; it behoved
Robert to see to that, he conceived.
Here were the woods at length, the undulating outlines of which had
wooed him from afar with such enticing promise; Robert’s feet fell
almost noiselessly on a crumbling carpet of pine-needles, and he paused
a moment to sniff the aromatic scent approvingly; then he went on. Now
the green depths engulfed him on every side; all was gentle gloom,
exquisite undefinable fragrance; silence the more palpable because of
the never-ceasing stir which seemed to pervade it. What a variety,
what a multiplicity of scarcely perceptible noises go to make up the
breathing of the wood! The flapping of leaf against leaf, the swaying
of twigs, the rattle of falling nuts or sticks, the falling apart of
fronds of moss, the dripping of tiny drops of dew or rain, the roamings
of minute insects--each sound infinitesimal in itself, yet repeated at
thousands and millions of points--in this harmony of life and motion,
combining with but never subduing the stillness of the forest, lies its
magnetism.
Sharper sounds break the all-pervading hush from time to time without
disturbing it; the cooing of a dove, the flight of blackbird or
thrush, the tapping of a woodpecker, the croaking of a frog, the hasty
passage of a mouse through dry leaves; while the barking of a dog in
some distant village, and the clanging of sheep-bells far away seem
nevertheless to form part of the mysterious whole.
Robert pushed his hat to the back of his head, rested his gun against
a forked sapling of birch, and, taking out his pipe, was proceeding to
fill it, when he suddenly started and threw back his head, inhaling the
air with a frown. A certain acrid penetrating odour was making its way
towards him, drowning the more delicate essences of the forest growths.
“’Tis wood smoke!” said Robert, and then his brow cleared. “Mayhap
somebody is burnin’ weeds nigh to this place,” he said, and went on
filling his pipe.
But before lighting it he once more raised his head and shot a
suspicious glance down the long green vista which faced him: a faint
bluish haze seemed to cling to the over-arching boughs of the hazels.
It was not the mist of evening, for it proceeded from a certain point
about half-way up the narrow stretch, and, moreover, as Robert gazed,
little fresh wreaths came eddying forth to join the ethereal cloud
afore-mentioned. Restoring his pipe to his pocket, and catching up his
gun, Robert strode off in this direction as rapidly as the narrowness
of the path and the breadth of his shoulders would admit of. He had
indeed to proceed in a curious sidelong fashion, turning now the right
shoulder forward, now the left, so that he looked almost as if he
were dancing. The cloud of smoke increased in volume as he advanced,
and presently he could actually hear the hissing of flames and the
crackling and snapping of twigs; and now bending low, and peering
beneath the interlaced branches, he could see the fire itself. A rather
large beech-tree stood in the middle of the massed saplings, with a
small open space around it. In the centre of this space a fire was
burning briskly, and by the side of the fire a girl sat with her elbows
resting on her knees and her chin sunk in her hands. Her hat was hung
on one of the beech-boughs, and a small open basket lay beside her,
from beneath the raised lid of which protruded the brown spout of a
teapot.
“My word!” said Robert to himself.
Lowering his head he made a dive beneath the branches, pushing some
aside and breaking down others in his impetuous advance, and in another
moment, straightening himself, he stood beside the girl, frowning at
her sternly. She raised her head and looked at him with the action and
something of the expression of a startled deer; indeed her full dark
eyes seemed to carry out the comparison. She was a very pretty girl--so
much Robert saw at a first glance, yet the sight of her left him
entirely unmollified.
“What are you doing here?” he inquired roughly. “You’re trespassin’--d’ye
know that? I’ve a good mind to summons ye!”
The girl scrambled to her feet; she was slender and tall, her clinging
pink cotton gown defining the shapeliness of her form.
“I wasn’t doin’ any harm,” she returned with a pout.
Robert strode across the intervening space, and kicked wrathfully at
the fire which was cunningly composed of sticks and fir-cones.
“Oh, don’t!” cried the girl eagerly, “don’t! You’ll spoil my ’taters!”
“’Taters indeed!” retorted Robert, but he drew back the great boot
which he had uplifted for the second time.
“Who gave you leave to come picnicking up here? I s’pose you’re
expectin’ a lot more trespassin’ folks same as yourself?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head sorrowfully. “I was just a-havin’ a
little party for myself--I didn’t think no harm.”
“A tea-party all to yourself,” said Formby, and in spite of him, face
and voice relaxed, “why, that’s dull work!”
“Everybody do seem to be merry-makin’ to-day,” she went on, with a
little toss of the head that contradicted a certain quiver in her
voice. “I thought I’d come out too, and take my tea here. I don’t hurt
nothin’. I d’ ’low the wild things do know me quite well. I often walk
here of an evenin’ and the rabbits scarce run out of my road. I do
whoot like the owls and they do answer me back, and bats come flyin’
round my head--I often fancy I could catch ’em if I had a mind to.”
“Do ye?” said Robert.
He was bending down, resting a hand on either knee, and peering up at
her with a twinkle in his eye. She nodded, and dropping on her knees
beside the fire began to draw together the embers with a crooked stick,
and to turn over the potatoes.
“They be very near done now,” she said; “this one be quite done--will
ye try it?”
Sitting back upon her heels she held it out to him with a timid smile.
Robert, shaking his head half-waggishly, half-dubiously, took it from
her.
“’Tisn’t right, ye know,” he protested, “nay, ’tisn’t right. I didn’t
ought to be encouragin’ of ye in such ways.”
“I’ve got some salt here,” cried she, rummaging in her basket and
bringing forth a twisted paper which she unfolded and held out, poised
on her little pink palm.
Robert deliberately sat down, broke the potato in two, and dipped one
of the smoking halves in the salt.
“Ye mustn’t do this no more,” he remarked severely; “nay, I’m not
encouragin’ of ye, ye understand; ’tisn’t allowed--this here’s a
warnin’.” Here he took a bite out of the potato--“Ye can be summonsed
next time.”
The girl deposited the paper of salt upon the ground, and, extracting
another potato from the ashes, proceeded to peel it deftly with a
pocket-knife.
“Have ye got tea in that there basket?” inquired Robert, still sternly.
“’Tisn’t made yet,” she replied, “but kettle ’ull boil in a minute.”
She pulled the basket towards her and unpacked it with great rapidity.
“So that’s the kettle, is it?” commented Robert, as a sooty object came
to light, partially enveloped in a newspaper. He weighed it in his
hand. “There’s nought in it--eh, I see you’ve got water in yon bottle.
Shall I fill it?”
She nodded, and then making a pounce on a small bottle of milk,
endeavoured to uncork it. As the cork did not yield, she was preparing
to loosen it with her teeth when Robert interposed.
“Here, hand o’er! What mun ye go breakin’ your teeth for,” he inquired
gruffly; “ye’ll noan find it so easy to get more when they’re
gone--more o’ the same mak’ as how ’tis. They’re as white as chalk--and
chalk’s easy broke.”
He produced a large clasp-knife, and selecting a corkscrew from the
multiplicity of small implements which were attached to it, drew out
the cork with a flourish. But the sight of the knife, which had been a
present from his former master, recalled graver thoughts, and it was in
a harsh admonitory tone that he next spoke:--
“’Tis all very well for once,” he said; “this ’ere tay-party mun be
overlooked for this time, I reckon; but there mun be no more on ’em. Do
ye hear, lass? These ’ere woods is private, and Squire doesn’t intend
no young wenches to go trapesin’ about in ’em o’ neets, talkin’ to the
owls and that. I doubt ye don’t go lookin’ for bats and owls alone,”
went on the keeper in a tone of ferocious banter. “I doubt some young
chap----”
“Oh, don’t!” interrupted she, flushing fiery red, “I can’t bear it!”
And to his surprise and distress she burst into tears.
“Eh, don’t ye cry, my lass!” he exclaimed with deep concern. “Whatever
have I said to hurt ye? I ax your pardon. I meant no harm--no harm at
all. Give over, there’s a good lass.”
The girl sobbed on, with averted face. Robert looked distractedly
round, and his glance fell upon the kettle which was boiling cheerfully.
“She’d like her tea,” he said, confidentially addressing this
kettle--“a sup o’ tea ’ull put her to rights. Come we’ll make it in a
minute.”
He reached for the teapot, rinsed it, dropped the contents of another
little twisted paper into it, and poured in the boiling water.
“Don’t fill it quite full,” said the girl, turning sharply round, and
displaying a tear-stained face which was nevertheless alight with
interest.
“Oh, mustn’t I fill it? I always fill mine right up to the brim.”
“Have you got nobody to do for you then?”
“Nay, I’m a single man. I have lodgin’s over yonder, but I do for
myself mostly.”
He paused looking at the girl curiously. “You never told me your name,”
he said.
“You did never ax me,” she said with a dawning smile. “My name’s
Rebecca Masters. I live down there, just at the foot of the hill, wi’
my grandmother.”
“Father and mother livin’?” inquired Formby.
“No, they died when I was quite a little thing.”
“My father’s livin’ right enough,” he volunteered. “He’s a fine old
chap, my father is.”
“You’re Keeper Formby, bain’t ye?” inquired Rebecca with interest.
“Eh! ye know me, do ye? A good few folks do, I doubt.” Here Robert drew
himself up; he felt what was due to himself as a public character and
once more his voice took a graver inflection. “Now, see you, my lass,
you mustn’t coom here again.”
“I’m to have nothin’, an’ to do nothin’,” broke out Rebecca
passionately. “’Tis the only thing I care for, comin’ here where I did
use to walk when--when I was happy.”
Robert paused with a potato midway to his mouth.
“Is he dead?” he inquired in a tone of respectful sympathy.
“Who?”
“Your young man.”
“No,” she returned sharply, adding unwillingly, as if in response to
his expectant gaze, “he’s gone away.”
Robert pulled thoughtfully at his yellow beard, his blue eyes looking
very kind and sympathetic the while.
“P’r’aps he’ll coom back,” he hazarded after a moment.
“No, no, never!” she cried brokenly; then in a curiously hard voice
and with a sudden flash in her eyes--“What do I care if he does? He’s
nothin’ to me now--nothin’. He’s gone an’ left me wi’out so much as a
word--just took an’ walked off. And he’ve never wrote either--not so
much as a word. He mid be dead only I do know he bain’t.”
Formby continued to contemplate her, still stroking that fine yellow
beard of his.
“Poor lass! poor lass!” he said at last. “And ’tis a comfort to you, is
it, to coom walkin’ here? Well, see you, my dear, you can coom here as
often as ye like about this time. I’m pretty often here mysel’ then,
and ’twouldn’t be same thing as if you was trespassin’. Ye mustn’t
bring no young chaps here, though,” he added after a pause. “I doubt
they’ll want to come, however little you might want them. You’re a
bonny lass--as bonny a lass as ever I see in all my days!”
She heaved an impatient sigh.
“I did tell ’ee plain as I don’t want nobody,” she cried. “Much good it
do do me to be nice when----”
“Is there no other man at all i’ th’ world?” inquired Robert.
“Not for me,” returned Rebecca.
Kneeling up, she began hastily to collect the tea-things, and Robert,
leaning forward, pushed them towards her with willing clumsy hands.
Then he rose to his feet.
“I’m fain to hear ye say there’s no other man, my wench,” he said, “but
p’r’aps somebody ’ull coom.”
“What d’ye mean?”
“Somebody ’ull begin coortin’ ye afore long,” he returned with
conviction; “it might just as well be me as another. If there’s nobody
else, why not me?”
Rebecca now rose to her feet.
“I don’t want anybody,” she said.
“Somebody ’ull coom,” reiterated Robert, “an’ why not me? Coom, my
lass, I ax ye straight. Will ye give me the first chance? Honest now!
I like ye very well, an’ I doubt I’ll soon like ye better. ’Tisn’t in
nature as a lass same as you can be for ever thinkin’ of a chap as has
showed no more feelin’ nor your chap has. Ye must tak’ another soon or
late. Tak’ me--ye’ll not rue it.”
“I can’t settle to do such a thing all in a hurry,” cried Rebecca
petulantly. “I’ve never set eyes on you before.”
“Nor me on you,” returned Robert, “but I feel as if I could like ye
very well. Give me first chance--I don’t ax for nought else. Let’s walk
a bit an’ see how we get on; but you must give me your word not to take
up wi’ nobody else while I’m on trial.”
“Oh, I can do that,” said she, and suddenly began to laugh. The little
white teeth which had already called forth Robert’s admiration, showed
bewitchingly; a dimple peeped out near the lip, another in the chin.
Robert gazed at her rapturously. “I like ye very well. Eh, my word,
that I do! ’Tis a bargain--a proper bargain!”
He had possessed himself of one of her little sunburnt hands, and was
shaking it up and down; as she laughed on, he drew her to him suddenly;
but at that she started back, striking out at him like a little wild
cat.
“None of that,” she cried, “I’ll never ha’ nothin’ to say to ye, if you
do try to do things like that.”
“Eh, I ax your pardon,” faltered Robert, much abashed. “I didn’t mean
no harm, my dear--’tisn’t reckoned no harm at all up i’ th’ North when
folks begins coortin’. You did look so bonny--an’ I just reckoned
’twould give us a good start like.”
“I won’t have it then!” she broke out violently.
She stooped over her basket, packing away the remainder of the
tea-things with a certain amount of unnecessary clatter. Robert, whose
proffered help was curtly declined, stood by dejectedly till she had
concluded, when, snatching up the basket, she darted suddenly from
his side, and bending her head rushed into the track. He immediately
followed her, carrying her hat which she had left suspended on the
branch.
“You’re forgettin’ this,” he began diffidently. “Now then, lass, coom!
This didn’t ought to make no difference. Will ye gie me a straight
answer?”
Rebecca had deposited her basket on the ground and was putting on her
hat with trembling fingers.
“I’ll think of it,” she stammered. “You must be respectful though.”
A dark flush overspread Robert’s face.
“I didn’t mean nought but what was respectful,” he said, “and ye’ve no
need to think so much as that cooms to. It must be Yes or No. I could
never bear shilly-shally work. Yes or No--take me or leave me--on
trial of course. I only ax to be took on trial.”
“Well, then, I will,” she said in a low voice. “I d’ ’low you are a
good man, and as you do say I--I can’t always be so lonesome.”
She paused a moment with downcast eyes; then, taking up her basket
again, turned away.
Robert stood stock still, watching her receding figure as it flitted
away down the long alley. The sun had now set, and the woods were
enveloped in even deeper mystery than that which had possessed them
a little while ago; leafage and branch were inextricably mingled;
yonder tiny object in the path might either be a rabbit or a stump; but
Rebecca’s light dress defined her flying figure amid the gloom which
otherwise would have engulfed her. Her shape showed white at first,
then grey, as it receded farther, until at last it stood out for a
moment almost black against the still glowing peep of sky which showed
between the over-arching boughs at the farther end; then it vanished
altogether. Even then Robert remained gazing after her, and at length
he heaved a deep sigh.
“Yon chap,” he said, “him as was her sweetheart--I wonder if she was so
stand-off wi’ him.”
The query seemed to open up an unpleasant train of thought; he struck
at the sod with the heel of his heavy boot and frowned. “I’d ha’ summat
to say to him if ever I comed across him,” he muttered; and then turned
to continue on his beat.
“I never see a bonnier lass,” he said presently in a softer tone; “poor
lass--how pitiful she looked at me; I could do wi’ her very well--’tis
to be hoped as she’ll mak’ up her mind to do wi’ me.”
A bat twinkled round his head as he emerged into the open, a host of
rabbits scurried away at his heavy footfall.
“And all they dumb things love her,” meditated Robert. “’Tis along of
her bein’ so innocent-like! Eh, she’s a flower.”
Soon he, too, had left the woods behind, and was marching across the
solitary down, grey at this hour save on the upper slopes, where the
short grass still caught some faint remnant of the rosy after-glow.
Night creatures were stirring in every thicket that he passed, and as
the dull thud of his step fell upon the resonant ground it caused a
flutter and commotion amid the drowsy children of the day, which had
taken shelter there, deeming themselves secure from disturbance. A
rustle of wings, a patter of tiny feet, a sleepy twitter, the shriek of
a blackbird, the heavy beat of a startled pigeon’s wings as it darted
blindly from its ambush--Robert held on his way without noticing any of
these things, and presently darkness and liberty reigned undisturbed in
the many-peopled waste.
For many subsequent evenings he visited Oakleigh Wood at the specified
time, but, though he patrolled it from end to end, and strained his
eyes in vain for a glimpse of Rebecca Masters, not so much as a flutter
of her skirts rewarded his patient gaze.
Then, one day he suddenly heard an unwonted noise proceed from a corner
of the copse. An owl was hooting intermittently; every now and then
there came a pause, and then the cry would be sent forth again. Now,
though the bats had been circling about for some time, it was as yet a
little early for an owl to be abroad; and, struck by a sudden thought,
Robert set off running in the direction whence the sound proceeded,
imitating the call to the best of his ability. As he expected, he
found Rebecca standing with her hands curved round her mouth, sending
forth the eerie cry. Her back was towards him, and it was not until
the ground vibrated beneath his rapid advance, that she perceived his
advent.
“Dear, to be sure, how you did frighten me!” she cried, turning round
with a little spring of terror.
“Did I?” said he. “You know you told me you often hooted to the owls
and they answered ye back. I thought _I’d_ answer ye--I thought I’d
coom.”
She did not speak, though he stood towering over her expectantly.
“Now I’m here must I bide?” he inquired.
“E-es, if you’ve a mind to.”
He thrust his hands into his pocket and drew out a cluster of
half-ripened nuts.
“Ye can bite into ’em,” he said; “they’ll not hurt your teeth.”
Then he dived into his other pocket and held something towards her
cautiously; curled up in his brown palm was a very small dormouse,
sound asleep.
“’Tis for you,” he remarked briefly, “I’ve been carrying it about three
days and more, knowin’ as you’d a likin’ for such things. ’Tis a mercy
I’ve lit on ye at last, else it ’ud maybe be dead.”
This was Robert Formby’s mode of courting. It appeared to be
successful, for Rebecca looked up at him with a bright smile.
“’Tis real good o’ ye,” she said. “There, I think it awful kind.”
“I’ve got some shells at home,” he went on, brightening up amazingly.
“Do ye like shells?”
“Sea-shells?” she inquired.
“Ah! little shells as lays upo’ the beach when tide goes down. I picked
up a two-three handfuls when I wer’ last at home.”
Rebecca looked up from the dormouse, which she had been breathing upon
to warm it, as it lay curled in her hand. “Is your home near the sea
then?”
“Aye--right among the sand-hills. I used to hear tide come roarin’ in
last thing o’ nights and first thing o’ morns when I were a lad. My
mother used to send me out to fetch in drift for our fire--there’s
always a lot o’ wood an’ chips an’ straw an’ stuff washed up upon the
shore, an’ I used to fill a basket in no time. Eh, in winter it used
to be nippin’ cold! Many a time I’d find my sticks all froze together.
’Tis pretty nigh always sharp up yonder; always a wind blowin’ fresh
and free and salty on your mouth.”
“Be it a nice place?”
“Well, I think it bonny--not same as this is bonny, though. There’s
sand-hills runnin’ all along the shore, some big and some little, wi’
star-grass growin’ over ’em. An’ t’other side o’ the hills there’s
the plain country--fields an’ that. Soil’s light, but crops does
wonderful well, an’ there’s woods, and little dykes an’ pits nigh to
the woods--eh, many’s the big snig I’ve catched!”--he paused, rubbing
his hands with retrospective relish--“but ’tisn’t not to say bonny same
as ’tis about here,” he concluded.
“There, it do seem strange as I’ve never so much as had a sight o’ the
sea,” said Rebecca. “They d’ say there’s a good view o’ Poole Harbour
from Bulbarrow, but I’ve never been there.”
“Happen I might take ye there some day,” suggested Robert. “Bulbarrow!
that’s not so far.”
A certain startled look in the girl’s eyes warned him that he was going
too fast and he hastily changed the subject, embarking on a somewhat
incoherent account of his childish adventures among the sand-hills. He
went on to describe the dunes themselves more minutely, and then the
river which ran along the shore so sluggishly that, however blue and
clear the distant sea might be, the waves that broke upon the beach
were always brown and muddy.
“That’s not nice,” said Rebecca.
“Nay,” acquiesced Robert unwillingly; “nay, I suppose not, but I liked
it well enough.”
“Better than this?” asked the girl quickly.
The man’s sea-blue eyes looked straight into her face.
“Not now,” he said.
Next day when he came to Oakleigh Wood at the usual hour he made
straight for the spot where he had heard the fictitious owl-hooting on
the previous evening; and his heart leaped high when a repetition of
the sound fell upon his ear. A few of his rapid strides brought him to
the spot: Rebecca was standing beneath the beech-tree, as before, but
so as to face the path, and as he approached she dropped her hand by
her side with a little laugh.
“I knowed it was you,” said Robert breathlessly.
“I did it a-purpose,” said she.
His face lit up with tender triumph. It was as though some timid
creature of the woods had been coaxed within reach of a friendly hand;
its shyness was vanishing, but dared he as yet take hold?
He asked himself this question many times during their subsequent
meetings; the girl would prattle to him confidently enough, and seemed
interested in all his doings, past and present, but an impenetrable
reserve took possession of her whenever he tried to speak about
herself, and once when he offered to accompany her home, she curtly
refused.
“Folks ’ud get talkin’,” she said.
Midway in September, Robert thought it time to put matters on a more
business-like footing. With every day that passed he had fallen more
deeply in love, and it seemed to him only right that their intercourse
should be recognised as courtship proper--the necessary preliminary to
matrimony.
He approached the trysting-place with a serious face therefore, and, as
was his way, came to the point at once.
“We’ve been walkin’ nigh upon seven week now,” he remarked. “Do ye
think ye can do wi’ me, lass?”
Rebecca turned sharply towards him with that frightened look in her
eyes which he had learned to accept as a warning. This time, however,
he was not to be deterred from his purpose, and went on, very gently
but steadily:--
“Ye took me on trial, ye know. Will I do, think you?”
“Do for what?” she faltered.
“For a husband, my dear. Ye’ve no need to be scared. I don’t want to
hurry ye, but I think ’tis time to put the question straight. I’ve been
coortin’ you reg’lar. Coom, will ye wed me?”
“Oh, no,” cried Rebecca, darting suddenly away from him, “no, no,
never! I don’t want to get married--I don’t--I never said I would.”
Robert followed her and took her gently by the shoulders.
“There! No need to be so scared, my wench. Nobody ’ull force ye--don’t
think it. I did but ax--but we’ll say no more about it--not for a bit,
till ye get more used to the notion. I’m content to bide as we are.
There now! Give over tremblin’. I’ll not hurt ye. See, you’re as free
as the birds.”
He removed his hands from her shoulders and smiled: this woodland thing
was only half-tamed after all; he must be patient with it still, but he
dreamed of the time when it would come at his call and nestle in his
breast.
Autumn advanced rapidly that year--a golden luxuriant autumn, ablaze
with colour and lavish with fruit. The thorn-trees upon the downs were
laden with berries, the bryony flung long graceful tendrils from side
to side of the thickets, chains of transparent gold, bearing here
a beryl, and there a topaz, and there a coral bead. The blackberry
brambles displayed their wealth in more wholesale fashion, for their
clusters were now entirely black and now red. The days were still hot
enough to cause Robert to throw open coat and shirt-collar when he
crossed the down, but the nights were cold; a thick dew coated the
grass, almost a white frost. In the secret recesses of the copse, where
the sun scarcely penetrated, lay silvery patches by day as well as by
night.
One afternoon Robert came gaily to the accustomed meeting-place, but
found no one there.
“I’m a bit early,” he said to himself; “I’ll have a look round and then
come back. I think she’ll wait--ah, I reckon she’d wait a bit for me
now. She’s gettin’ used to me. I reckon she’s gettin’ to take to me.”
Smiling to himself he left the wider track and turned aside into one of
the narrower alleys before described. The leaves were yellowing here
on either side; and the grass beneath his feet was covered with thick
rime. As he edged himself along it, lost in meditation, he suddenly
stopped short, gazing fixedly at the ground. Its hoary surface bore
traces of recent footsteps: a man’s footsteps--and a woman’s. They
stared up at Robert as it seemed to him, and all at once, though he
had been glowing with health and happiness a moment before, he fell
a-shivering.
He knew the little foot that made those tracks--only the week before
he had laughed admiringly as he had marked its impression in the dew.
A little foot--and a great one side by side with it. A man’s foot! How
close they must have walked there in the narrow path!
Robert’s shivering fit ended as suddenly as it had begun, and the blood
coursed madly through his veins--hot enough now--boiling hot. His
fingers closed tightly round his gun and he rushed forward, brushing
aside the close-growing branches, on, on, never stopping, yet keeping
his eyes fixed all the time upon those tell-tale tracks. Now they
were lost in one another, now they were interlaced, now quite distinct
and separate, side by side. He stopped short when he came to the
junction of the path with the wider one in which it merged, a path
which traversed the wood from end to end. Robert cast a hasty glance to
left and to right and stood transfixed. Yonder where the green roadway
abutted on the down he saw two figures standing out dark against the
lambent evening sky--a tall and slender woman, a taller man. As he
gazed transfixed he saw the man stoop and gather the woman in his arms;
and then the two parted, the man walking away across the grass, the
woman turning to the right and disappearing into the wood.
“She’s comin’ to our beech-tree,” said Robert to himself; “she’s comin’
to meet me.”
And for the moment he saw the world red.
He too turned and began to stride fiercely towards the trysting-place.
As he entered the wider track he stopped and looked to his gun. But
one barrel was loaded. He twisted round his cartridge bag, and with
impatient, trembling fingers found the cartridge for the other barrel.
He reached the beech-tree first and stood gripping his gun tight and
glaring up the path, still through that red haze.
All at once he saw her coming, very slowly, with her head bent.
Half-hidden by the tree-trunk he waited, motionless as a statue, for
her to give the accustomed signal; at the first sound of it he would
shoot her through the heart.
She came quite near, raised her head, and sighed.
Then the keeper made a step towards her; his grip on the gun relaxed.
“You here already?” she asked, and turning towards him laid her little
hands upon his breast. It was the first time she had ever voluntarily
touched him, and the man started and flushed.
“Robert,” she said falteringly. “I--I--want to tell ’ee summat.”
Then his great chest heaved and the gun dropped from his hand.
“Eh, bless you for that word, my lass!” he cried brokenly. “I reckoned
you meant to cheat me.”
“Then you do guess?” stammered Rebecca. “Oh, Robert--’tis Jim. He be
come back--he only went away to get work after all.”
Robert’s heart leaped up with an odd mixture of anguish and joy. It was
her sweetheart--“the only man in the world”. Who could blame the lass?
“Ah,” he said unsteadily, “coom back, is he? It’s right then. You be in
the right to stick to him if he’ll stick to you.”
“Oh, e-es,” returned the girl quickly, “he’ve a-come back for that--he
do want us to get married at once.”
A spasm crossed Robert’s face. “You’re not afeard now, I see,” he said.
“Oh, I can’t help it, I can’t help it,” she cried. “I love him best--I
did al’ays love him best, but I--I--oh, Robert, I be so sorry!”
He drew down her hands and gently shook them; then he let them drop.
“It’s right,” he said, “ye’ve no need to fret yoursel’, my lass--you’re
a good lass--I give ye j’y.”
He stooped and picked up his gun, half-absently unloading it, and
dropping the cartridges into his pocket. Then he turned towards Rebecca
again.
“I’ll say good afternoon,” he said.
Rebecca extended her hand with a sob, and he shook it once more.
“Good afternoon,” he repeated, and left her.
The sun had not yet quite set as he crossed the open space that lay
between the woods proper and the outlying grove of fir-trees; its
level shafts struck the ruddy trunks of these and ran along the lower
branches, turning the very needles into fire; the aromatic scent gushed
forth, strong and sweet. Yonder the downs were all ablaze in the same
transitory glow; the distant hills were sapphire and amethyst, the
nearer woods a very glory of autumn tints and sunset fires. Robert
stood still as he emerged into the open; his heart was swelling to
suffocation, his eyes smarting with unshed tears. They are children of
nature, these burly Northmen, and he would have been fain to weep now,
though he had not wept since that far-away day when, as a little lad,
he had seen them lay his mother in the grave. A great loathing of the
beauty and the radiance and the sweetness which had encompassed his
dead dream, came upon him; in his actual physical oppression he thought
with a sick longing of the pure tart air blowing over the dunes at
home; the tall bleak dunes, all sober grey and green; the brown waves
leaping in upon the tawny shore.
“I reckon I’ll shift,” said Robert.
And early on the following morning, when the yellowing leaves of
Oakleigh Wood were catching the first rays of the sun, Robert Formby
took to the road, with his face turned northwards.
THE CARRIER’S TALE.
“E-es, I d’ ’low I do see a-many queer things while I be a-goin’ o’
my rounds, year in, year out, every Tuesday an’ Friday so reg’lar as
clockwork--only when Christmas Day do fall on a Friday, or Boxin’ Day,
an’ then I do have to put it off. E-es, I do often say to Whitefoot
when he an’ me be joggin’ along; ‘Whitefoot,’ I d’ say, ‘if you an’ me
was to get a-talkin’ of all we’ve a-seen in our day, Lard! we could
tell some funny tales.’ Whitefoot do seem to take jist so much notice
as what I do do--he be the knowin’est mare in the country. There! ye
midn’t notice as he be a-goin’ along a bit unwillin’ to-day, same as
if he hadn’t a-got much heart in him; ’tis because he knows so well
as me what day ’tis--Friday, d’ye see? He d’ know he’ll have to bring
back a heavy load. Fridays we calls at Brewery for two or three cases
o’ bottled beer--we do bring ’em full o’ Fridays up to Old’s, at
Graychurch--right a-top o’ the hill--an’ we do fetch back empties o’
Tuesdays, an’ then ye should jist see Whitefoot a-steppin’ along.
“E-es, we do see all sorts o’ things, an’ we do hear all kind o’ talk.
Miffs do go on many a time under that there wold green shed. When I do
hear folks a-havin’ words one wi’ t’other, I do never take notice if I
can help it. Sometimes they’ll be for drawin’ me in. ‘Don’t ye think
so, Jan?’ one ’ull say; and then another ’ull go, ‘I’m sure Jan ’ull
agree wi’ I’. An’ I do always make the same answer, ‘Settle it among
yourselves, good folks,’ says I; ‘I don’t take zides wi’ one nor yet
wi’ t’other. ’Tis my business for to drive, an’ I do do that,’ I do
tell ’em, ‘and don’t interfere wi’ nothin’ else.’
“One day I d’ mind, Mrs. Collins, what fell out wi’ her darter for
marryin’ some chap down to Bere--dalled if she didn’t meet the young
woman plump in my cart! And they hadn’t been speaking for above a year.
“You see, ’twas this way. I took up Mary--that’s the darter--an’ her
little child--a hinfant it was, not above four or five month old; I
took ’em up first, an’ we was goin’ along the road Branston-ways, an’
it was gettin’ darkish when the wold lady met us.
“‘Can you make room for me, Jan?’ she says. ‘I bain’t so young as I
was, an’ I’ve a-got a pair o’ new boots what do fair lame me.’
“‘To be sure, mum,’ says I. ‘Up wi’ ye; you can set along of I,’ I
says, ‘here in front. There bain’t much room under the shed.’
“Well, she sits her down, an’ all of a minute the little baby under
the shed begins a-cryin’, an’ poor Mary she begins a-hushin’ of it an’
a-talkin’ to it; and soon as ever the wold ’ooman hears her voice she
gives a great start what very nearly throws her off the seat.
“‘Studdy, mum,’ says I; ‘if you do go a-jumpin’ up an’ down like that
we’ll be a-droppin’ of ye into the road,’ I says.
“She made no answer and never turned her head.
“Well, the baby kep’ on a-cryin’ and a-cryin’--it had been vaccinated
or some such thing--an’ the mother kep’ hushin’ it, an’ at last the
wold ’ooman couldn’t hold out no longer.
“‘Give I that child, Mary,’ says she, sharp-like. ‘I d’ ’low you don’t
know how to hold it,’ she says. ‘’Tis a shame to let a pore little
hinfant scream like that. I d’ ’low ’twill do itself a mischief.’
“‘Oh, mother,’ says poor Mary; an’ she begins to cry herself as she
hands over the child.
“Well, soon as ever Mrs. Collins had a-got hold o’ the little thing,
an’ got the little face up again hers an’ began singin’ to it, an
pattin’ it, an’ rockin’ it, it _did_ stop cryin’--’twas a knowin’
little thing, that baby, I did al’ays say afterwards, for ’twas that
done the job. The wold body was so pleased as could be.
“‘Didn’t I say you didn’t know how to hold it?’ says she. ‘’Tis a very
fine child too,’ she says.
“And then, ‘oh, mother,’ says Mary, ‘I did so want ye to see it.’
“And so they made friends straight off, and Mary went home wi’ her
mother to tea.
“Coortin’? Well, we don’t see so much o’ that--not these times. The
young chaps be all for bicylin’ these days; they wouldn’t be bothered
wi’ travellin’ in my cart. But I do mind one queer thing what happened
many years ago now--dally! ’twas the very queerest thing as ever I
knowed, or did happen in these parts.
“’Twas one Tuesday. I wur jist puttin’ in Whitefoot, an’ a few o’ my
fares was a-standin’ about waitin’ for I to be ready to start, when I
see a great big fellow marchin’ down the hill from Old’s.
“‘Goin’ Branston-way?’ says he with a nod to I.
“‘E-es,’ I says, ‘I be goin’ Branston-way. Be you a stranger?’ says I.
‘All the folks as lives about here do know as Branston is my way.’
“‘I’m a stranger and I’m not a stranger,’ says he. ‘My folks used
to live here. I used to live with my grandfather up yonder at
Whitethorns,’ he says. ‘He was called old Jesse Taylor--d’ye mind him?’
“‘I mind him very well,’ says I. ‘A fine wold fellow.’
“‘Well, I come here to have a look at his grave,’ says the young chap.
‘’Twas a notion I had.’
“‘Let me see,’ says I, turnin’ round to look at ’en as I were
a-climbin’ into the cart, for Whitefoot was hitched by this time,
‘let me see who mid you be then? Wold Taylor had nigh upon farty
grandchildren--I heard ’en say so many a time.’
“‘Oh, I’m one of Abel’s lot,’ says he; ‘Abel Taylor was my father’s
name. He emigrated wi’ half a dozen of us when I was a little lad no
higher than the shaft there; my name is Jim Taylor. I have spent most
of my life in the States; I scarce call myself a Britisher now,’ says
he.
“‘Dear, to be sure,’ says Mrs. Mayne, what was a-standin’ by, ‘’tis
very sad for to hear ye say that, Mr. Taylor. Ye must feel very
mournful havin’ to live out abroad.’
“‘I don’t know that,’ says he. He was a honest, good-natured-lookin’
chap, but when he says ‘I don’t know that’ he looked real melancholy.
There; ye’d think some awful misfortune had happened. ‘I don’t know
that,’ he says; ‘there’s good and bad all over the world, and there’s
as much bad as good in England, I guess.’
“He had a funny way o’ talking: ‘I guess,’ he says, meanin’ for to say
‘I d’ ’low’.
“They was all in the cart by this time, an’ Whitefoot was a-trottin’
out so brisk as could be. He was a young mare then, and ’twas a
Tuesday, as I say, an’ he knowed he’d have only the empties to carry
along.
“Wold Maria Robbins was a-sittin’ jist behind Jim Taylor--a great
talker she was, al’ays ready to gossip about her neighbours. She did
sit a-starin’ an’ a-starin’ at this here Jim Taylor till I reckon he
felt her eyes fixed on ’en, for he turns round smilin’ wi’ some talk
about the weather. But ’twasn’t the weather as Maria did want to be
talkin’ on.
“‘I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor,’ says she, ‘as you’ve a-been disappointed like
in your country,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry England didn’t come up to your
expectations.’
“He laughed and began pulling at his girt brown beard.
“‘’Twill maybe l’arn me not to expect too much,’ he says.
“‘I’ll go warrant ’twas a maid what played some trick on ye,’ says
Maria, a-turnin’ her head on one side same as an old Poll-parrot.
“‘Maids be tricky things,’ says he; but he didn’t give her no more
satisfaction.
“Well, Mrs. Mayne, what was a-sitting on the t’other side o’ the cart,
was jist as anxious to pick all she could out of ’en, an’ says she,
pokin’ out her head from under the shed:--
“‘I d’ ’low,’ she says, ‘there isn’t many English maids as would fancy
the notion of goin’ out abroad to get married. Most English maids,’
says she, ‘likes to settle down near their own folks, an’ not be tolled
off amongst strangers.’
“The wold ’ooman had jist knocked the nail on the head. The chap turns
round about again wi’ his back to ’em both, an’ the dark look on his
face.
“‘Folks are free to please themselves,’ says he, arter a bit, ‘but they
should know their own minds. It shouldn’t be “I will” one day and “I
won’t” the next.’
“Well, he didn’t seem in the humour to talk much after this, and we did
drive on half a mile or so wi’out openin’ our lips, till all at once we
came to a turn in the road, and there was a lot o’ folks a-waitin’ for
I.
“’Twas Meadway what lives down there in the dip, an’ his wife, an’
three or four of his sons an’ daughters, an’ a couple o’ chaps what
works for ’en; they was all gathered round his niece, Tamsine, as was
standin’ waiting for I, dressed very nice for travellin’.
“They was makin’ sich a din when I pulled up a body could scarce hear
hisself speak.
“‘Up wi’ the box,’ says one, a-tossin’ it up a’most afore I could get
my feet out o’ the way. ‘Here be thy band-box, maidie,’ says another.
‘Now, Jan, make room. Good luck, my dear.’
“’Twas old Tom Meadway as did say that, an’ he no sooner let fall the
word than the whole lot of ’em took it up. ’Twas ‘Good luck’ here, and
‘Good luck’ there, and the poor maid pulled about from one side to the
other, an’ sich kissin’ I thought she’d be in pieces afore I did have
her in my cart.
“At last she got in. Maria did have to go and sit next Mrs. Mayne, and
Tamsine Meadway took her place behind Jim Taylor, what sat next I.
“‘Drop us a line so soon as you get to the other side,’ says Mrs.
Meadway.
“‘Mind ye tell us what he’s like,’ cries one o’ the maids.
“‘Lard, Tamsine,’ says another, ‘I could wish I was you.’
“Then they did all start a-cheerin’, an’ two of ’em popped their heads
in under the shed, laughin’ fit to split, and throwin’ somethin’ at the
poor maid, an’ she jumps up an’ throws it out again, an’ then another
maid comes an’ throws a handful o’ summat almost into her face.
“‘Come,’ says I, ‘I’d best be gettin’ on, or they’ll make an end on ye,
maidie.’ So I touches up Whitefoot, an’ we soon leaves ’em all behind,
laughin’ an’ shoutin’.
“‘Ye shouldn’t ha’ thrown back the shoe,’ says Mrs. Mayne to Tamsine;
‘that was for luck, my dear.’
“‘They mid ha’ shown a bit more feelin’,’ says Tamsine, and a body
could hear she weren’t far off cryin’.
“‘If all the tale be true what I hear,’ says Maria Robbins, ‘you be a
very brave young ’ooman. Be it really true as you be goin’ to ’Merica
to marry a man what you’ve never seen?’
“‘Why, of course ’tis true,’ puts in Mrs. Mayne, ‘and a very good
job, too. What could anybody do, you know, Miss Robbins?’ she says to
Maria. ‘There’s poor Robert Meadway left his family terrible bad off,
and such a lot of ’em, too, and none of ’em fit to earn a penny wi’out
it’s Tamsine herself.’
“‘Why didn’t she take a place, then?’ says Maria. ‘I’d a deal sooner
go to sarvice nor set out on this ’ere wild goose chase. Ye’ll have to
work jist so hard,’ she says, turnin’ to Tamsine, ‘and the Lard knows
what sort of a place it is you be a-goin’ to, nor what kind of a chap
your husband ’ull turn out to be.’
“‘I shouldn’t mind the work,’ says Tamsine; ‘of course I’d be willin’
to work for my husband, whoever he mid be.’
“She had a kind of soft, pleasant voice, and Jim, when he heard it,
turned round to look at her. I did turn round, too.
“‘What’s this tale?’ says I. ‘I never heard nothin’ of it,’ I says.
“‘Ah,’ says Mrs. Mayne, ‘Meadways did keep it dark, d’ye see, till all
was settled; but ’tis quite true as Tamsine here be a-goin’ out to
America to get wed to a man what lives out there. A very good match it
do seem to be, too. A large farm, I d’ ’low, and a comfortable house.
And Tamsine’s intended do write beautiful letters, Mrs. Meadway telled
I.’
“Tamsine says nothin’, but keeps on pickin’ up the little bits o’ rice
what her cousins had throwed at her, an’ droppin’ of ’em out o’ the
cart. She was a very handsome maid, wi’ black eyes an’ hair, an’ a
pretty bit o’ colour as a general thing, but her face was so white as
chalk that day.
“‘Well,’ says Maria, speakin’ a bit sour, as wold maids will when
there’s talk of young ones gettin’ wed. ‘I don’t think it’s at all
proper nor becoming to go answer they advertisements what comes in the
papers, an’ for such a thing as wedlock--Lard ha’ mercy me,’ she says,
‘however had ye the face to do it, Tamsine?’
“‘’Twas my cousin Martha what did it,’ says poor Tamsine, hangin’ down
her head. ‘’Twas in the _Western Gazette_--a very respectable paper,
my uncle says. We was lookin’ out for a place for me, and Martha she
saw the advertisement. It said the gentleman wanted a wife from Dorset.
Martha said it did seem like a chance for I, an’ she took and wrote
straight off, more for a bit of fun than anything else, but when the
answer came it was wrote quite in earnest. It said the gentleman had
knowed some girl what came from Dorset, an’ he ’lowed he’d like a
Dorset wife. He gave two references, one to a bank what said, when
my uncle wrote, he was very respectable and well off, and one to a
minister as said he was a very good man and ’ud make any ’ooman happy.
We be chapel-folk, too, and Uncle Meadway said the offer did seem the
very thing for I.’
“‘You were forced into it, then?’ says Jim Taylor, speakin’ out
straight and sharp.
“‘Oh, forced,’ says she, makin’ shift to look up, ‘I couldn’t say
forced.’
“But there were the big tears gatherin’ in her eyes--anybody could see
she hadn’t had much say in the matter.
“‘My uncle said,’ she goes on, ‘I could have some of the little ones
sent out to me by-an’-by, an’ Mr. Johnson wrote very nice about it, and
said he wouldn’t have no objections.’
“‘What d’ye say the party’s name is?’ axes young Taylor, very quick.
“‘Johnson--Samuel Johnson,’ says the poor maid.
“Well, if ye’ll believe me, the chap got so red in the face as if
somebody had hit ’en.
“‘Samuel Johnson,’ says he. ‘For the Lard’s sake, where does he live?’
“‘’Tis in California,’ says Tamsine; ‘he’ve a-got a farm--a ranch he
calls it--at a place called Longwood.’
“‘Sakes alive!’ cries Jim, an’ he sits there gawkin’ at the maid.
“‘Of all the durned cheek!’ says he at last, speaking in his queer
fayshion. ‘If the boys around was to know he had the face to ax a young
British girl to marry him, I tell ye what,’ he says, ‘he’d be lynched
afore he knew where he was!’
“‘Dear, to be sure,’ cries Mrs. Mayne, a-clappin’ of her hands
together, ‘what’s wrong wi’ the man?’
“‘P’r’aps he’s got a wife already,’ says Maria.
“‘Maybe ’tisn’t the same Samuel Johnson,’ says I. ‘I d’ ’low I seem to
ha’ heerd o’ the name afore.’
“‘’Tis a play-actin’ kind o’ a name,’ says Maria.
“Poor Tamsine, she was so white as any sheet, an’ she did stretch out
her hand an’ grab hold o’ Jim by the sleeve, an’ shake ’en.
“‘Tell I quick,’ she cried; an’ then she drops her hand, an’ begins
a-cryin’.
“‘No, don’t tell me,’ she says; ‘don’t ye tell me nothing. I’m bound
every way. I’ve a-passed my word,’ says she; ‘an’ he’s actually sent
the money for my ticket. I can’t go back now!’
“‘Yes, but you shall go back,’ cries Jim, a-catchin’ of her by the
wrist. ‘I’ll not stand by--no honest man could, an’ see a young girl--a
good honest young girl, sold to such a chap as Johnson. Why, he’s a
nigger!’ he cries.
“Poor Tamsine, I thought she’d ha’ fell off the seat.
“‘A black man!’ screeches she.
“‘As black as my shoes,’ says Jim. ‘A great big, oily, dirty nigger,’
says he.
“He didn’t pick his words, d’ye see.
“‘Why, his head’s as woolly as a sheep’s back,’ he says.
“‘No, my girl,’ he goes on, ‘it can’t be allowed.’
“‘But I’m bound,’ says Tamsine, wi’ her face working pitiful.
“‘You are no more bound nor I am,’ says he. ‘The rascal’s imposed on
ye shameful. He knows right well he’d no business to ax a white girl
to marry him wi’out tellin’ her all the truth. Why didn’t he ax you
straight if you’d be willin’ to take up wi’ a black man? But he knowed
a deal better nor that.’
“‘But perhaps it isn’t the same Mr. Johnson,’ says Mrs. Mayne. ‘It ’ud
be a pity for the maid to give up her husband if there was any mistake.’
“‘I know Longwood in California,’ says Jim, ‘as well as I know my own
hand. I was there only last fall. ’Tisn’t a very big place, an’ I
knowed every one as lives there. I knowed Samuel Johnson well--he come
to chapel reg’lar. I reckon,’ says he, ‘the name o’ the minister as
recommended him was Ebenezer Strong.’
“‘E-es,’ says Tamsine, ‘that’s the name. The Reverend Ebenezer Strong.’
“‘That’s it,’ shouts Jim. ‘Why, he’s a coloured man hisself--he
wouldn’t be likely to find fault wi’ the man for bein’ a nigger. You
mustn’t ha’ no more to do wi’ him, my girl. ’Twas a mercy I met ye, and
could warn ye in time.’
“‘Oh! but what can I do?’ cries the poor maid, a-sobbin’ fit to break
her heart. ‘There’s not a bit o’ use in my goin’ back. None of ’em
would believe the tale. My uncle would make me go all the same, I know.’
“‘E-es, to be sure,’ says Maria Robbins, looking at Jim very sour-like;
‘’tisn’t very likely as Mr. Meadway ’ud be put off by a chance
tale from a stranger. There he’ve a-been at the expense o’ gettin’
everthin’ ready for the maid, and this ’ere gentleman what writes so
straightforward an’ sends the money so handsome, may be some quite
other Mr. Johnson. I mind,’ says Maria, ‘the time o’ the Crimee War,
Miss Old went into deep black for some chap called John Old, what got
killed out abroad, and what she reckoned was her brother, an’ ’twasn’t
him at all.’
“‘Samuel Johnson, o’ Longwood, is a nigger,’ cries Jim, smacking his
hands together. ‘His grandfather was a slave. He belonged to some queer
old gentleman what gave ’en the name to start wi’, ’cause ’twas the
name of some old ancient chap what wrote a book or some such thing; an’
this chap was named for him Samuel Johnson too. There ain’t no mistake,
you bet,’ says he.
“Well, Tamsine was a-cryin’ and a-shakin’ all over like a aspen leaf
all this time; and when Maria was advisin’ her to be sensible an’ not
hearken to them sort of idle tales, I thought she’d ha’ had a fit. I
could ha’ laughed any other time to hear wold Maria, as was so dead
again’ the girl marryin’ when she thought ’twas a nice match, an’ now
she was all for her doin’ it, though she seed how skeart the poor maid
was. Mrs. Mayne had a softer heart.
“‘If this be really true, Jan,’ she says, lookin’ at I, ‘it do seem
a pity for the maid to go any forrarder. Better for her to stay at
home and go to sarvice,’ says she. ‘There, Tamsine, give over cryin’.
Nobody can force ye to go to America or to take up wi’ this ’ere nigger
against your will. Go back an’ tell your uncle what you’ve a-heard, an’
let him keep ye a bit longer till ye’ve a-got a situation.’
“‘Oh, I dursn’t go back,’ says poor Tamsine. An’ then Jim reaches
towards her and takes her by the hand again.
“‘Look here, my dear,’ says he, ‘don’t go back. Ye can go out to
America,’ says he, ‘but it needn’t be to marry that dirty nigger. I’m
going back to the States now,’ says he, ‘and I thought to take a wife
wi’ me, but the maid I was coortin’ drew back at the last. She didn’t
think so much of her word seemingly as you do. Come,’ says he, ‘you’ve
seen me an’ you haven’t seen Samuel Johnson. Look me in the face and
tell me if you think you could put up wi’ me?’
“The poor maid she was that upset, and that surprised, she couldn’t for
the life of her look at ’en, an’ he leaned over an’ took her by the
chin, very gentle-like, an’ turned up her face.
“‘Look at me, my dear,’ says he, ‘an’ see if ye can trust me.’
“So at that Tamsine did look at ’en, wi’ the big tears standin’ on her
eyelashes, an’ her mouth all a-quiverin’.
“‘I d’ ’low I could,’ says she.
“‘And, mind ye,’ goes on Jim, ‘I can make ye just so comfortable as
t’other chap ’ud ha’ done. I’ve got a big place and a comfortable
house, and I do want to settle down reg’lar. So say the word, my dear,’
says he.
“‘Lard, maid!’ cried Maria, so sudden-like that we all fair jumped,
‘whatever be ye thinkin’ on?’ says she; ‘’tis plain what he’ve made up
this cock-an’-bull story for now,’ she says. ‘He be a reg’lar deludin’
deceiver; don’t ye ha’ nothin’ to say to ’en.’
“‘It do seem very sudden,’ says Mrs. Mayne; ‘I wouldn’t go out to
America wi’ a stranger, Tamsine.’
“‘Do you trust me, my dear?’ says he, looking at Tamsine, and not
takin’ no notice at all of nobody else.
“The maid she looked back at ’en more pitiful than ever, an’ then she
did say:--
“‘I d’ ’low I do.’
“‘Well, then, so ye may,’ says he, a-shakin’ of her hand very serious
like; ‘but I’ll make all fair and square for ye first. I’ll not ax too
much of ye. We’ll be man and wife before we go,’ says he.
“So the whole thing was made up wi’out no more trouble nor that. Jim
axed Mrs. Mayne if the maid could lodge wi’ her till they was married,
an’ he settled straight off what he’d pay for her board. He did pull
out a pocket-book stuffed wi’ money, so as even Maria Robbins could
see the maid was a-doin’ well for herself.
“‘You hand me over that there money as Johnson sent ye,’ says he to
Tamsine; ‘he must have it back by the next mail. I’ll look after ye
now,’ says he. ‘My purse is your purse.’
“An’ though the man could scarce ha’ meant it, for I d’ ’low he was
too sensible a chap to hold wi’ settin’ women-folk so much above
theirselves as that ’ud shape to, ’twas a handsome thing for ’en to
say. Well, Tamsine went to lodge wi’ Mrs. Mayne, for she couldn’t no
ways make up her mind to go back to her uncle; an’ she did beg us all
not to say a word about the changin’ her plan till the weddin’ was
over, but Maria, she did go straight off to Meadways’ wi’ the tale.
They were all in a terrible takin’ at first, an’ Mrs. Meadway she came
to Mrs. Mayne’s an’ gave her an’ Tamsine a bit of her mind--more, I d’
’low, on account of the maid not goin’ back to their place than for her
takin’ up wi’ another man. ’Twas bringing disgrace on her family, says
she.
“Poor Tamsine was in a terrible way, when in walks Jim Taylor, an’ what
he said an’ what he did I couldn’t tell ye, but he managed to pacify
them all. Meadways all come to the weddin’, an’ Jim was so taken up wi’
Tamsine’s little brothers and sisters, that he took two of ’em out wi’
’en an’ sent for the others some time after. I d’ ’low he’d ha’ cut off
his head for Tamsine.
“Well, that’s the end o’ the tale. Ye’ll agree ’twas a bit queer--the
queerest thing as ever did happen to I, though, as I do say, Whitefoot
an’ me have a-seen many queer things in our time.”
MRS. SIBLEY AND THE SEXTON.
It was Christmas Eve, and Mrs. Fry was returning home from Branston
with a bulging pocket and a piled-up market-basket. Clinging to
her skirts was the youngest baby but one, while Selina, her eldest
daughter, trundled along the “pram,” the occupant of which was almost
smothered amid parcels of various shapes and sizes. The intermediary
members of Mrs. Fry’s family straggled between the two, all very
clean and tidy and all beaming with good humour. Stanley, indeed,
evinced a propensity to tumble into the gutter every now and then,
while Wyndham and ’Erbert occasionally delayed the advance of the
procession by playfully sparring at each other almost beneath the
perambulator wheels. The little _cortège_ made slow progress, for, as
Mrs. Fry laughingly observed, it was the hardest job in the world to
get a big little family home-along; nevertheless, the general serenity
remained undisturbed. It was pleasant enough to loiter on this fine dry
afternoon, for the air was clear and crisp, and the roads clean and
hard as iron. Even the baby cooed and chuckled as it squinted upwards
at its sister from behind the whitey-brown parcel which reposed on its
small chest.
The party at length turned off from the high road, and was proceeding
tranquilly down the “dip” which led to the small group of cottages of
which the Frys’ home made one, when from the farmyard gate on the right
a tall woman emerged carrying a jug of milk.
“Be that you, Mrs. Fry? I stepped over to your place an hour ago, but
there was no one at home.”
“We all comed out to do a bit o’ Christmas shoppin’, Mrs. Sibley, d’ye
see. But I’m sorry I missed ye. Will ye step in and have a drop o’ tea
wi’ us? Selina will hurry on and get it ready.”
“No, thank ye,” returned Mrs. Sibley gloomily; “I’ll not go in now,
Mrs. Fry--not when all your family’s about. I was a-lookin’ for a word
wi’ ’ee confidential-like. I was a-wantin’ for to ax your advice, Mrs.
Fry.”
“Oh, and was ye?” said Mrs. Fry, much impressed. “Tell ’ee what--I’ll
send the childern home wi’ ’Lina an’ I’ll step in to your place,
Mrs. Sibley, my dear. But all Foyle’s family ’ull be there, won’t
they?--there’ll not be much chance to talk private.”
“There will, though,” returned Mrs. Sibley. “I sent the childern out
wi’ their father a-purpose. Things is gettin’ serious, Mrs. Fry; but
there! I can’t converse out here. Best let the matter bide till we be
safe in my house.”
Mrs. Fry hastily detached the small chubby hands of Halfred--she had
a pretty taste in nomenclature--who was clinging to her skirts, and
desiring the child to run home-along wi’ ’Lina, gave her undivided
attention to her neighbour.
“Not here,” said Mrs. Sibley impressively, as she began to ply her with
questions; “at my house.”
They turned aside into the first cottage of the group, and Mrs.
Sibley, opening the gate, stalked in front of her crony along the
flagged path, and flung open the house-door. Pausing in the middle of
the kitchen, she added emphatically, “In Foyle’s house I should say.”
“It be the same thing, bain’t it?” returned Mrs. Fry cheerfully, “or
like to be soon.”
“Be it?” said Mrs. Sibley witheringly. “Be it, Martha?”
Mrs. Fry set down her market-basket, and dropped into the nearest chair.
“Lard, my dear, you do make I feel quite nervish. Be things a-goin’
wrong?”
Mrs. Sibley folded her arms, and surveyed her for a moment in silence.
She was an angular woman with a frosty eye, which she now fixed grimly
on Mrs. Fry.
“I don’t say as they be a-goin’ wrong,” she remarked after a pause,
“but they don’t seem to be a-goin’ right. Foyle, there, he haven’t got
the spirit of a mouse.”
“Hasn’t he said nothin’--nothin’ at all?” inquired Mrs. Fry, resting a
plump hand on either knee and leaning forward.
“Not a single word,” replied her friend; “that’s to say, not a word wi’
any sense in it. An’ Sibley have been gone six months now, mind ye.”
“So he have!” replied Mrs. Fry. “An’ ye mid say as you’ve been so good
as a widder for nigh upon six year--ye mid indeed. A husband what’s in
the ’sylum is worse nor no husband at all. An’ ye’ve a-been keepin’
house for Foyle these four year, haven’t ye?”
“Four year an’ two month,” responded Mrs. Sibley. “There, the very
day after Mrs. Foyle were buried he did come to me an’ he says so
plain-spoke as anything, ‘Mrs. Sibley,’ he says, ‘here be you a lone
woman wi’out no family, an’ here be I wi’ all they little childern.
Will ’ee come an’ keep house for I an’ look after ’em all? Ye’ll not
be the loser by it,’ he says. So I looks him straight in the face: ‘I
bain’t so sure o’ that, Mr. Foyle,’ I says. ‘I do look at it in this
way, d’ye see. A woman has her chances,’ I says. ‘I don’t think Sibley
’ull last so very long--they seldom does at the ’sylum--an’ then here
be I, a lone woman, as you do say. I mid very well like to settle
myself again; an’ if I go an’ bury myself so far away from town in a
place where there’s sich a few neighbours, I don’t see what prospects
I’ll have.’”
“Well, that was straightforward enough,” commented Mrs. Fry. “He
couldn’t make no mistakes about your meanin’.”
“He could not,” agreed Mrs. Sibley triumphantly; “an’ what’s more,
he didn’t. He up an’ spoke as plain as a man could speak. ‘Well,
Mrs. Sibley,’ he says, ‘there’s a Fate what rules us all.’ He be
always a-sayin’ off bits o’ po’try an’ sich-like as he gets from the
gravestones, ye know.”
“Ah,” remarked Mrs. Fry nodding, “being the sexton, of course, it do
come nat’ral to ’en, don’t it?”
“‘There’s a Fate what rules us all,’ he says,” resumed Mrs. Sibley,
“‘an’ we didn’t ought to m’urn as if we had no hope. If you was a free
’ooman, Mrs. Sibley--well, I’m a free man, and I’d make so good a
husband as another. Maria did always find I so,’ he says.”
“Well, the man couldn’t have said more.”
“So you’d think. But why don’t he say summat now? There, I’ve a-kept
his house an’ seen arter his childern for more nor four year. Time’s
gettin’ on, ye know; I bain’t so young as I was.”
Mrs. Fry began a polite disclaimer, but was overruled by the other.
“I bain’t--’tisn’t in natur’ as I could be. I wer’ gettin’ a bit
anxious this year when poor Sibley did seem to be hangin’ on so long,
so I axed Rector to have ’en prayed for----”
“A-h-h-h?” ejaculated Martha, as she paused. “An’ that did put the Lard
in mind of ’en, I should think.”
“It did put the Lard in mind of ’en,” agreed Mrs. Sibley with gusto.
“The Lard see’d he warn’t no good to nobody in the ’sylum, an’ so he
wer’ took.”
“An’ Foyle have never come forward?” remarked Mrs. Fry, after a
significant pause.
“He’ve never made no offer, an’ he’ve never said a single word to show
he were thinkin’ o’ sich a thing. Not _one word_, Mrs. Fry. I’ve given
’en the chance many a time. A month arter poor Sibley was buried I says
to ’en, ‘Here be I now, Mr. Foyle,’ I says, ‘a widow ’ooman, the same
as you be a widow man’.”
“An’ what did he say?” queried her neighbour eagerly.
“Oh, summat about the ’opes of a glorious resurrection,” returned
Mrs. Sibley scornfully. “An’ another time I says to ’en, ‘Mr. Foyle,’
I says, ‘d’ye mind the talk what you an’ me did have when you first
did ax I to keep house for ye?’ ‘What talk,’ says he. ‘Why,’ I says,
‘about me bein’ free an’ you makin’ a good husband.’ ‘Free,’ says he
sighin’; ‘this life’s a bondage, Mrs. Sibley.’ An’ off he went.”
“Ah!” commented Mrs. Fry, “he wer’ thinkin’ o’ them verses what’s wrote
on old Farmer Reed’s tombstone. I mind they do begin this way:--
‘This life is but a bondage,
My soul at last is free.’”
“That’s it,” agreed Mrs. Sibley nodding. “I says to ’en this marnin’,
‘Mr. Foyle,’ I says, ‘the New Year’s a-comin’, an’ I think there ought
to be some change in the early part of it for you an’ me.’ ‘I don’t
want no changes,’ he says; ‘I’m very well satisfied as I be.’ I’m
gettin’ desperate, Mrs. Fry.”
“Well, ’tis very onconsiderate,” returned Martha, “very. I’m sure ye’ve
said all ye could an’ done all ye could. ’Tis hard, too, for a woman to
have to go a-droppin’ hints an’ a-takin’ the lead in such a delicate
matter. I’m sure I don’t know what to advise, my dear.”
Mrs. Sibley rubbed her nose, and gazed at her friend meditatively.
“I’m about the only ’ooman in this ’ere place as Foyle could get to
keep house for him,” she remarked. “I’ll tell ’ee what I’ll do, Mrs.
Fry--I’ll march! Leastways,” she added, correcting herself, “I’ll tell
’en I be goin’. We’ll see how he’ll like that.”
“Ye mid try it,” said Martha reflectively; “it ’ud be a bit ark’ard,
though, if he was to take ’ee at your word.”
“He’ll not do that,” returned Mrs. Sibley, continuing emphatically:
“Now, Mrs. Fry, my dear, I’ll expect ’ee to act the part of a friend
by me. If he do ax ye to lend ’en a hand or send over Selina to help
’en, don’t ye go for to do no such thing.”
“I won’t,” promised Mrs. Fry.
“An’ if he do say anything to ’ee about my leavin’, do ye jist let on
as my mind be quite made up.”
“I will,” said Mrs. Fry.
“I’ll start packin’ at once then, to show ’en as I be in earnest,” said
Mrs. Sibley, with a dry chuckle as her friend rose.
No sooner had Mrs. Fry edged through the narrow door with her
market-basket than Mrs. Sibley set to work.
When Mr. Foyle, who united the double functions of carrier and sexton,
unhitched the horse from his van, and, having seen to the animal’s
comfort, went indoors, he was surprised to find his children, who had
preceded him into the house, standing with scared faces round the
packing-case, which occupied the centre of the kitchen, while Mrs.
Sibley, with an air of great determination, was stowing away various
articles therein.
“Hullo!” cried he, pausing in the doorway. “What’s the matter here?
Isn’t tea ready?”
“You’d best put on the kettle, Florence,” said Mrs. Sibley, turning to
the eldest child. “I haven’t had time to ’tend to it. Oh, be that you,
Mr. Foyle? Would you kindly hand me down that there clock? I’m afeard
the childern mid break it. Henery, just roll up that door-mat an’ fetch
it here.”
“Dear heart alive, what be about, Mrs. Sibley?” ejaculated honest
Foyle. “You haven’t had no bad noos, I hope?”
“Oh, no noos at all, Mr. Foyle. Nothin’ noo do never come a-nigh this
’ere place. I be goin’ to have a bit of a change--I did tell ’ee this
marnin’ as I wanted a change, didn’t I? I be a-goin’ to shift, Mr.
Foyle.”
“To shift!” ejaculated the sexton.
He slowly unwound the lengths of black and white comforter which were
swathed about his neck, gaping at her the while.
“You’d best make tea, hadn’t you?” remarked Mrs. Sibley, ostentatiously
counting over the plated spoons which were her property. “Florence ’ud
very likely scald herself.”
The sexton dropped heavily into the nearest chair.
“Ye bain’t goin’ away to-night!” he gasped.
Mrs. Sibley straightened herself and eyed him reflectively. It might be
a little awkward to say she _was_ leaving that night, for if by chance
he _did_ take her at her word, she had not the remotest notion of where
she could go.
“Not to-night,” she said at length, with the air of one making a
concession. “I reckon to-morrow ’ull be time enough.”
Florence laid down the teapot and approached, her eyes round with
consternation.
“Ye’re never goin’ to leave us on Christmas Day!” she ejaculated. “Oh,
Auntie!”
“Auntie” was the title unanimously bestowed on Mrs. Sibley by the young
Foyles, and accepted by that lady pending its exchange for a more
intimate one.
In a moment Florence burst into tears, and the other children
immediately followed suit, little Rosanna being indeed so overcome by
her feelings that she was constrained to lie on the floor and scream.
Mrs. Sibley stooped over her and set her on her feet. Beneath her stiff
and somewhat chilly demeanour she had a warm enough heart, and was
sincerely attached to her charges, particularly the youngest, whom she
had brought up from infancy.
“Ye’ll have to get another Auntie, my dear,” she remarked, winking away
a tear. “And ’tis to be hoped as she’ll take as good care of you as
I’ve a-done.”
The sexton breathed hard, but did not venture to protest, and Henery,
after rubbing his eyes on his jacket sleeve, inquired in a reproachful
tone why Auntie was going away.
“I wants a change, my dears,” reiterated Mrs. Sibley, bestowing a
gentle shake on Rosanna, as a means of bringing her round, for the
child, following her favourite mode of procedure when her feelings were
too many for her, was rapidly growing black in the face. “I did tell
Father so this marnin’--Father knows. He bain’t surprised, I’m sure.
What must be, must be!” summed up Mrs. Sibley oracularly. Thereupon
casting an inquiring eye round the room, she descried the warming-pan,
which was hanging behind the door, pounced upon it, and stowed it away
in the packing-case on top of the hearthrug.
Silence reigned for some moments, broken only by the sobs of the
children and the rustling of Mrs. Sibley’s packing-papers.
“Ye’d best give the children their tea, Mr. Foyle,” she remarked,
looking up presently. “They be in need of it, poor things. There,
don’t ye cry so, Florence. Ye’ll be gettin’ another Auntie soon--at
least, I hope so. Though reelly I don’t quite see who ye can call in,
Mr. Foyle, I don’t indeed. I passed the remark to Mrs. Fry to-day, an’
she said she was sure she didn’t know who you could turn to. Her own
hands was full, she said. Poor ’Lina was worked a deal too hard for a
maid of her age, already. Them was her words. But sit down to your tea,
do, Mr. Foyle. Get the bread, Florence; ’tis time for you to be growin’
handy. ’Tis you as ’ull have to be keepin’ the house most like.”
It might have been the result of Florence’s emotion, or it might have
been owing to the fact that the shelf was a high one and Florence’s
arms were short, but in some way or other in reaching down the loaf she
managed to tumble it into the coal-box.
Foyle rose hastily, pushed the child on one side, picked up the loaf,
dusted it with his sleeve, set it on the table, and went out, banging
the door behind him.
As the sound of his retreating footsteps echoed down the path, Mrs.
Sibley rose to her feet and smiled upon the children, who were now
sobbing afresh.
“There, don’t ye make such a fuss,” she remarked soothingly. “Father’s
a bit upset; ye mustn’t mind that. Get on with your teas, dears. There,
ye may have a bit of jam to it to-night, as it’s Christmas Eve; and
afterwards we’ll stick up some green, and you must all hang up your
stockin’s and see what you’ll find there in the marnin’.”
Cheerfulness was immediately restored; little faces grimed by tears
smiled afresh; plates were extended for plentiful helpings of
blackberry jam, and soon little tongues were gleefully discussing the
morrow’s prospects, and particularly the treasures which might be
looked for in the stockings.
“But I’ve only got such a ’ittle stockin’,” lisped Rosanna,
contemplating a chubby leg, which was, indeed, but imperfectly
protected by about three inches of sock. “My stockin’ won’t hold half
so much as the others.”
“There, I’ll lend you one of mine, then,” said Auntie, graciously; and,
going to the chest of drawers in the corner, she drew forth a pair of
her own substantial stockings, and presented one to the child.
As the children retired for the night, Henery paused beside her for a
moment.
“You won’t truly go to-morrow, Auntie?” he pleaded coaxingly.
Mrs. Sibley paused a moment, and in the interval the sound of the
sexton’s slouching step was heard without, and his hand fumbled at the
latch.
“It do all depend on Father, Henery,” said Mrs. Sibley, raising her
voice slightly. “He do know very well as I do want a change.”
Mr. Foyle entered, looking weary and depressed, and sat down in his
customary chair. Mrs. Sibley cast a searching glance round the kitchen,
and, possessing herself of a pair of spotted china dogs which adorned
the mantel-piece, added them to her collection, and retired.
The sexton lit his pipe, and had been smoking in gloomy silence for
some time, when Mrs. Sibley re-entered. Going to the dresser, and
opening a drawer, she abstracted a number of oranges, nuts, crackers,
and other such wares, and filled her apron with them.
“What be them for?” inquired the sexton diffidently.
“Why, they be surprises for the childern,” returned she.
“Ah,” rejoined John Foyle, “surprises, be they?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Sibley, “they do look for ’em reg’lar, they do. I do
always fill their stockin’s wi’ ’em every Christmas.”
“Oh,” said the sexton, “put their surprises in their stockin’s, do ’ee?”
Mrs. Sibley nodded and withdrew, leaving John sunk in profound thought.
“This ’ere be a vale o’ tears,” he remarked presently, as he knocked
the ashes out of his pipe. He rose, went to the table, turned up
the lamp a little more, and fetching pen, ink and paper from the
window-sill on which they usually reposed, sat down to indite a letter.
It cost him much labour and thought, but, after all, it was a brief
enough document. When completed it ran thus: “If Mrs. Sibley will meet
Mr. Foyle in the churchyard to-morrow morning about nine o’clock when
nobody’s about she will hear of something to your advantage. Yours
truly, John Foyle.”
“I couldn’t,” said the sexton to himself, “put the question in any sort
of public way. The childern is in and out, and the neighbours mid pop
in. The churchyard is best and most nat’ral.”
He folded the letter, put it in an envelope, and addressed it; then,
looking round, descried hanging over a chair-back one of Mrs. Sibley’s
stockings--the fellow to the one she had lent little Rosanna.
“The very thing!” exclaimed John. “The Christmas surprises do always go
in stockin’s. It’ll be a surprise for she, I d’ ’low--not but what she
didn’t look for it,” he added with a grim chuckle.
He placed the letter in the stocking, fastened it securely with a loop
of string, and, going cautiously upstairs, slung it over Mrs. Sibley’s
door-handle. He paused a moment, winking to himself, and then made his
way on tiptoe to his own room.
The usual Christmas bustle and excitement prevailed in the little
household next morning. The children ecstatically compared notes over
their fruit and toys; the sexton himself was quite unaccountably
jovial, with a nervous kind of joviality nevertheless, hardly venturing
to glance in Mrs. Sibley’s direction. She, on her side, wore a sedate,
not to say chastened, aspect, and was attired in her deepest “weeds”.
Foyle’s jocularity diminished after a time, and he set off for the
churchyard in a depressed and uncomfortable frame of mind. What was the
woman driving at--what more in the name of goodness could she want?
He paced up and down the path nearest the gate for some time, and then,
suddenly recalling the fact that he had not yet attended to the stove
connected with the heating apparatus of the church, hurried off to
accomplish this duty.
On his return he descried a tall figure in black making its way, not
towards him, but towards that portion of the churchyard wherein
reposed the mortal remains of the lamented Mr. Sibley.
After some hesitation the sexton followed, and Mrs. Sibley, having
deposited a wreath of evergreens on the grave, turned round with a
mournful expression.
“At such times as these, Mr. Foyle,” she remarked, “the mind do
nat’rally feel m’urnful.”
“True, true!” agreed the sexton uncomfortably.
“He was a good husband, Mr. Foyle,” said the widow in a melancholy tone.
“To be sure,” said John doubtfully.
“I shall never look upon his like again,” resumed Mrs. Sibley, shaking
her head.
The sexton glanced from her disconsolate face to the wreath of
evergreens, and then back again. Mrs. Sibley was still shaking her head
with an air of gentle resignation.
“I think I’ll be goin’,” said Mr. Foyle with sudden desperation.
“I thought you did step out to this ’ere churchyard with another
intention.”
Mrs. Sibley glanced at him in mild surprise.
“Ye didn’t chance to get no letter this marnin’, I s’pose?” continued
the sexton with some heat.
“A letter!” repeated Mrs. Sibley.
“E-es, the letter what I did put in your stockin’ for a surprise,”
added John emphatically.
Mrs. Sibley’s melancholy vanished as by magic; she smiled on the
sexton, not only affably, but positively coyly.
“An’ it _was_ a surprise!” she exclaimed, “it _was_ indeed. E-es, Mr.
Foyle.”
She paused again, and then, all scruples apparently vanquished by the
delicacy of John’s attitude, she extended a bony hand from beneath the
folds of her black shawl.
“That’s why I’m here,” she said.
THE CALL OF THE WOODS.
Monday.--Even to the most casual observer the day of the week would
have been announced by the appearance of the rambling village; the
new-budding hedges were remorselessly weighted with household gear,
fresh from the tub; the very grassplots were whitened with the same;
but the gooseberry bushes were as yet unadorned with extraneous
trophies, for as every one knows, a thrifty rustic housewife relegates
the washing and “getting up” of fine things to Tuesdays.
The orchard of that popular house of entertainment, known as “The Three
Choughs,” the weather-beaten sign of which bore the partly obliterated
presentment of a triplet of birds unknown to naturalists--the orchard
of “The Three Choughs,” I say, was no exception to the general rule.
From the gnarled branches of pear- and plum-tree depended many wavering
tokens of Mrs. Cluett’s industry; the clothes lines were weighted with
the like; and Alice, her rosy-cheeked daughter, went periodically to
and fro from wash-house to hedge with a basket poised on one sturdy
hip, or, for the sake of variety, set jauntily aloft on her curly head.
The bar was left to take care of itself; at that hour callers were
unlikely. Noontide was past, evening had not yet come; if any stray
wagoner or chance bicyclist were in need of refreshment he had but to
uplift his voice, or to knock on the worn panels of the door leading
from the taproom to Mrs. Cluett’s private premises. Many succeeding
generations of knuckles had, indeed, removed the last vestige of paint
from the panels in question, and indued them with a fine mellow tint of
their own.
Nevertheless Mrs. Cluett was enjoying herself so much in the midst of
her suds, so thoroughly absorbed in soaping and kneading and wringing,
that such a summons was thrice repeated without effect; and it was
not until Alice, returning from one of her expeditions to the hedge,
chanced to glance casually at the taproom window that the impatient
customer contrived to attract attention.
Seeing a man’s face peering discontentedly through the latticed panes,
and hearing a corresponding voice repeatedly shouting, Alice set down
her basket and hurried into the house.
“We don’t often have no one callin’ at this time o’ day,” she remarked
with a pleasant smile, by way of greeting.
The man gave his order for a pint of beer without noticing the intended
apology, and dropped into one of the wooden chairs allotted to
customers.
Alice glanced at him askance as she set jug and glass before him. A
tall young fellow, not more than twenty-five, with a face browned by
sun and wind till it was as dark as a gipsy’s, thick, black hair, good
features, and the strangest eyes that the girl had ever beheld in a
human face. They were like hawk’s eyes, keen and clear, and with that
fixed, far-away look peculiar to the eyes of a bird or beast of prey.
Yet the man’s face was not a cruel face, and by-and-by, meeting Alice’s
questioning gaze, he smiled hesitatingly.
Alice was a good girl, and had always been well looked after by her
mother; but it was part of the business of life, as she conceived
it, to enter frankly into conversation with all who chanced to need
refreshment at “The Three Choughs;” and she was interested in each,
from the oldest customer to the latest and most casual caller.
“Where be come from?” inquired Alice, now propping herself against
the lintel of the door, and surveying the stranger with undisguised
curiosity.
He wore corduroys and leggings, and yet was no gamekeeper; he carried
a small bundle and a sturdy stick, but she felt sure that he was not a
tramp.
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, looking at her for a moment
before replying; his words came at last slowly, as though he were
unused to much speech.
“Yonder,” he said, “Chudbury way.”
Alice glibly ran through the names of several villages, with an
interrogative pause after each, and the newcomer shook his head in
every case, without, however, further attempting to enlighten her.
She stopped at length, evidently at a loss, and the man, setting down
his glass, laughed suddenly, a joyous, good-humoured laugh, pleasant to
hear.
“You be fair beat, my maid,” said he. “But I do ’low you’d not be
so very much the wiser if I was to tell ’ee. I be come from Tewley
Warren--that’s where I be come from.” He dropped his voice and his
face clouded over. “That’s where I’ve a-lived all my life,” he added.
“Why have ’ee left now, then?” inquired Alice.
“I didn’t leave o’ my own free will--ye mid be sure o’ that,” said he.
Alice looked up inquiringly, and he continued after a pause, still
slowly and somewhat hesitatingly, as though he found it difficult to
lay hold of the words he needed.
“I did live there wi’ my wold father; and when he shifted to the New
House, Squire wasn’t willin’ for I to go on a-livin’ there. He did want
our place for one o’ the keepers--a married man wi’ a fam’ly--he didn’t
hold, he said, wi’ lettin’ a young chap, same as I, bide there--he did
turn I out--to speak plain.”
“Oh--h,” said Alice commiseratingly. “’Twas a bit hard, I d’ ’low.”
“It was mortal hard,” said he.
He raised the tumbler of beer to his lips, but set it down again
untasted.
“To give Squire his due,” he said, “he did offer to keep I on for
the same money what I did have when the wold man were livin’, but I
wouldn’t have it. ‘No, sir,’ says I, ‘I bain’t a-goin’ to be takin’
orders in the place where I did use to be my own master’--’twas jist
same as if I was my own master when my father were alive; he didn’t
never interfere wi’ I, poor wold chap.”
It was perhaps Alice’s fancy that a momentary dimness veiled the hawk
eyes--in any case it was only momentary.
“So here I be,” summed up the ex-warrener conclusively.
“Here you be,” echoed Alice; then, after a moment’s pause: “What be
goin’ to do now?”
“I don’t know,” said the man.
“Where be goin’ to?”
“I don’t know,” he said again.
At this moment Mrs. Cluett’s voice was heard calling aloud for her
daughter; that lady’s heavy foot presently sounded in the narrow
passage without, and she burst into the room.
“Dear, to be sure! Did ever a body see such a maid? Us so busy and
clothes not half done wi’! And here ye must stand gawkin’ and gossipin’
as if ’twas the middle of the week. There, drink up your beer, do, good
man, and let’s ha’ done wi’ it.”
She addressed these words to the newcomer in a somewhat softened tone,
and he nodded good-humouredly.
“All right, missus; I’ll not be long now,” he said, as he poured out
his second glass.
“There, for shame, mother, let the poor soul take his drink in peace,”
whispered Alice. “He’s come far--from Tewley Warren; he’ve a-been
turned out now his father be dead.”
Mrs. Cluett, with a soapy hand on either hip, surveyed the young man
curiously.
“I did use to know Warrener Baverstock well,” she remarked slowly.
“Warrener Baverstock up to Chudbury--e-es--I did use to know en.”
“He were my father,” remarked the other, with a momentary gleam of
pleasure in his eyes.
“He did use to come here often and often,” continued Mrs. Cluett,
emphatically. “He’d sit there--as mid be where you be a-sittin’
now--and he’d take his glass, he would; a most respectable man he were.
My poor husband were alive too in them days--ah, times is changed,
bain’t they? Here be I, a poor widow woman wi’ my own livin’ to get,
tho’ there’s them as did ought to be gettin’ it for I in my ancient
years.”
She paused to shake her head. Young Baverstock’s attention seemed to
have wandered during the latter part of her speech, and he sipped his
ale without evincing any curiosity as to the hint she had recently
thrown out. After the manner of her kind, however, she at once
proceeded to elucidate it.
“’Tisn’t as if I didn’t have somebody as did ought to be a-doin’ for I.
There’s my son--a big, strong, hearty chap--my right hand he did use to
be--there’s a deal to be done about this here place, ye know.”
“I do ’low there is,” agreed Baverstock absently.
“’Tisn’t only the public,” she continued, “tho’ I d’ ’low it be a bit
hard for two women to have to manage all they menfolk--but there’s a
bit of a farm to be seen to. Well, when I say a farm I do mean a couple
o’ cows and a few pigs and chicken and that; and we do always grow our
own spuds and greens, you know, and a few ranks o’ roots to help out
wi’ for the cows in the winter. A man be wanted for all that kind o’
work, and it do seem hard as I should have to throw away my dibs to
strangers when I mid have my own flesh and blood a-workin’ for nothin’.”
“It do,” agreed Baverstock, this time with more attention. “Why don’t
your son do it then?” he inquired after a pause.
“Why?” repeated Mrs. Cluett in a tone of deep disgust. “Because he’ve
a-been and gone and got married--that’s why, the unnat’ral fellow,” she
added witheringly.
The young man surveyed her without hazarding a remark; those strange
eyes of his remained as impassive as ever, but the corners of his mouth
turned slightly upwards.
“I warn’t a-goin’ to let en bring his wife here,” continued the old
woman. “I didn’t never fancy her, and ’twas again’ my will he did take
up wi’ her. ‘You don’t bring her here,’ I says.--‘Then I don’t stop
here,’ says he. ‘All right, my lad,’ says I, ‘ye can march!’ So he
marched. He be a-workin’ over to new brewery now--down in the town.”
Baverstock apparently considered that this communication called for no
comment; at all events he made none.
Mrs. Cluett, who had wrought herself up to the point of exposing the
full extent of her grievances, was no whit abashed by his silence,
however, and continued excitedly.
“The menfolk--there! they do seem to think a poor lone ’ooman fit for
nothin’ but to make a laughin’ stock on. Dear heart alive, ’tis enough
to drive a body silly! Us can’t seem to find a decent civil-spoke chap
nowheres, can us, Alice? The minute a thing is not to their likin’ up
they comes wi’ their sauce and their impudence, and off they goes.”
The young man gazed at her with an increasing interest:--
“You be short-handed now, then, be ye?” asked he.
Mrs. Cluett threw back her head with an ironical laugh.
“Short-handed! We be, so to speak, wi’out no hands at all. The last boy
as worked here marched off o’ Saturday. Turned up his nose at his good
victuals, and answered I back when I spoke my mind to him about it. I’m
sure I don’t know where to look for another. And the ’taters bain’t all
in yet, and there’s such a deal to do in this here place.”
Adam Baverstock pushed back his chair and gazed at her for a moment
reflectively.
“I do ’low I mid serve your turn so well as another,” said he, in a
calm and impartial tone, as of one in no way concerned in the issue.
Mrs. Cluett surveyed him dubiously, but Alice surreptitiously nipped
her mother’s elbow.
“Do seem to be a likely chap,” she murmured.
Still with the judicial air befitting one about to conclude a bargain,
Mrs. Cluett put various questions to the would-be assistant, her
countenance brightening perceptibly as she ascertained that he had
some knowledge of the management of cows, his father having kept one
during the latter years of his life, that he knew all about pigs, that
he didn’t care what he turned his hand to, and that he was by no means
particular in the matter of wages.
“I don’t seem to know what to do next,” he explained. “I mid be lookin’
about me here, and I could fill in the time till you can light upon
a man to your likin’. There’s one thing,” he added with that flicker
of the lip which Alice had noted before, “I bain’t one as ’ull ever
give ye impudence--I bain’t one as cares for much talk--I bain’t used
to it, d’ye see. The wold man and me--there! There was weeks when we
didn’t so much as give each other the time o’ day.”
“Dear, to be sure! To think o’ that now,” said Alice, whose tongue was
wont to wag pretty freely. “Wasn’t it terr’ble lonesome for ye?”
“I didn’t ever feel it so,” returned Adam, “there’s a deal o’ company
in the woods, and company as don’t want talkin’ to,” he added with a
laugh.
Mrs. Cluett now proceeded to enter into practical details. Adam’s
bundle contained, it seemed, all his worldly goods, a large wardrobe
having been considered unnecessary in Tewley Warren, and such few
sticks of furniture as the old man possessed having been purchased by
his successor. He was therefore unhampered by any great need for space
in his new quarters; yet he looked round the attic assigned to him with
a clouded face, noting which, his mistress sarcastically inquired if he
didn’t find it big enough.
“Oh, ’tis big enough,” he returned; “big enough if a man can breathe in
it.”
He opened the tiny casement, and looked out:--
“I can see one tree,” he exclaimed, in a tone of relief.
“And what mid ye want with trees?” she inquired. “You won’t need to be
lookin’ out much when ye’ve a-had a proper good day’s work.”
And thereupon, informing him that it was time to “sarve pigs,” and
directing him as to the whereabouts of the meal-bucket, she descended
to her own long neglected wash-tub.
Alice, however, still lingered in the passage, and observed that, as
Adam took off his coat preparatory to setting to work, he paused, with
an odd little laugh to himself.
“I was near forgetting you,” said he, peering into one of its capacious
pockets and apparently addressing something inside.
“What have ye got there?” inquired Alice.
Adam carefully hung up the coat on a nail, thrust his hand into the
pocket aforesaid, and produced a very small rabbit--a little furry ball
with downy semi-transparent ears and bright beady eyes.
“I had to bring he along of I,” he explained, as he stroked the little
creature which sat quite contentedly in his brown palm.
“How did you make en so tame?” asked Alice.
“I’ve had en nigh upon a week now. ’Tis thanks to I he warn’t made
a stoat’s breakfast on. They stoats--they be terr’ble varmint. I be
always on the look-out for ’em. Well, this here little chap was bein’
dragged along by a big ’un when I chanced to spy the pair of ’em. I
made an end of Maister Stoat and I did take the little ’un home-along.
He couldn’t feed hisself, poor little thing, but we made shift, didn’t
us, little ’un? There, he can drink out of a teaspoon so sensible as a
Christian.”
“Do ’ee let I give en a drap o’ milk now,” cried Alice eagerly.
The little rabbit justified his owner’s proud assertion, and after
refreshing himself in the manner indicated, was comfortably stowed away
in a hay-lined basket.
“I were pure glad to bring he along of I,” said Adam, for the nonce
communicative; “he’ll mind me o’ the woods, d’ye see. And I’ve
a-brought these, too.”
Thrusting his hand inside his waistcoat he brought out a few young fir
shoots, green and tender, and deliciously aromatic as he bruised them
with his strong fingers.
“Smell!” he exclaimed, thrusting them suddenly under Alice’s pretty
little freckled nose.
She sniffed, and remarked without enthusiasm that it was a nice smell
enough.
“There’s n’ar another like it,” said Adam gruffly; and replacing them
in his bosom he strode away to attend to the wants of the pigs.
Decidedly the new man-of-all-work at the Three Choughs was a queer
fellow; all who came to the place agreed in this estimate of him. He
worked well, but yet, as Mrs. Cluett frequently averred, as if “he
didn’t have no heart in it”; he was steady, civil, and obliging enough,
but so silent, so unaccountably silent, that the regular visitors to
the little inn could make nothing of him.
The only person who could ever induce him to talk was Alice Cluett, and
then it was at rare moments, and upon odd, and, to her, uninteresting
topics.
One evening he called out to her excitedly as she was crossing the
little yard, declaring that he smelt the dew.
Alice paused beside him, inhaling the sweet air of the spring dusk with
inquiring nostrils.
“They’ve a-been mowin’ over t’ Rectory to-day,” said she, “I see’d
gardener gettin’ the machine out--’tis the first time this spring. ’Tis
the cut grass what you do smell I do ’low.”
“Nay,” cried Adam eagerly, “’tis the dew. Who’s to know it so well as
me, my maid? Haven’t I stood and smelt it time and again yonder in the
woods at Chudbury? ’Tis the dew on the young leaves and the noo grass.
I used to tramp it down, and then stan’ still to smell it. The Warren
must be lookin’ fine now.”
Even in the dusk she could see his eyes dilate, and that tell-tale
mouth of his curl upwards.
“And there’s scarce a tree to be seen here,” he sighed presently.
“Lard,” said practical Alice, “what a man you be, Adam! There’s plenty
o’ things more worth lookin’ at than trees, I d’ ’low. There’s fields
wi’ the crops comin’ on so nice, and the river, and the road wi’ all
the folks’ traps an’ carts and wagons, and there’s the gardens wi’
flowers and ’taters and everything, and there’s men and women, an’--an’
maids,” she added, tilting her chin saucily.
Adam brought back his eyes from the distant vision upon which they had
been feasting to another vision nearer at hand, and his face relaxed.
“Ah, there’s maids,” he agreed. “I never knowed any maid afore I knowed
you, Alice. There’s times when----”
He broke off suddenly.
“There’s times when--what?” she inquired with interest.
“I could a’most be glad sometimes that I did come away from the
Warren,” said he. “I’m glad to know ye, Alice.”
“Oh, and are ye?” rejoined she with a somewhat tremulous laugh.
“E-es,” returned Adam reflectively, “I’ve see’d maids now and then when
I did use to come down to buy a few little oddments in the town, but I
never took no notice of them--I never knowed any of them. I be glad to
know you, Alice.”
Alice made no answer. She picked a leaf from the hedge and chewed it.
Had it not been so dark Adam might have noticed the sudden rush of
colour that overspread her face.
“The chaps hereabouts do often seem to go out a-walkin’ wi’ maids,”
resumed Adam. “I were a-thinkin’--you and me mid go a-walkin’
sometimes.”
“We mid,” she agreed.
“Sunday, maybe?” suggested Adam, with a sudden note of exultation in
his voice. “If you could get off for a good long bit, Alice, we mid
step up to Oakleigh Woods. I haven’t been there yet, but they do tell I
they’re splendid.”
“They’re nice enough,” said Alice, somewhat dubiously. “We’ll have to
see what mother says,” she added.
“Do ye ax her then,” suggested Adam.
Alice moved away from him, and glanced back over her shoulder.
“Maybe I will,” said she.
Mrs. Cluett, on being consulted, was at first doubtful and inclined to
be irate.
“This do seem like coortin’,” she remarked severely.
Alice twisted the corner of her apron without replying. It certainly
did look rather like courting.
“Be you and that chap thinking o’ bein’ sweethearts?” resumed Mrs.
Cluett.
Alice raised defiant dark eyes: “’Twouldn’t be no such very great harm
if we was,” she returned. “He be a likely chap, Adam be; he’ve a-got
a few pounds laid by, and if him an’ me was to make a match of it you
wouldn’t need to pay en no wage.”
This was a practical aspect of the affair which had not hitherto struck
Mrs. Cluett; her countenance relaxed.
“But he haven’t axed I yet,” said Alice discreetly.
Mrs. Cluett drew a long breath.
“Well I haven’t got no objections to your walking out wi’ he on Sunday,
my dear,” she remarked condescendingly; and Alice dropped her apron and
went away smiling.
Sunday came, and the pair duly set forth, Mrs. Cluett watching their
departure from the kitchen window, not without some elation, for indeed
her maid was, as she said to herself, a fine piece, and Adam, as he
strode along by her side, was “so well set-up as a granadier”.
Alice chattered away gaily while they walked, tucking up her pretty
blue skirt to show her starched white petticoat, while her curly head,
under its rose-crowned hat, turned this way and that as they passed
friends and neighbours. Other heads turned to gaze after her, and
many jests and laughs were exchanged, and not a few sly innuendos as
to the possible outcome of events. Alice would laugh and blush then,
and glance surreptitiously at Adam; but the ex-warrener was more
taciturn even than usual that day, and though his face wore a contented
expression, he appeared to take little heed of his surroundings.
Presently the girl became silent, and by-and-by distinctly cross; she
lagged a little behind Adam; once or twice she stumbled, and once
paused, having tripped over a stone.
“What be to do?” inquired Adam, bringing down his eyes all at once from
the horizon, where the irregular parti-coloured lines of Oakleigh Wood
had hitherto held his gaze.
“You do walk so fast,” complained Alice, “and the road be so
rough--and--” in a still more aggrieved tone--“all the other boys and
maids what we do meet be a-walkin’ arm-in-crook.”
“Come,” said Adam diffidently, “us can do that too, I suppose.”
Alice curved her arm, and he, after a little practice, supported her
elbow in the recognised fashion prescribed for courting-folk. He looked
down at her with a softened expression as they advanced afresh.
“Be enjoying of yourself, my maid?” he inquired.
“E-es,” returned Alice dubiously. “Be you?”
“Jist about!” said Adam, at which she brightened visibly.
They now turned off the dusty road that for the last half-mile had
climbed up almost perpendicularly, with the downs rolling away on one
side and a carefully enclosed fir plantation skirting it on the other.
A sheep-track that presently lost itself, wound away over the downs
between patches of grass and low-growing thorn and elder bushes to
where Oakleigh Wood spread its exquisite, undulating length invitingly
before them. Adam quickened his pace; his whole face lightened and
brightened in a manner of which it had not hitherto seemed capable;
presently he began to sing in a rich ringing joyous voice, and Alice,
clutching at his arm to stay his progress, exclaimed in amazement:--
“You do seem quite another man to-day!” she cried half petulantly.
“I d’ ’low I be another man,” answered he. “Let’s run, maidie, let’s
run. Let’s get there.”
He caught her by the hand, and the girl, infected by his excitement,
raced with him at her topmost speed. Off they flew over the springing
turf and only paused, laughing, when they reached the shelter of the
belt of firs which stood at the outskirts of the wood. The cool green
fragrance was refreshing after that breathless race in the fierce
sunshine; Alice’s eyes were dancing and her heart leaping, but Adam
had suddenly become grave again; when he spoke it was in a subdued
voice almost as if he were in church, the girl thought. Nevertheless he
looked very tenderly at her as he touched her lightly on the shoulder.
“Now, maidie,” said he, “I be goin’ to show ye such things as ye did
never see in your life--I be a-goin’ to let ye into a few of the
secrets o’ this place.”
“Ye’ve never been here yourself afore,” protested Alice.
“I know ’em all the same,” returned Adam. “I do know all about woods. A
squirrel, see! Look yon.”
“Where?” whispered Alice.
“On the big crooked branch there. Keep still, and he’ll come nigh us.”
As they stood motionless the little creature did indeed come frolicking
downwards from bough to bough, pausing to glance at them, leaping away
in feigned terror, returning for closer inspection, then, evidently
deciding that they were not, and could never have been, alive, and
were, in consequence, not dangerous, sitting up, chattering, a yard or
two above their heads. He was presently joined by a friend, or it might
be a rival; a lively discussion ensued, a mad scamper, a protracted
chase, the two finally disappearing in the inner depths of the wood.
“Let’s go,” said Alice.
She had been amused and interested, but felt nevertheless somewhat
disappointed. This was the strangest courting she had ever heard of:
it seemed hardly worth while to have walked three miles on a Sunday
afternoon merely to watch the antics of a couple of squirrels. But Adam
was perfectly happy; for the first time since he had left the Warren he
found himself in his element and at ease.
“If you do know how to treat ’em, birds and beasts is tame enough,” he
remarked. “There, the very varmint ’ull be friendly wi’ you. There was
a wold weasel yonder in the Warren what did use to have reg’lar games
wi’ me. He knowed I were arter him, d’ye see, and he were that cunnin’
he did lead I a dance for months and months. I do ’low the creature
’j’yed it. When I did take en out o’ the gin at last he did grin up
in my face as if he were a-sayin’ ‘ye be upsides wi’ me at last, wold
chap!’--I could a’most have found it in my heart to let him go, but I
dursn’t, along o’ my father. Hush, look!”
A green woodpecker was climbing up the tree near which they had halted;
the pair watched him until he took wing, and then pursued their way.
Alice’s heart was sinking more and more; she yawned once or twice in a
frank, undisguised way, and walked ever more slowly.
“Hark!” cried Adam jubilantly, “the cuckoo. ’Tis the first time I’ve
heard en--he be late to-year.”
“Have ye got any money about ye?” inquired Alice eagerly. “Turn it
round quick, if ye have.”
“What for?”
“Why, for luck, sure. Didn’t ye know that? You must turn your money
first time you do hear cuckoo cry so as you’ll have plenty more
to-year.”
Adam’s fingers dropped from the waistcoat pocket where they had been
vaguely fumbling.
“What’s money to me?” he muttered, as, with head thrown back and brows
frowning with eagerness, he followed the course of certain black specks
which at that moment were flying high over the wood.
“Wild duck!” he remarked presently.
Alice turned on him in desperation.
“Well, I be a-goin’ for to sit down,” she remarked. “I’ve a-brought a
bit o’ summat to eat wi’ me.”
She produced from the little basket which she had carried sundry slices
of cake which she offered to Baverstock.
“I did bring seed-cake a-purpose because you did say you liked it
best,” she observed in an expectant tone. But Adam’s dark eyes
continued to rove even while he ate, and his only response was
inconsequent enough:--
“Don’t it taste good out o’ door?”
Alice edged away from him and munched in silence, and presently tears
of mortification welled into her eyes. Adam, returning on tiptoe from a
cautious expedition to inspect a nuthatch’s nest in the bole of a tree,
suddenly took note of her woeful expression, and paused aghast.
“What be cryin’ for, maidie?” he asked in so kind a tone, that the
tears rolled down upon her cheeks, and a little unexpected sob burst
forth.
“I don’t know,” she murmured; then, petulantly: “I wish I hadn’t come!”
Adam’s face fell.
“Don’t ’ee like being here? I thought ye’d be so pleased.”
The sense of injury now overcame maidenly reserve.
“You do never say a word to I. You don’t so much as look at I. I mid be
a stock or a stone,” she added passionately.
Adam surveyed her with dawning comprehension; during the silence that
intervened the rustling of the leaves could be heard, the distant notes
of a lark circling upwards from the downs beyond the woods, the chirp
of nestlings, the irrepressible laughter of a gleeful squirrel. Perhaps
all this cheerful bustle of the sunshiny spring awoke in the man’s
breast certain hitherto dormant instincts. He, too, was young, and love
and springtime go hand-in-hand. He stooped, laid a tentative forefinger
gently under Alice’s round chin, tilted it slightly, and gazed down
into the tearful eyes.
“Ye mustn’t cry, my maid,” said he, and then he kissed her.
They came out of the wood as the sun was sinking, hand-in-hand as
before, but walking sedately now, and with a glow upon their faces
other than the glow which was dyeing the fir-boles crimson, and making
the gorse flame.
Alice was in the seventh heaven, and as for Adam, perhaps he too had
learnt a new secret in the greenwood, the existence of which had been
hitherto unguessed.
“Well?” said Mrs. Cluett as the couple parted by the yard door.
“Well,” returned Alice, with a conscious laugh.
“You do seem to be gettin’ along,” pursued the mother.
“E-es, we be gettin’ along,” conceded Alice, but no more would she say.
She was subsequently forced to own to herself, however, that they did
not get on very fast. Adam was incomprehensible to her, and frequently
exasperating; and more than once he seemed puzzled and irritated by
things that Alice said and did. Mrs. Cluett, for her part, blamed them
both with equal impartiality. Now she would aver that Alice was a
simpleton, now that Adam was a fool. Was the thing to be or was it not
to be? she wanted to know; even if it was to be Mrs. Cluett was not
sure that she cared so very much about it; but if it was not to be,
there was no manner of use in Alice wasting her time.
Meanwhile the couple walked together frequently, talked little, and
quarrelled more than once. On that warm June night, for instance,
when Adam, rolling himself in his blanket, stretched himself in the
orchard to sleep under the stars, Alice’s indignation was to the full
as great as her mother’s; while the day the girl refused Adam’s offer
of pine-cones for her fire, on the ground that they popped like pistols
and smelt of turpentine, her lover’s resentment had flashed forth in
words fierce and strong.
“You do never seem to care for the things what I like,” he summed up.
To each the other was an unknown quantity; the mutual attraction was
almost counterbalanced by a shyness begotten of the knowledge of being
misunderstood.
The crisis came one summer’s night--a night long remembered in the
village, for there broke such a storm over the land as had not been
known, the old folks said, since the days of their childhood. A
brooding and oppressive stillness reigned at first, and then came
lightning that seemed to split the heavens, and thunder that roared
like a thousand menacing cannons. Alice sat crouched in a corner with a
face as white as a sheet and her fingers in her ears; and Mrs. Cluett
hurried round the house, closing doors and windows, and fastening
shutters. As she was about to shut the door leading to the yard, a
sudden flash revealed to her a motionless figure standing without, a
few paces away.
“Dear heart alive! ’Tis never you, Adam.”
She had seen his face transfigured in the momentary gleam, the eyes
exultant, the lips parted in rapture.
“Isn’t it grand?” came Adam’s voice, tremulous with excitement, as the
darkness enfolded him once more, and the mystic artillery crashed over
their heads.
“The chap’s daft!” exclaimed Mrs. Cluett. “Come in this minute. You’ll
be struck dead afore me eyes. We don’t want no carpses in the house, do
us, Alice?”
But Alice made no response.
“Lard save us!” ejaculated Mrs. Cluett, as a new flash lit up all the
surrounding country, revealing the cattle huddled together in the
adjacent fields, the hedges, the trees, Adam’s face, eager, enraptured,
as before. She darted out and seized him by the arm.
“Come in, I tell ’ee,” she cried. “I’ll not have ye standing there no
more.”
As he turned towards her half-dazed, she dragged him in, and had shut
and bolted the door before he recovered his wits. The air was stifling
inside the house; the paraffin lamp reeked; the gusts of storm-wind
which arose every now and then puffed volumes of acrid wood smoke down
the chimney.
“A man mid choke here,” growled Adam.
“To bed wi’ ye then!” cried Mrs. Cluett indignantly. “Us be a-goin’
too--’tis late enough.”
She took up the lamp as she spoke, and roused Alice by a jerk of the
sleeve. Adam went creaking upstairs, and threw himself dressed upon
his bed. The atmosphere of his little attic-room, sun-baked as it had
been through all that breathless day, was like that of a furnace; he
felt his brain reel and was oppressed almost to suffocation. The storm
continued, flash after flash playing on his narrow window; he could see
the tip of his one fir-tree, now motionless, transfixed as it were, now
swaying in a puff of wind that died away as suddenly as it came.
The house was very silent now, and permeated by the odour of Mrs.
Cluett’s recently extinguished lamp. Adam sat up gasping. He thought
of the Warren--of the close-growing trees stretching away about the
free and happy man who dwelt beneath them. Once he, too, had stood with
the woods wrapping him round, and the stars of heaven over his head.
Tewley must look grand to-night. As he thought of it the dark shadowy
forms of the trees seemed to press upon him; he could hear their deep
breathing, and share their expectancy.
Ha! there was a flash. How it would light up the beeches and play
among the pines. Now the thunder! it would roar and reverberate among
those billowing trees. The rain would come soon. First there would be
a rush of wind, and ash and oak and beech would rustle and shiver, and
the larches sway down all their slender length. And then, while the
trees were bending and rocking, the rain would come--the cold, heavy,
glorious rain. Adam caught his breath as he thought of it--how it would
come down, hissing among the leaves, splashing on the hot ground! How
good the wet earth would smell, every strand of moss and fibre of grass
adding its own spicy fragrance.
He leaped from his bed and almost at the same moment the tree outside
his window was caught by a whirling wind and snapped. Then something
seemed to snap, too, in Adam’s brain and he laughed aloud. What was
he doing there, in that suffocating room, when he was free to go that
moment, if he chose, to Tewley Woods? What should hold him back--what
should keep him? If he made haste he might yet reach the Warren in time
for the rain.
In another moment he was out of the house, and when the next flash of
lightning came it revealed a flying figure scudding along the whiteness
of the road.
* * * * *
Alice cried bitterly over the defection of her wild man of the woods,
but she consoled herself in time, and took a mate more to her mind,
a practical person who sowed cabbages in the flower-border, and
considered the view of the new brewery the finest in the neighbourhood.
But Adam Baverstock had passed for ever out of her life; as silently as
he had come from the shadow of the trees into the spring sunshine, so
had he vanished in the summer storm.
THE HOME-COMING OF DADA.
“I knew he was bound to be one of the first,” said Mrs. Bunce
triumphantly. “Why, he’ve a-been out there ever since the war broke
out. Two year and seven month he’ve a-been there--and the hardships
he’s been through, and the fightin’ he’s done! There, I can’t think how
ever the Government had the heart to keep en out so long.”
“There’s others what have been out jist same as he have,” returned
her neighbour plaintively. “My Jan now--such a good boy as he be,
too!--well, he’ve a-been out there months and months, and he’ve a-been
in hospital!”
“As for fightin’,” put in the shrewd-faced little man who formed the
third party to the discussion, and whose opinion carried weight in the
neighbourhood, for his vocation of carrier enabled him to pick up many
items of news during his daily round, “as for fightin’, Mrs. Bunce, I
don’t mean to make little o’ your husband, but there bain’t nothin’
wonderful about him doin’ a lot o’ fightin’. They all done that--’twas
what they were sent out for, and not a bit more credit to any of ’em
nor for me to go joggin’ along behind the wold horse here.”
Both women reddened, and turned upon him angrily.
“If ye do think such things, ye did ought to be ashamed to say ’em,”
cried Mrs. Andrews. “’Eroes--’tis what they be every man of ’em, Mr.
Bright; and you did ought to know it, seein’ as ’twas wrote up plain
over the very Corn Exchange the day as peace was declared. ‘All Honour
to Our ’Eroes,’ it said, in them little coloured lamps so ’andsome as
it could be; and bain’t there a song about ‘they’re ’eroes every one’?”
“And I’m sure ye can’t say,” chimed in little Mrs. Bunce, nodding her
curly head emphatically, “as it be the same thing for a man to sit snug
in his cart behind the quietest old harse in Darset as it is to leave
your wife and your home and--and everything, and to go riskin’ your
life among Boers and Blacks in them wild parts out abroad.”
“E-es,” agreed her neighbour, making common cause with her against the
enemy, “e-es, indeed, Mrs. Bunce. And your little boy wasn’t so much
as born when his dada was took away, was he? Many a time, I dare say,
you did think to yourself as he’d never see the face of his child. I d’
’low he thought the same hisself goin’ off, poor fellow! Ye’ll agree
that was a bit hard on the man, Mr. Bright, so little credit as ye be
willin’ to allow our soldiers. Ye’ll agree ’twas hard on the man to go
off, leavin’ his missus to get through her trouble alone, and the child
the first child, too, mind ye.”
“If it had been the tenth you wouldn’t pity him so much,” said the
carrier, with a dry chuckle. “There’s some as don’t think so much o’
them things. Jim Marshall, now--says I to Jim t’other day, ‘Jim,’ I
says, ‘I hear you’ve got an increase to your family’; and poor Jim, he
looks at me and says, ‘E-es,’ he says, ‘more hardship’.”
Chuckling sardonically, he gathered up his reins and jogged on again,
the women looking after him with indignant faces.
As the green “shed” of his van disappeared round the corner, their
eyes by mutual accord reverted to each other, and Mrs. Andrews laughed
disdainfully.
“’Tis a queer cranky sort of body,” she remarked; “a bachelor man. What
can you expect?”
Mrs. Bunce’s face was still pink with wrath, but she smiled upon the
other woman.
“I should think your Jan did ought to come home soon now,” she said
handsomely; gratitude for Mrs. Andrews’ timely sympathy causing her
to be for the moment almost willing to admit there might be another
soldier of some merit in the British Army besides Private William Bunce.
“I’m sure I hope so,” responded her neighbour rather dismally. “You are
safe to get your husband back next week, anyhow.”
“Next week,” echoed Nellie Bunce joyfully. “Yes, he says in his last
letter they was to start in a week, and I’ve a-counted up the time, and
he did ought to land at Southampton Saturday week.”
“I d’ ’low ye’ll be busy gettin’ all ready for him,” said the older
woman, falling into an easy attitude with her hands on her hips, the
better to contemplate her pretty neighbour.
“I d’ ’low I be,” responded Nellie, enthusiastically. “I be goin’ to
give en the best welcome I can, ye mid be sure. I be cleanin’ up the
house fro’ top to bottom, and I be goin’ to paper the kitchen. I’ve
bought paper already; I reckon I could easy do it myself; the wall
aint so very high and the room bain’t too big neither.”
“’Tis a stiffish job for a woman though,” returned Mrs. Andrews,
dubiously. “If Andrews wasn’t so bad with the lumbagey, I’d get en to
lend ye a hand; but he’s that stiff, poor man, he can scarcely so much
as turn hisself in bed.”
“Oh, I’ll manage,” returned Mrs. Bunce, nodding brightly. “I’m a great
one for contrivin’, and ’t’ull be summat to tell Bill as I’ve a-done it
myself.”
“It’ll take you all your time,” protested Mrs. Andrews, and they parted.
During the ensuing days Nellie was indeed up to her eyes in work,
carrying out vigorously her plan of cleaning and polishing the house
from top to bottom. Baby Billy, who had hitherto considered himself
a person of very great importance, found himself hustled hither and
thither as he had never been in the whole of his existence, a period
extending over about thirty months.
On one particular afternoon, when every washable article in the house
was in Nellie’s tub, he was bidden to play out of doors, and finding
the maternal eye less on the alert than usual, surreptitiously opened
the garden gate and wandered to the forbidden precincts of the lane.
He trotted along for nearly a quarter of a mile, until he reached a
particularly delectable corner graced by a large rubbish-heap, which he
proceeded to investigate with huge satisfaction, carrying one treasure
after another over the way, sitting down to examine it, and immediately
rolling on to his legs again to procure some yet more coveted object.
At last, however, he secured two prizes, than which nothing more
desirable could be imagined, and with a sigh of satisfaction toddled
for the last time across the lane and sat down to enjoy them at his
leisure. The broken jam-pot was immediately filled with sand, while
the rusty knife, grasped by its fragmentary handle, could be used in
a variety of ways--so Billy discovered--as a spade, as a saw, as a
chopper.
He was engaged in mincing a dock leaf very small on a flat stone, his
mouth opening and shutting in accompaniment to his labours, when he was
suddenly hailed by somebody who had abruptly turned the corner of the
lane, somebody who was probably on his way from the town.
“Hello!” cried this somebody.
“Hello!” responded Billy, pausing with his knife poised in mid-air and
looking up with a pair of very big and very blue eyes. He had to tilt
his head quite a long way back to do so, for the newcomer was tall.
Billy was a little startled; to begin with the newcomer was a man, and
he was not sure that he liked men--they cracked whips sometimes, and
spoke loud and gruff, particularly when, as occasionally happened,
Billy chanced to run across the road immediately in front of their
horses; then he had funny brown clothes--nobody that Billy had ever
seen wore clothes like that; and he had a brown face too, a face so
very, very brown that it gave his blue eyes a strange look. Billy was
secretly a good deal frightened, but being a soldier’s son he only
clutched his knife the harder and said, “Hello!” again, as the stranger
continued to look at him without speaking.
“I rather think I ought to know you, my lad,” said the man at last, in
a queer quavering voice. “I’d swear by that little cocked nose. What’s
your name, eh?”
“Billy,” responded the child promptly.
“Right you are!” cried the man, and he caught him up in his arms, knife
and jam-pot and all. “Let’s hear the rest of it, though. Billy what?”
“I want to get down,” asserted the urchin, vigorously struggling. “I
want to get down and make a pudden for my dada.”
The man grimaced, and instantly set the child upon his legs.
“Perhaps we’ve made a mistake after all,” he said; “perhaps you are
some other chap’s Billy. Where does your dada live, young ’un?--tell us
that.”
Billy had by this time squatted on the ground again, and was once more
chopping at his dock leaf. He did not answer until the man had twice
repeated his question, then he explained.
“My dada’s tummin’ home. He’s tummin’ in a ship--and a puff-puff,” he
added, as an after-thought.
“Right you are,” cried the brown-faced man again, and he caught him up
in his arms once more and kissed him. “I thought I’d know my little
woman’s nose among a thousand, and yours is so like it as one pea is
like another. Come, let’s go and look for mammy.”
Billy was at first disposed to protest, but something at once merry and
tender in the man’s blue eyes disarmed suspicion; and when he presently
found himself hoisted on a broad shoulder, and was thus carried at
galloping speed down the lane and through the village; when, moreover,
this self-constituted steed actually vaulted the garden gate, and
covered the tiny path that intervened between it and the cottage door
with two strides, he was not only reassured but jubilant.
They could see “mammy” bending over the wash-tub through the open
kitchen door, very red in the face, very wet and draggled as to dress,
and with one end of her hair straggling down; and the queer thing
was that at sight of her the man suddenly came to a standstill and
uttered a kind of choking cry. And then mammy turned round and dropped
the shirt she had been wringing out, and fairly screamed as she came
rushing across the kitchen. Then laughing and crying together she flung
her arms round the brown man’s neck, heedless of the danger to which
she was exposing herself from the broken jam-pot and the rusty knife
which Billy was still brandishing; and kissed him, and rocked backwards
and forwards with him, and seemed altogether to have taken leave of her
senses.
After a moment’s breathless pause of astonishment, Billy thought it
time to assert himself. He dropped his two treasures on the floor
and burst into a loud wail. Then clutching hold of the newcomer’s
close-cropped fair head, he endeavoured with all his might to pull it
away from the curly one that was pressed so close to it. And then mammy
looked up, and her eyes were all wet, but her mouth was laughing.
“You mustn’t do that, sonny,” she said. “This is dada! Dada’s come
home.”
Billy was dumb with dismay and disappointment, partly at the discovery
that the much-talked-of and hitherto unimagined dada was a man, partly
because he was such a very brown man, but chiefly because he had
arrived shorn of the glories of the ship and the puff-puff which he
had understood were to accompany him. So he sat still and rather sulky
on the khaki shoulder while Private Bunce explained how he had caught
sight of the little chap, and how he at once “spotted” him by that
little nose of his, and how disappointed he had been when for a moment
he had thought it was not his Billy after all, but some other quite
uninteresting Billy belonging to another fellow.
“But I found him all right,” he summed up triumphantly, “and I found
you, little woman--lookin’ tip-top you are, just about! Lard, it do
seem a mortal time since I left you, my girl.”
“Oh, Bill, I meant to have everything so nice for ’ee,” cried Nellie.
“Dear, to think there’s nothin’ ready! I’m sure I’m not fit to be seen
myself.”
She glanced regretfully towards the wash-tub. Her pink blouse was in
there--the blouse Bill had always said he liked--and her lace collar
and the little ruffles for her wrists. The old blue cotton gown which
she wore was not only faded and patched, but soiled and almost wet
through.
“You’re lookin’ just splendid though,” cried her husband. “Why, that
there’s the very gown you used to wear when we went a-coortin’--I mind
it well--that little wavy stripe. I used to think it the prettiest
thing I ever did see. And here’s the little curl comin’ down what I
used to kiss when we was a-walkin’ down by the river.”
“Oh, Bill, is it comin’ down? I wanted to be so tidy and nice. I
reckoned ye was comin’ next week, ye know.”
“I come over wi’ the colonel. He come across a bit sooner nor we
expected, bein’ knocked up wi’ one thing and another. ‘The sooner the
better,’ thinks I.”
“Of course,” cried Nellie fervently; “the sooner the better indeed. But
we be all in a caddle here. There, the window curtains and the best
table-cloth and the very bed-quilt is in the tub, and I haven’t got any
meat in the house! I thought Billy and me ud go a bit short this week,
so’s to have a reg’lar feast when you did come home. And--and----”
“Now, don’t you fret, old girl; we hadn’t no table-cloth nor yet
bed-quilts out on the veldt. And as for meat--blowed if I do care so
very much for meat. But I tell ye what I would like.”
“What?” cried Nellie breathlessly.
“What I would like more nor any earthly thing,” said Bill emphatically,
but with a twinkle in his eye, “is just ’taters--’taters done wi’ a bit
o’ drippin’, hot and tasty, the way you did often do ’em.”
Nellie drew a long breath of relief.
“Them’s easy got,” she said jubilantly, but almost immediately her face
fell again. “It do seem a poor kind o’ welcome,” she murmured, “and
I----”
Private Bunce deposited his son and heir upon the floor, the better to
bestow a really satisfactory embrace upon the little sunburnt woman.
She was exceedingly damp and smelt very strongly of soap, but he did
not seem to mind.
“Now, look here,” he said, “you couldn’t give I a better welcome nor
what you’ve a-done. This here’s home--home as I did so often think
of and long for; and here you be, my wold ’ooman, lookin’ just same
as ever--just same as I so often seed ye in my mind, and I used to
dream about ye many a time, and wake up and find mysel’ lyin’ on the
sand. This here’s home and this here’s my little ’ooman--and I don’t
want nothin’ else, wi’out it’s this young shaver,” he added as an
after-thought.
And so, while the wash-tub steamed away unheeded in the back premises,
a very merry party sat down to an impromptu meal. The ’taters were duly
set forth, and Nellie, cleaned up and tidy, poured out tea, and Private
Bunce cut huge slices from the crusty loaf, and declared he hadn’t had
such a blow-out, no, not since he sailed from Southampton.
“To my mind, Nellie,” he cried presently, “the room do seem to look
more cheerful-like wi’out the winder curtains. A body notices the paper
more--the dear old paper what I did stick up for ’ee myself.”
Nellie opened her mouth as though to speak, but changed her mind and
closed it again.
“I tell you what it is,” cried Private Bunce enthusiastically, “the
place wouldn’t look itself wi’out that wall-paper. I wouldn’t have it
changed for anything.”
Then Nellie burst out laughing and clapped her hands.
THE MAJESTY OF THE LAW.
They were cutting Farmer Fowler’s largest hayfield; it was eleven
o’clock, and the men had just “knocked off” for the light meal known
in those parts as “nuncheon”. A big flagon of cider was being passed
round from one to the other, accompanied by goodly slices of bread and
cheese. The farmer himself stood a little apart under the shade of a
large elm which grew midway in the hedgerow that divided this field
from its neighbour, paying a half scornful attention to the scraps
of talk with which the labourers seasoned their meal. He himself was
not given to self-indulgence, and inwardly chafed at the loss of this
half-hour from the busiest time of the day. He had worked as hard
as any of his men, and was, indeed, hardly to be distinguished from
them, except by the better quality of his clothes. He was a tall,
strong-looking fellow, with a face as sunburnt as any of theirs, and
arms as muscular and brown. He was coatless, and wore a great chip
hat; his shirt-sleeves were rolled up above his elbows, and his shirt
was open at the throat. Two teams of horses stood in the shadow of the
hedge, plucking at the twigs or stretching down their necks towards
the grass which they could not reach; the vast field, half cut, lay
shimmering before him in a blaze of light; the dome overhead glowed
almost to whiteness, for the sun at this hour was intolerably hot. Yet
even as the master gazed, impatiently longing for the moment when he
could set his hinds to work again, he saw a figure rapidly crossing
the field, looking from right to left, as though in search of some
one. It was the figure of a young woman; so much he could divine from
the shapely outline and springing ease of motion, but her face was at
first lost to him under the deep shade of her broad-brimmed hat. She
approached the group of labourers first, and made some query in a tone
too low for him to distinguish the words. He saw his foreman, however,
turn towards the tree beneath which he himself stood and jerk his thumb
over his shoulder. Evidently the young woman had come in search of him.
She made her way towards him, walking more slowly, and indicating by
her aspect a certain amount of diffidence. A comely girl--he could see
that now--dark-eyed, dark-haired, and glowing with health and life.
“If you please, sir,” she began timidly, “I came--my father sent me.
It’s about the taxes.”
She drew from her pocket a little blue paper of familiar aspect; the
demand-note for the rates collected four times a year by the Overseers
of the Branstone Union. The angry colour glowed in Jacob Fowler’s face
as he twitched the paper from her hand.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he cried; “what have you got to do with
it?”
“I am Isaac Masters’ daughter, of Little Branstone,” she said hastily.
“He collects the rates for our parish, but he’s very ill in bed. He’s
had a stroke, poor Father has, and I’m doing his work for him.”
“He should have known better than to send you to me,” returned Jacob,
still wrathfully. “I never heard sich a tale i’ my life. Sendin’ a maid
to collect the rates! Dally! Where will the women-folk stop?”
“Nobody else made any objection,” said the girl, with a little toss of
her head. “I’ve got it all right, except yours; and Father thought I’d
best come and ask for it.”
“Then you can tell your father as he did make a very great mistake,”
thundered Fowler. “’Tis bad enough to be bothered about they dalled
rates wi’out havin’ a woman set up over you.”
He tore the paper into fragments as he spoke, scattering them to the
breeze. “There, you jist turn about and go home-along, my maid, and
tell your father that’s my answer. If your father bain’t fit to do his
work hissel’, he did ought to get somebody else to do it for ’en--some
other man. The notion o’ sendin’ a maid! I never did hear o’ sich a
piece o’ cheek!”
The girl, without waiting for the end of his indignant commentary, had
turned about as he had advised, and was now walking swiftly away, her
head held very high, angry tears on her thick lashes. Jacob impatiently
jerked out his watch; it wanted still ten minutes of the time when
work would have to be resumed. He dropped the watch into his pocket
again, whistling under his breath, a good deal out of tune. Once more
fragments of the men’s talk reached his unwilling ears.
“That be Bethia Masters, that be--a wonderful good maid. They d’ say
the wold man ’ud be fair lost wi’out her. The Parish Council did give
her leave to take his place for a bit so long as there was a chance he
mid get better.” “She be a shapely maid and a vitty one.” “E-es, she’s
well enough; looks a bit tired now, walkin’ i’ the heat three mile here
and three mile back.” “E-es, and a sarcin’ at the end o’t,” chuckled
one old fellow under his breath. “Our maister, he did gi’ ’t to her! I
heerd ’en. Our maister bain’t partial to payin’ rates at any time, and
he didn’t reckon for to hand over his money to a ’ooman.”
Farmer Fowler watched the retreating figure idly; it was true she was
a shapely maid. How lightly and rapidly she walked: ’twas a long way,
too--three miles and more. He could have wished he had not been quite
so hard with her. He might have asked her to sit down and rest for a
while; he might have offered her a glass of cider. He almost wondered
at his own outburst of irritation as he looked back on it now, and
watched the girl’s retreating form with an increasing sense of shame.
The toilsome day was over at last, the horses stabled, the men fed.
Farmer Fowler was smoking the pipe of peace in his trellised porch
with a pleasant sense of weariness. It was good to rest there under
the honeysuckle in the twilight, and to think of how much had been
accomplished during the long sunny hours which had preceded it.
The sound of a light foot caused him to raise his eyes, which he had
partially closed a few moments before, and the ensuing click of the
garden gate made him sit upright and crane forward his head. A girl’s
figure was making its way down the little paved path, a girl’s voice
once more greeted him tremulously.
“If you please, Mr. Fowler, I’m sorry to trouble you, but----”
Jacob Fowler in the evening was a different person to the Jacob Fowler
of the fields; he stretched out his hand and drew her forward by the
sleeve.
“Sit down, my maid,” he said; “sit ye down. You’ve a-had a longish
walk, and for the second time to-day, too.”
Bethia came into the shadow of the porch; her face looked pale in the
dim light, and he could see the bosom of her light dress rise and fall
quickly with her rapid breath.
“If you please, sir,” she began again, “I know you’ll be vexed, but
Father, he’s very much undone about the taxes. He’ll be gettin’ into
trouble, he says, if he doesn’t send the money off to-morrow. He made
me come back and ask you again. We’d take it very kind if you’d let us
have what’s owing, sir.”
Her tremulous tone smote Jacob; stretching out his big hand once more,
he patted her shoulder encouragingly.
“There, don’t ye be afeard, my maid; don’t ye. I’ll not bite ye.”
A dimple peeped out near Bethia’s lip. “You very nearly did bite me
this morning,” she said.
“Nay, now,” returned Jacob, smiling beneath his thick beard, “I weren’t
a-goin’ to bite ye; I was on’y barkin’, maid. Lard, if you did know
I, you’d say wi’ the rest of ’em that my bark was worse nor my bite.
There! what about this trifle o’ money as I owe for the rates? How
much is it? Dally! I don’t know how ’tis, but it fair goes agen me to
pay out money for taxes. It do seem so unfair when a man’s farm’s his
own--land and house and all--for Government to go and say, ‘You’ve
a-got a house, and you’ve a-got land as your father and grandfather
have a-bought wi’ their own money--you must pay out for that, my lad;
you must hand over whatever we pleases to ax for.’ ’Tisn’t as if they’d
consult a man. If they was to say to I, ‘Mr. Fowler, you be a warmish
man, and there’s a good few poor folk up i’ the union; what be you
willin’ to allow us for them?’ I’d call that fair enough, and I’d tell
’em straight-out what I _was_ willin’ to ’low. But no; they goes and
settles it all among theirselves wi’ never a word to nobody, and jist
sends out a paper wi’out by your leave or wi’ your leave. ‘You _be_
to pay so much, whether you do like it or whether you don’t.’ ’Tain’t
fair.”
“I dare say it isn’t, sir,” rejoined Bethia, very meekly; “but I’m
not askin’ you on account of the Government--I’m just askin’ you for
Father’s sake. He’s fretting terribly, and the doctor says he oughtn’t
to upset himself.”
“Well, I don’t mind if I do make an end o’ this here business for your
father’s sake, maidy; but I d’ ’low I’d jist so soon do it for yours.”
“For mine!”
“E-es, because you do ask I so pretty. I did speak a bit sharp to ye
this mornin’, but it was along o’ being vexed wi’ the Government--I
wasn’t really vexed wi’ _you_, my dear.”
Bethia began to laugh; her little white teeth flashed out in the
most charming way--her bright eyes lit up. Jacob gazed at her with
increasing favour.
“I bain’t vexed wi’ you, my dear,” he repeated affably, and then
suddenly standing up, darted into the house. In a few minutes he
emerged again carrying a little packet, which he handed to her.
“It be all there, wrapped up i’ that bit o’ paper; you’d best count it
and see as it be right. Will ye take a glass o’ milk or summat?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Fowler; I’m very much obliged, but I think I must
be getting home now. It’s growin’ dark, and my father will be anxious.”
“Wouldn’t you like nothin’?” insisted Jacob. “A posy o’ flowers or
summat? There’s a-many of ’em growin’ i’ the garden, and nobody ever
thinks for to pick ’em.”
“Of course not; a man does not care for such things, I know. You live
all alone, don’t you, Mr. Fowler?”
“All alone, my maid, since my poor mother died. She went to the New
House fifteen year ago. I’m what you mid call a reg’lar wold bachelor,
I be.”
He threw out this last remark with such an obvious wish to be
contradicted that Bethia hastened to return, “Not so old as that, I’m
sure, Mr. Fowler. My father always speaks of you as a young man.”
“I be jist upon farty,” returned Jacob, with surprising promptitude.
“Farty; that be my age. Not so old for a man.”
“Not at all old,” returned Bethia very politely; then, extending her
hand, “I’ll say good-night now, sir.”
“Won’t you have a posy, then? Do. Help yourself, my maid. I’ll walk a
piece o’ the way home wi’ you, and then you needn’t be afeard.”
“Very well, and thank you kindly.”
She followed him out of the porch, and up a path that led round the
house to the old-fashioned garden at the rear, where there were roses,
and lilies, and pinks, and sweet-williams growing in a glorious medley.
She uttered little shrieks of delight, as she ran hither and thither,
breaking off here a cluster of roses, there a lily-head. Jacob stalked
silently behind her, clasp-knife in hand, cutting ten stalks where she
had culled one, until at last a very sheaf of flowers rested in his
arms.
“I’ll have to go all the way to carry it for you,” he remarked in a
satisfied tone.
Bethia turned and clapped her hands together. “Oh, what a lot! I never
thought you were going to get all those for me. How shall I ever thank
you?”
“I’ll carry it for you,” repeated Jacob. “This way out, my dear;
there’s a little gate jist here.”
A faint after-glow still lingered on the horizon, but already the
silver sickle of the young moon appeared in the transparent sky. A bat
circled round their heads from time to time, yet some love-lorn thrush
serenaded his mate somewhere not far off, his liquid ecstatic notes
filling the air, as it seemed. Great waves of perfume were wafted to
Bethia’s nostrils as she paced along beside the farmer, whose tall
figure towered over her, the silhouette of his face showing clear above
the irregular line of hedge.
As they walked he questioned her from time to time, and learned how the
girl had only come back to live with her parents within the past year,
having been absent for some time teaching in a school at Dorchester.
“School-teachin’!” commented Jacob. “That be how you do speak so nice
and clear. I speak awful broad myself--never had much eddication.”
“Hadn’t you?” returned Bethia, with interest.
“Nay, never had no time for that. My father, he died when I were a lad,
and my mother weren’t one as could manage a farm so very well. She
was a bit soft, my poor mother, and very easy taken in. So I did put
shoulder to the wheel, and I mid say I’ve been a-shovin’ of it ever
since.”
“I wonder you didn’t get married, Mr. Fowler,” said Bethia, with
perhaps a suspicion of archness in her voice.
Jacob only grunted in reply, and an embarrassed silence fell between
them, and remained unbroken till they had reached Little Branstone
village.
Jacob accompanied the girl down the by-lane which led to her home, and
followed her into the kitchen; there, however, he refused to stay, in
spite of Mrs. Masters’ civil request that he would sit down and rest.
“Nay,” he returned gruffly, “I’ll be gettin’ home-along now; I only
come so far to carry this here posy.”
Depositing his fragrant sheaf upon the table, he nodded right and left
at mother and daughter, and withdrew.
“Dear! Well, to be sure! Dear heart alive, Bethia, ye could ha’ knocked
I down wi’ a feather when he come marchin’ in. Lard ha’ mercy, maidy,
you be clever to ha’ got Jacob Fowler for a beau. That there man do
fair hate women of all sarts. There, he do never so much as look at
one--and to think of him a-walkin’ all that long ways jist for to carry
them flowers! He did give you the flowers, too, I suppose?”
“Yes,” returned her daughter; “but you mustn’t call him my beau,
please, Mother. He only meant to be polite.”
“Well, I’m sure he did never try to be polite to any maid afore,”
returned Mrs. Masters with conviction. “They do say he were crossed i’
love when he were a young ’un. Did he give ’ee the money, child?”
“Yes, Mother, and was very nice and kind altogether. I think he was
sorry for Father when I told him how ill he’d been.”
“Oh, to be sure, that’s it,” agreed her mother jocosely. “All they
flowers be for Father, too, I d’ ’low. Come, let’s fetch ’em up to ’en.”
Poor old Masters, ill though he was, chuckled feebly on hearing the
marvellous tale, and expressed in quavering tones his belief that his
daughter was a-doin’ pretty well for herself.
The girl, who had lived till now absolutely heart-whole, could not
repress a certain flutter of excitement, and passed the next few
days in a state of expectancy; but Jacob Fowler gave no further sign
of life. Though he appeared at church on Sunday, he kept his face
religiously turned away from the pretty tax-gatherer’s, and at the
conclusion of the service rushed from the door without pausing to look
round.
Bethia bit her lip, and instead of dallying a little, as was her
custom, to chat with one or other of her acquaintance, hastened home.
“Were Farmer Fowler there, my dear?” inquired her mother.
“Yes, but he didn’t speak to me--he didn’t take a bit of notice of
me. Put that notion out of your head, Mother--there’s nothing at all
between him and me.”
Soon the attention of the little household was entirely absorbed by
a more acute and immediate cause of trouble: poor old Masters, after
a brave struggle, and in spite of the adjurations of his neighbours,
found himself unable to “hold on”; he loosed his feeble grasp of life
suddenly at last, and went out, as his wife sorrowfully remarked, “like
the snoff of a candle.”
After the funeral was over, the question of ways and means stared the
mother and daughter in the face. Mrs. Masters did a little business--a
very little business--with a small general shop; it was quite
insufficient to support them. Her health was not good, and Bethia was
determined not to leave her; there was no opening for her as a teacher
in that village, and such sums as she might earn by taking in sewing
would add very little to their modest income. She resolved to make a
bold appeal to the Parish Council for permission to continue to fill
her father’s place.
“I could do it every bit as well as a man,” she averred. “I have done
it during the last few months. The accounts are all in order--I have
found no difficulty anywhere. Do let me try, gentlemen.”
The gentlemen in question were at first taken aback, then amused,
finally moved. After all, they said to each other, there was no reason
why the girl should not try. As long as the duties were discharged
exactly and punctually, there was no reason why they should not be
undertaken by a woman as well as by a man.
“But there must be no favouritism, Miss Masters,” said one, with a
twinkle in his eye; “no letting off of any particular friend. You must
be firm, even with your nearest and dearest. If people don’t pay up
after two or three applications, you must harden your heart and take
out a summons.”
“I will,” said Bethia seriously.
In a few days the news of her installation as assistant overseer spread
through the place, one of the first to hear of it being Jacob Fowler.
Bethia was standing in the kitchen shelling peas one morning when his
knock came at the door, almost immediately followed by the appearance
of his large person from behind it.
“Be this here true what I’ve a-heard?” he inquired abruptly. “Be it
true as you be a-goin’ to carry on this rate-collecting same as your
father did do?”
“Yes, Mr. Fowler,” answered Bethia, not without a certain pride. “The
Parish Council gentlemen think I can do it just as well as anybody; and
I’m glad to say they’ve agreed to let me try.”
“_I_ don’t agree, then,” cried Jacob violently. “It bain’t at all fit
nor becomin’ for a young ’ooman same as you to be a-goin’ about from
house to house, visitin’ folks and axin’ them for their money. It
bain’t proper, I tell ’ee.”
“What nonsense!” exclaimed Bethia, with a toss of her pretty curly
locks. “What’s it to you, Mr. Fowler, anyhow?”
“I don’t like it,” growled Fowler. “Will you go and ax folks for it,
same as you did ax I?”
“I shall leave a little note first,” said Bethia, with a very
business-like air, “a demand-note, you know. If they don’t pay up I
shall call personally.”
“It bain’t the right thing for a faymale,” repeated Fowler sourly;
“least of all for a young faymale. Folks ’ull be givin’ ye impidence.”
“Oh, no, they won’t,” returned Bethia with dignity. “I’m not one that
anybody could take liberties with, Mr. Fowler.”
He stood leaning against the table frowning.
“Will ye ax ’em rough-like, or will ye ax ’em civil?” he inquired,
after ruminating for a while.
“Why, of course I shall be civil, Mr. Fowler.”
“Will ye ax ’em so civil as ye did ax I?” he insisted with a kind of
roar.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” stammered the girl, taken aback for a moment.
“Yes,” recovering herself, “certainly I shall. There’s no reason why I
should make any difference between you and anybody else.”
“You tell I that to my face! You’ll go a-speakin’ ’em soft and
a-smilin’ at ’em pretty, jist same as ye did do to I! Dalled if I do
allow it! Dalled if I do, I say!”
“Really, Mr. Fowler,” said Bethia with spirit, “I don’t know what you
mean. It’s very rude of you to talk to me like that, and I do not see
why you should interfere. I shall be business-like and polite, as I
always try to be with every one, and I shall be firm too. The Law will
support me just the same as if I were a man.”
“Dalled if I do allow it,” repeated Jacob, still in a kind of muffled
bellow. “A British ratepayer I be, and have a-been this twenty year
and more, and I say I bain’t a-goin’ to allow it. I know my rights so
well as any man, and I bain’t a-goin’ to be put upon by a ’ooman. I
bain’t a-goin’ to allow any young faymale to be took out of her proper
place and set up where she’s no business to be. I’ll have no faymale
tax-collectors a-gaddin’ about this here parish if I can prevent it.
I’ll protest, maid, see if I don’t, and, what’s more, not one farden o’
rates will I pay into any faymale hands.”
Bethia, more and more irritated by his manner, thought it time to
assert herself finally; and withdrawing her hands from the basin of
peas, and looking him full in the face, she returned, with great
firmness, “Won’t you, Mr. Fowler? Then I’ll make you.”
“Lard ha’ mercy me! Listen to the maid!” exclaimed Jacob, bursting into
a fit of ironical laughter. “‘I’ll make ye,’ says she. Look at her,”
pointing at the girl’s slender form. “That be a good un! I tell ’ee,
Miss Masters, you’ll find it a bit hard to make I do anything I’ve not
got a mind to do.”
Bethia took up a pod again and split it viciously. “I’ve got the Law at
my back,” she remarked.
“Ho! ho! ho!” chuckled Jacob, this time with unfeigned merriment.
“Listen to her! The Law at her back indeed! Such a little small back it
be! Why, maidy, I could jist finish ye off wi’ one finger!”
“I’m not talking of brute force,” said Bethia, with flashing eyes. “The
Law is stronger than you, Mr. Fowler. Now, if you’ll kindly go away
and let me get on with my work, I’ll be much obliged.”
But Jacob did not take the hint. He sat down on the table instead, and
watched the girl as, with an affectation of ignoring his presence, she
moved about, filling her saucepan at the tap, peeling the potatoes,
setting them on to boil. She did everything swiftly, deftly, and
gracefully, holding her head very erect meanwhile, and being a
little sharper in her movements than usual on account of her inward
irritation. By-and-by Mrs. Masters came creaking down the narrow
stairs, and started back at the sight of the farmer.
“Dear! To be sure! I didn’t know you had visitors here, Bethia, my
dear. Won’t you sit i’ the armchair, Mr. Fowler? Do ’ee now. I’m sure
’tis very kind o’ ye to come a-visitin’ o’ we in our trouble.”
Bethia marched past her mother, removed the pot from the fire, and
carried it over to the table.
“Could you make a little room, if you please?” she inquired tartly.
Jacob chuckled and rubbed his hands as he slowly removed his ponderous
frame; then the remembrance of his former grievance returned to him,
and he gazed at the widow loweringly.
“You don’t like this here notion, Mrs. Masters, I hope?” he inquired
severely.
“What notion, sir?” returned the poor woman, startled.
“Why, this here notion o’ your daughter a-gaddin’ about lookin’ arter
the rates.”
“Well, you see, we be so hard pressed, we be,” faltered she. “My
daughter do try to do her best to earn a little, all ways she can. I’m
sorry as you’ve a-got objections, Mr. Fowler.”
“It doesn’t in the least matter if he’s got objections or not,” put in
Bethia tartly. “It’s no concern of Mr. Fowler’s. So long as he pays up
regularly he need not trouble himself.”
Jacob got out of the armchair and once more approached the table.
“Look ’ee here,” he said threateningly; “this here’s past a joke. I do
forbid ye for to do it--do ye hear?”
Bethia looked at him steadily. “I hear, and I can only repeat what I
said before. Now, Mr. Fowler, will you please go away? I’m going to
dish up.”
“Bethia, my dear!” protested Mrs. Masters feebly. “There, she’ve a-got
sich a spirit, Mr. Fowler, you must excuse her. She be a bit vexed,
you see, wi’ you findin’ fault wi’ her. I’m sure, the longer you stay,
Mr. Fowler, the better we’m pleased. We’ve nothin’ much fit to offer
ye, but if ye’d like to sit down and take a bit wi’ us you’re truly
welcome.”
Bethia shot an indignant glance towards her parent, and Jacob stood
hesitating for a moment; then with a laugh he drew up his chair to the
table.
“I’ll not refuse a good offer,” he said.
Bethia fetched a plate, knife and fork, and glass, setting each
before him with somewhat unnecessary clatter. Then she served up the
vegetables, brought out a roll of butter and a small piece of cheese
from the buttery, and took her place in silence.
“I’m sorry,” began Mrs. Masters regretfully, “we’ve got nothing better
to offer ye, Mr. Fowler. My daughter and me seldom eats meat of a week
day.”
“Don’t make excuses, Mother,” interrupted Bethia, with asperity. “Mr.
Fowler knows very well that we are poor.”
The meal proceeded in silence for the most part, Mrs. Masters making an
occasional remark, to which Jacob responded by a gruff monosyllable.
Bethia did not speak once, but had never looked prettier in her life;
the angry sparkle still lingered in her eyes, and her cheeks were
flushed. Whenever she glanced at the visitor her countenance took on an
additional expression of haughtiness.
At the end of the repast Jacob stood up. “I’d like a word wi’ ye
private, Miss Masters.”
“Oh, I beg pardon, I’m sure,” apologised the poor old mother, hastening
to efface herself.
As soon as her heavy footsteps were heard in the room upstairs the
farmer turned to Bethia.
“I’ve a-come to see ye friendly like,” he remarked, “and I’ll come
again. I ax ye, as a friend, my maid--will ye gie this notion up?”
Bethia looked if possible more indignant than before.
“No, Mr. Fowler,” she returned promptly, “I tell you--as a friend--I
won’t.”
“Then you’ll ha’ trouble wi’ I, I warn ’ee,” responded he, almost with
a groan.
Jacob Fowler kept his word, and gave the poor little rate-collector an
inconceivable amount of trouble.
He took no notice whatever of her demand-notes and official reminders;
and when she called to see him in person, though he received her with
civility and even undisguised pleasure, he resolutely refused to part
with a farthing. The friendliness with which he hailed her advent, and
entered into conversation on indifferent subjects, gave place to a
rigid silence as soon as she touched on the motive of her visit, and he
would shake his head fiercely as often as she reverted to the point.
One day she found him in what she took to be a softened mood. It was
in the spring, and the consciousness that it was grand weather for
potato-setting, added to the recollection of a long and successful
day’s work, had put Jacob in an unusually good humour. He was smoking
in his porch when she drew near, and at once invited her to sit down
and rest.
“You do look a bit tired, my maid,” he remarked; “tired and worried.”
“I am tired and worried too,” said Bethia, looking up at him
appealingly. “I’m afraid of getting into trouble, Mr. Fowler.”
“Oh,” said Jacob, “how’s that?”
“They will be down on me for not sending in the money regularly,”
returned the girl tremulously; “I’ve got it all in except yours.”
Jacob, instead of immediately becoming wooden of aspect, as was his
wont, gazed at her searchingly. “You’d be all right if you was to get
mine?” he inquired.
“Yes--oh, yes, Mr. Fowler. Couldn’t you pay up and have done with it?”
Jacob shook his head, but this time apparently more in sorrow than in
anger.
“Can’t be done, my maid. I’ve a-passed my word, d’ye see, and I be
forced to stick to it.”
“I think you are very unkind,” said Bethia; “you are trying to force me
to give up one of the few ways I have of making a living.”
“E-es,” said Jacob, “’tis true; ’tis the very thing I be a-doin’. You
said if I didn’t pay up you’d make me--well, how be you a-goin’ for to
make me?”
“Oh, I suppose I’ll have to send you a summons,” cried she, with
gathering anger. “’Tis my duty and I must do it.”
Jacob’s face changed. The colour mounted in his brown cheeks, and when
he spoke his voice was unsteady with surprise and wrath.
“You don’t mean that,” he said quickly. “You’d never do it.”
“I’ll have to do it,” said Bethia, “if you force me to proceed to
extremes. Oh, Mr. Fowler,” she added, almost passionately, “can’t you
be sensible; can’t you make an end of it once and for all? If I’d
been a man instead of a girl you wouldn’t persecute me like this.
You’d think it quite natural for me to want to take my father’s place,
wouldn’t you? What difference does it make? I can keep the accounts,
and make the applications, just as well as any man. Why should you try
to bully me?”
“Now look ’ee here, my maid,” said Jacob, “if you come to that, ’tis
you what be a-tryin’ for to bully I. I’ve a-set my face again this ’ere
notion. No respectable young ’ooman did ought to go a-trapesin’ fro’
one house to t’other, a puttin’ herself for’ard and a-coaxin’ folks out
o’ their money, whether it be for the Government or whether it bain’t.
’Tis a question between us two which can hold out longest. Now if you
was to give in to I----”
“Well,” said Bethia, bending forward with unconscious eagerness, “what
would happen if I were to give in to you?”
Jacob took out his pipe and stared at her, and then he got up and paced
about the little flagged path.
“What would happen?” she repeated sharply. “What would you advise me to
do?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Jacob confusedly. “I haven’t had time for
to think o’ that.”
It was now Bethia’s turn to spring to her feet. “I think you are hard,
and obstinate, and cruel! Yes, cruel, to try and put upon my poor
mother and me! But I’ll have an end of this shilly-shally work; you
shall be forced to pay, sir.”
She hastened down the path. Jacob, after delaying a moment to lay his
pipe carefully in a corner of the seat, strode after her and opened the
garden gate, holding it for a moment so that she could not pass through.
Bethia glanced at him. He did not look angry, but resolute; his jaw
was firmly set and his eyes steady. It struck her forcibly that he had
a good face--honest, open, manly--and she realised with a little pang
that it was probably turned towards her for the last time in friendship.
“I’ll give you a month,” she said waveringly.
“Ye mid as well say a year,” returned Jacob. “’Twill be all the same.”
Thereupon he opened the gate and she went away.
The allotted time of grace passed very slowly, and though Bethia
continued to post a little demand-note every week, no notice was taken
either of her appeal or of herself.
Late on the last day of the month she was making her way back from the
town with a very melancholy face, when, at a turn in the road, she
suddenly encountered Jacob; Jacob in holiday attire, carrying a large
nosegay of monthly roses and lilac.
“Hullo, my maid,” he cried genially, “well met! I were just a-goin’ to
see you.”
“Were you?” returned Bethia, in a very small constrained voice.
“E-es, I was a-bringin’ you these here flowers. I seed ’em i’ th’
garden just now, and I thought you’d like ’em.”
“Oh, Mr. Fowler, you shouldn’t give them to me!” cried the girl with
a catch in her voice. “I’ve--I’ve just been and taken out a summons
against you.”
“Oh, and have you?” said Jacob staring at her. “Well, that’s summat.”
“Yes,” returned Bethia desperately. “I waited till the end of the
month, and then I had to do it; it was my duty. Oh, dear; oh, dear!”
“Well, to think on’t,” said Jacob, still apparently more surprised than
angry. “Lard ha’ mercy! That be a pretty thing for a maid to do.”
“So you’d best take back your flowers,” broke out Bethia. “I know
everything’s at an end between us. I’ve quite made up my mind to it.”
“Ah,” said Jacob, eyeing her thoughtfully; “’tis queer once folks makes
up their minds how a notion will stick i’ their heads. Now all this
month I’ve been a-thinkin’ and a-thinkin’--I never was one to do a
thing in a hurry--but at last I reckoned I’d got it settled. ‘I’ll do
it,’ I says, ‘I’ll ax the maid to marry I--that’ll be the best way out
of it. She’ll not want to go again’ I then,’ I says. And you go and
summons me.”
Bethia burst out crying. “Oh, Jacob,” she cried, “why couldn’t you have
done it before? If you had asked me kindly--if you had told me to give
up for your sake, I--I--I----”
She broke off, sobbing bitterly.
“’Tis true,” said Jacob regretfully, “I mid ha’ axed ye a bit softer--I
mid ha’ spoke a bit more kind--but you did go and put my back up with
stickin’ to the notion so obstinate. Says I to myself, ‘So soon as ever
she gives in I’ll ax her--but she must give in’--and you wouldn’t. So
then I thought--‘Dally! I’ll ax her first and then we’ll see.’ And then
you go and put the law on me afore I’ve time to open my mouth.”
“Oh, Jacob! I waited a whole month,” protested Bethia, almost
inarticulately; “and you never said anything, and I thought you didn’t
care about me, and it seemed to be my duty.”
She covered her face with her hands. Jacob stared at her for a moment,
and then suddenly slapped his thigh and burst into a roar of laughter.
“I d’ ’low the maid done it out o’ pique,” he cried ecstatically, “I d’
’low she did! She did do it along of her feelin’s bein’ hurt with me
a-holdin’ back so long. That’s a different story, my dear--a different
story altogether! I bain’t one to bear malice along o’ that; ’twas but
nat’ral arter all. E-es, I d’ ’low I be a terrible slow-coach; but, ye
see, I’d a-got set i’ my bachelor ways, and it did take I a long time
for to make up my mind; and then, as I do tell ’ee, I wur a-waitin’ and
expectin’ for you to give in. But I’ve spoke now, and if you’ll say the
word, my dear, all can be forgive and forgot.”
Bethia presumably did speak the word, for she resigned her post as
tax-collector that very evening, and she and her Jacob were “asked in
church” on the following Sunday.
As for that matter of the summons, it was settled “out of court”.
THE SPUR OF THE MOMENT.
Daniel Chaffey stood poised on a step-ladder nailing up the fine Gloire
de Dijon rose which was trailed over the wall of his house. He had
already performed the same operation for the jessamine which grew over
the porch and for the purple clematis on the right of it. He had tied
his dahlias so tightly and firmly to a variety of newly cut stakes,
that each individual scarlet bloom reminded one in some measure of a
choleric old gentleman suffering from a tight and high shirt-collar.
He had scraped the little path till the cobble-stones of which it was
composed stood revealed each almost in its entirety. From his exalted
position he could survey the whole frontage of his own roof--a sight
in which an artist would have revelled, for not only was the thatch
itself mellowed by time and weather to the most exquisite variety of
tones, but on its mouldering surface had sprung up a multitude of
blooms, vying in brightness with those of the garden beneath--not
merely your common everyday mosses and lichens, though patches of these
were to be found in every shade of emerald and topaz and silver, but
flowers, real flowers, seemed to thrive there; saxifrages, toad-flax,
snap-dragon, and, just where the bedroom gable jutted out, a flaming
bunch of poppies. It will be seen from this that Daniel Chaffey’s
house was an old one; it bore a date over the door, cut roughly in
the weather-beaten stone--1701. It had mullioned windows with diamond
panes, and an oaken door studded with nails. It had indeed once
been the village schoolhouse, though the Chaffey family had been in
possession of it now for many generations, and had farmed, more or less
successfully, the small holding attached to it.
Daniel, himself, looked prosperous enough as he stood hammering and
whistling, and occasionally pausing with his head on one side, and his
mouth screwed up but emitting no sound, to survey his handiwork. He
was a bullet-headed young man of about four or five-and-twenty, with
twinkling blue eyes, and a face, the natural ruddy tone of which was
overlaid by such a fine veneer of sunburn that it was now of a uniform
brick-colour. His expression was jovial, not to say jocular; his mouth
wore an habitual grin when it was not whistling, and on this particular
occasion some inward source of jollity appeared to entertain him, for
he not only frequently chuckled but winked to himself.
Having inserted the last tack into the crumbling wall, he paused,
removing his hat and scratching his head meditatively; for the first
time his face wore a somewhat serious, not to say puzzled expression,
and his eyes travelled dubiously over the flaunting array of blossoming
weeds on the roof.
“I wonder,” quoth Daniel to himself, “if ’twould look better if I was
to scrape out them there. Maybe the thatch wouldn’t hold together,
though--it’s a-been agrowed over sich a-many year, I d’ ’low I’ll let
’em bide--they do look well enough where they be.”
And, after coming to this decision, he was preparing to descend from
the ladder when he was suddenly hailed by a chorus of voices from the
lane on the other side of his garden-hedge.
“Hello, Dan’l!”--“Hallo, old cock!”--“Well, bwoy, bist getten’ all to
rights afore weddin’?”
Daniel put on his hat and turned slowly round on his rung.
“E-es,” he said, grinning sheepishly, “that’s about it. The job’s to be
done the day arter to-morrow.”
A party of young men had halted just outside his little gate; it was
Saturday and, though only five o’clock, their field-work was over
and they were now on their way to the allotments; a rough, sunburnt,
merry-looking group, most of them bearing the marks of the day’s toil
on heated face and earth-stained apparel; one or two of them with spade
and fork on shoulder, others with dangling empty sacks. September
was drawing to a close and potato-getting was in full swing. It was
observable that as they addressed Chaffey, each man assumed a knowing
and jocular air; this one nudged his neighbour, that one winked at
Daniel himself.
“You’m to be called home for last time to-morrow, bain’t ye, Dan’l?”
inquired Abel Bolt, elbowing himself to the front.
“E-es,” responded Daniel, “we be to be called last time to-morrow an’
tied-up o’ Monday.”
Abel threw back his head and laughed uproariously.
“I should like to come to your weddin’, Dan!” he cried ecstatically, “I
d’ ’low I should.”
“Ye won’t, though,” retorted Chaffey. “Ye’ll be jist in the thick o’
your ploughin’--I thought o’ that. I axed the Reverend to fix time
a-purpose. No, we’ll be wed on the quiet, Phœbe an’ me--I settled that.”
“There, ’tis real ill-natured o’ you, Dan,” cried one of the youths,
looking archly at his comrades. “Sich a pretty sight as ’twill be. Sure
it will! And your missus, sich a beauty!”
“Haw, haw, haw!” came the chorus again.
“Her eyes, now,” giggled Abel, “’twill be sich a convenience for the
man to have a missus what can keep one eye on the dinner an’ t’other on
the garden.”
“An’ her figure,” said Jarge Vacher, “did ye have to make the gate
anyways larger, Dan?”
“No, there’d be no need for that,” returned Abel, before Daniel could
open his mouth. “The woman could get in very nicely sideways, more
pertick’ler since she can see all round her like.”
Chaffey’s complexion had been gradually deepening from crimson to
purple, and from purple to a fine rich mahogany, his smile had widened
to an extent that was positively painful, but he spoke with unimpaired
good humour.
“Neighbours, you may laugh, but I do know what I’m about. I do know
very well Phœbe Cosser bain’t a beauty, but she’s good, and I d’ ’low
she’ll make I comfortable--an’ that’s the main p’int to look to. She
mid be a bit older nor what I be----”
Here the irreverent group in the road began to nudge each other and
chuckle afresh; Chaffey sat down suddenly on the top of his ladder.
“What I d’ say, neighbours, is,” he began, “what my notion be--if ye’d
give over sniggering for a moment,” he cried with gathering ire, “I
could make it plain to ye.”
But they wouldn’t give over; the merriment increased instead of
diminishing, and at last Daniel, exclaiming that he would be dalled if
he stood it any longer, leaped to the ground, and, dashing into his
house, bolted the door behind him.
His friends, trooping into the little garden, serenaded him with a
ballad which they thought suitable to his case, and having goaded him
into declaring he would come out in a minute and break their heads for
them, withdrew in good order and pursued their interrupted course to
the allotments.
Daniel waited until the last heavy footfall had died away, the last
battered hat brim disappeared, and then came forth with a vengeful
expression on his usually good-tempered face. He picked up the hammer
and nails which he had scattered in his flight, shouldered his ladder
and carried it round to the little shed in the rear, and then came back
slowly to resume his labours in the garden.
“She be a good ’un,” he muttered to himself, “let ’em say what they
like, she be.”
He paused to uplift and secure a tuft of golden rod which had fallen
across the path.
“I never did take so mich notice of her eyes,” he said to himself.
“They bain’t so crooked as that comes to--they can see well enough, and
that’s the p’int.”
He plucked out a tuft of groundsel which had hitherto escaped his
vigilant eye.
“There’s nothin’ so much amiss wi’ her shape neither--I d’ ’low I’d
sooner have a nice little comfortable round-about woman nor a great
gawky faymale like a zowel or a speaker. If she’s pluffy, she’s sprack,
an’ that’s the p’int.”
Whenever Daniel uttered this last phrase he seemed to pluck up courage,
and a momentary cheerfulness returned to his face, which, nevertheless,
speedily became overcast again. Dall it all, he thought, why couldn’t
folks keep their tongues quiet. What was it to them what kind of missus
Daniel chose, that they must come tormenting and ballyragging him? He
didn’t meddle wi’ nobody, and didn’t want nobody to meddle wi’ he, but
there, even the lord’s roughrider stopped him on the road to deliver,
as his opinion, that he, Daniel, had chosen a plain-headed one. Old
Mrs. Inkpen of the shop had laughed at him for marrying a woman so many
years older than himself. Well, she’d be all the more sensible.
“Let ’em laugh if they do have a mind to; it’ll not hurt Phœbe and I.
We’ll soon show ’em who’s in the right.”
And with that, he heaved a sigh and went indoors.
Next day he went to call for Phœbe, whom he had promised to escort to
afternoon church. She stood awaiting him in her own doorway, which she
filled up pretty well it must be owned--a little ball of a woman with
the ugliest, merriest face it was possible to conceive. She wore a
very fine purple hat with a feather in the middle and two red roses on
each side, and this arrangement of headgear seemed to accentuate the
somewhat roving propensities of her eyes. Pinned to her jacket was a
bunch of natural roses that vied with these in hue, and in one stout
hand she waved a posy, similar in colour and almost equal in size,
which was intended for her swain.
At sight of her bright face Daniel forgot all his troubles, and after
bestowing a sounding salute on her hard red cheek, stood straight and
stiff to be decorated, then, “Come along, my dear,” said he, and they
set forth arm-in-crook, entirely satisfied with each other.
Nevertheless, as they walked through the churchyard, Daniel was
conscious of a dawning sense of discomfort, for was not that Abel
Bolt who stood under the yew tree, and who stepped aside with such
exaggerated deference to let them pass? Even his hat seemed to Daniel
to be cocked with a sarcastic air. Martha Hansford and Freza Pitcher
nudged each other as Phœbe preceded him up the church--he was almost
sure he saw Martha spread out her hands in allusion to Phœbe’s figure,
which certainly looked particularly ample in her thick cloth jacket. To
increase his uneasiness Jarge Vacher took up his position immediately
behind him. It must be owned that this proximity was seriously
detrimental to poor Daniel’s devotions. When Phœbe found the place for
him and invited him to sing out of her own hymn-book he heard a choking
sound in his rear, which he knew proceeded from Jarge. As he stole a
cautious glance round he observed that the eyes of more than one member
of the congregation were directed towards him and the unconscious
Phœbe, who happened to be in particularly fine voice and was singing
away with entire satisfaction. Daniel fidgeted and reddened and grew
more and more wrathful. He couldn’t see anything to laugh at, not
he. The maid was right to sing out, and to be a bit more tender than
usual to the man who, before twenty-four hours were out, would be her
husband. Yes, it would be all over by this time to-morrow--that was one
comfort; and it was a mercy he had fixed an early hour; none of these
impudent chaps would be there to dather him.
At the conclusion of the service he started up and hurried from the
church with what seemed to Phœbe, as she waddled in his wake, unseemly
haste. Indeed they very nearly had their first serious “miff” on the
subject. However, once out of sight of the mockers, and wandering with
his sweetheart in the quiet lanes, where the hedgerows were all ablaze
with scarlet berries, and primrose and amber leaves made little points
of light here and there amid the more sober September green, he forgot
his discomfiture.
“We be like to have a hard winter,” said Phœbe, as they paused to look
over the first gate in the prescribed fashion of rustic lovers.
“I don’t care,” returned Daniel, gazing at her amourously from beneath
his tilted hat. “I’ve got a snug little place of my own and a missus to
make me comfortable. It may snow for all as I do care.”
Alas for Daniel! His jubilation was short-lived. Early on the morrow
he was up and doing, putting the final touches to his preparations for
welcoming his bride, and he set forth in good time to join the wedding
party, whom he found ready and waiting for him, sitting stiffly in
a row in the parlour. Mr. Cosser, magnificent in broadcloth and his
father’s deerskin waistcoat; Mrs. Cosser in a violet gown and a Paisley
shawl; Dick Cosser, Phœbe’s younger brother, in a suit of checks that
would set an æsthetic person’s teeth on edge; Phœbe herself in a
crimson silk with a white hat and a fluffy tippet, over which her eyes
twinkled with most uncanny effect. Daniel privately thought she looked
very well, and extended his arm to his future mother-in-law, with a
bosom swelling with pride. Mr. Cosser had already preceded them with
Phœbe, and Dick brought up the rear with his cousin Mary Ann, a tall
maid of sixteen, who had an unusual capacity for giggling; these two
were to officiate respectively as best man and bridesmaid. Daniel’s
parents had long been dead, and most of his relations scattered, but
his married sister who lived at some little distance, had promised to
drive over and meet them at the church. She and her husband and their
three or four olive-branches were, in fact, already installed in one of
the front pews when the little procession arrived; the clergyman was in
readiness, and the ceremony began without delay.
All went well at first; Phœbe was jubilant and extremely audible in her
replies, Daniel gruff and sheepish as it behoved a rustic bridegroom to
be, but just as the Rector uplifting his voice inquired “Dost thou take
this woman to be thy wedded wife?” a certain scuffling sound was heard
at the further end of the church, and the half-made husband might have
been seen to start and falter. “Daniel, wilt thou have this woman to be
thy wedded wife?” repeated the Rector sternly.
Suppressed titters were heard, not only from the direction of the
porch, but actually from the aisles. For the life of him, Daniel could
not resist turning his head right and left with an anguished gaze.
Horror! There was Abel Bolt peering from behind one pillar, and surely
that was Jarge’s impudent face grinning at him from the opposite side.
The Rector glared through his spectacles and uplifted his voice yet
more.
“Daniel!” he cried emphatically, “wilt thou have this woman to be thy
wedded wife?”
The best man cleared his throat warningly, and the bride turning a
reproachful glance somewhere in the direction of the west window,
nudged him with her elbow.
“Speak up!” she whispered. This was the last straw.
Hardly knowing what he did, Daniel started away from her, and whisking
round charged through the bridal party, down the nave, thrust aside the
knot of gaping onlookers in the porch, descended the flight of steps
apparently with one stride, and bounding over the lychgate fled into
the fields on the opposite side of the road.
Phœbe, with a stifled shriek, hastened after him with all the speed
that her distress of mind and amplitude of person would admit of, but
was almost knocked over by her brother Dick, who had started in hot
pursuit of the fugitive. Mary Ann, not to be outdone, gallopaded in the
rear, and Mr. Cosser with muttered threats of vengeance hobbled in her
wake at a considerable distance.
“Yoicks! Gone away!” shouted Abel Bolt, tumbling out of the church
followed by Jarge and the whole of the idle crew who had brought
about the catastrophe. In another minute, the whole party joined in
the chase, and the church was left entirely deserted except for the
astonished and scandalised Rector, his clerk and poor old Mrs. Cosser,
who remained dissolved in tears in the front bench. Even Daniel’s own
relations had joined in pursuit, his sister announcing breathlessly, as
she hastened forth, that he must have gone out of his mind.
Meanwhile the fugitive, in spite of the tightness of his wedding boots
and the stiffness of his new clothes, careered across country, with
almost incredible speed. Now his blue-coated form might be seen leaping
a hedge, now scudding over a stretch of pasture. Dick, the best man,
was the nearest to him, family pride lending wings to his long legs,
but even he was soon distanced, and by the time he had reached the
second bank and forced his way through the thorns and briars which
topped it, the runaway bridegroom was nowhere to be seen. Dick was at
fault, and though when the rest of the pursuers came up they scoured
the fields, and “drew” the thickets, and hunted up and down by the
banks, and even searched the willow-bed by the river, no trace of the
fugitive was to be found. Phœbe had come to a standstill in the midst
of the third field, where her father presently joined her. They stood
panting opposite each other for a moment or two, after which Phœbe,
unfolding a lace-bordered handkerchief, wiped her brow; then restoring
it to her pocket, she remarked in a tone of conviction:
“I d’ ’low he’ve a-changed his mind.”
“Looks like it,” returned her parent shortly. “Ye can have the law on
him for this.”
“That wouldn’t be much comfort to I,” she retorted.
“What be goin’ to do then?”
“I d’ ’low I’ll go home-along,” said the forsaken bride with decision.
“There bain’t no use in standin’ here for the folks to gawk at, an’ I
mid just so well take up one o’ they fowls. I shouldn’t think any o’
Dan’l’s folks ’ud want to show their faces at our place.”
“I d’ ’low they won’t,” returned Mr. Cosser in a menacing tone, as
though who should say, “they’d better not!”
“Let’s be steppin’ then,” said Phœbe. “You’d best look in at church and
fetch mother. I’ll make haste home.”
“That there Dan’l o’ yourn be a reg’lar rascal!” shouted her father.
Phœbe, who had already proceeded some paces on her way, turned her head
and called back over her shoulder: “I can’t say as how he’ve acted so
very well!” Then she went on again.
When the baffled hunting party finally gave up the chase and returned
to Cosser’s, partly with the hope of being commended for their zeal,
which they felt must have atoned for all previous errors, partly to
see how the forsaken bride bore herself, they found that damsel in her
working dress, “salting down” a fine piece of beef.
“There’ll be a terr’ble lot o’ waste over this ’ere job,” she remarked,
“but we must do our best to save all what we can.”
“We couldn’t find en nowheres, Phœbe,” cried Dick. “Abel here d’ say
he’s very like drownded; serve en right if he be.”
Phœbe paused in her labours to cast a reflective glance at the horizon.
“I’ll go warrant he bain’t drownded,” she said. “He don’t want to marry
I, that’s what ’tis. He wouldn’t ha’ married I a bit the more if you’d
ha’ catched en.”
“But what’s the meanin’ of it,” thundered Mr. Cosser from his corner,
“what’s the meanin’ on’t, I want to know. He did seem to know his own
mind afore--very well he did.”
“I think he was gallied like,” said Phœbe. “E-es, I d’ ’low that’s what
he wer’.”
Abel and Jarge began to edge away from the group, but Phœbe went on
without seeming to notice them.
“When Parson did ax en the question straight-out like, I d’ ’low he
felt ’fraid. That’s what ’twas, he was ’fraid.”
Withdrawing her gaze from the distant hills and heaving a gentle sigh
she carried away her beef; and as there was no indication that any
outsider was expected to join the family circle, or indeed to partake
of any refreshment, the bystanders walked slowly away, and the Cosser
family proceeded gloomily to divest themselves of their holiday clothes.
It was quite dark when Daniel rose from his cramped and exceedingly
moist hiding-place in the sedges by the river, and slowly betook
himself homewards. During the many hours he had lain cowering there,
listening to the voices of his pursuers, he had had leisure to repent
of and marvel at the senseless impulse which had brought him to his
present plight.
“Well, I be a stunpoll!” he had said to himself over and over again.
“I be a dalled stunpoll! What the mischief did I do it for? Whatever
will the poor maid think of I? She’ll never look at I again--she’ll
never take the leastest notice of me.”
More than once he had been half-inclined to rush out of his lair
and give himself up to justice, but how could he face that grinning
multitude? If they had made fun of him before, what would they do now?
Besides her family were furious, and the rustic mind loves justice of
a certain rough kind. Daniel was not more of a coward than another,
but he had a wholesome dread of broken bones. No, he dursn’t show his
face for a long time, that was certain; and as for ever making up with
Phœbe again, it was out of the question--no woman could forgive such
treatment.
Very disconsolately, indeed, did Daniel turn in at his own little gate;
even in the dusk he could see how nice the place looked, how complete
were his arrangements. He opened the door and slunk in, dropping into
the nearest chair with a groan. After quite a long time he made up his
mind to strike a match and look round, though he knew the sight of the
cosy little room would increase his melancholy. He lit the blue glass
lamp which had been placed in readiness on the dresser, and with a
heavy sigh poked up the fire which had been carefully “kept in” with
a thick layer of wet slack. The light leaped on the newly-papered
walls with their neat design of blue roses on a buff ground--he had
papered these walls himself, in honour of the coming event--on the
two elbow-chairs, just re-covered with a gay chintz. On the table in
the centre was a small tray with a biblical design in prodigiously
bright colours, which bore a curious old decanter containing elderberry
wine, a plate of mixed biscuits and two tumblers. In setting these
forth that morning he had thought with tender glee of how Phœbe’s
first wifely task would be to “hot-up” some of that wine in one of
her new saucepans. Had it not been for his own inconceivable folly,
they might at that very moment have been sitting face to face drinking
each other’s health. And now! Daniel dropped his face in his hands and
fairly sobbed.
One day about a fortnight after the untoward event which had so rudely
quenched her simple hopes, Phœbe Cosser was standing by the wash-tub up
to her eyes in suds, with Mary Ann similarly engaged; while Mrs. Cosser
in the inner room laboriously ironed out a few of the fine things which
had already passed through her daughter’s hands. All at once, Mary Ann,
raising her eyes, uttered a little scream which immediately lost itself
in a fit of giggles.
“There! I never did see such a foolish maid!” commented Phœbe severely.
“Whatever be gawkin’ at?”
“Lard! There now! Well, to be sure!” ejaculated Mary Ann between
spasmodic titters. “Look yonder behind the thorn tree!”
The Cossers’ garden sloped downwards towards the road, and a gnarled
May tree filled the angle where the front hedge joined that which
separated their piece of ground from their neighbour’s; the twisted
trunk was split down to a few feet from the ground, and through this
aperture Daniel Chaffey’s woeful face was peering. As Phœbe turned
towards him he immediately dived out of sight. After waiting a moment
and finding he did not reappear Phœbe philosophically went on with her
washing. In a few minutes, however, Mary Ann began to giggle afresh.
Phœbe whisked round so sharply that she caught a glimpse of her former
lover’s vanishing face.
“Don’t take no notice,” she said sternly, implanting a vicious nudge in
her cousin’s ribs; after which she shifted her position so as to turn
her back to the thorn.
After another short interval, however, the sound of her own name
breathed in the most dolorous of tones caused her to turn her head
once more. Daniel had thrown an arm round each half of the trunk, and
was craning forth through the gap, his face vying in colour with the
clusters of haws which surrounded it.
“Phœbe!” he pleaded with a gusty sigh.
“Well?” returned she, slowly wiping the suds from her stout red arms.
“Phœbe, I’ve acted terr’ble bad to ye.”
“E-es, you have,” replied Phœbe succinctly.
“I d’ ’low I have,” he agreed dejectedly. “I be pure sorry, dalled if I
bain’t.”
Miss Cosser snorted.
“I’ve a-repented, my dear, ever since. E-es, I have! Sure I have!
Phœbe!”
“Well?”
“I’ve a-been thinkin’--would ye go to church wi’ me now?”
“This minute?” queried Phœbe with alacrity; the muscles of her face
relaxed, and she twitched down first one of her rolled-up sleeves and
then the other.
“E-es, this very minute; the Reverend ’ull tie us up right enough if I
ax en.”
“Gie me a clean apron!” cried Phœbe, turning quickly to Mary Ann and
jerking at the string of the very damp garment which protected her
dress.
She already wore her hat, and by the time her cousin, who had vanished
with a bound, reappeared shaking out the crisp folds of the clean white
apron, she had unpinned her skirt.
“Now, then,” she remarked after tying it on, and she fixed her best
eye with a business-like air on her Daniel, who had been gazing at her
with almost incredulous rapture. He left off embracing the hawthorn and
reached the garden gate at the same moment as Phœbe herself; and before
Mrs. Cosser, attracted by Mary Ann’s shrieks of enjoyment, had had time
to reach the door they had set off arm-in-crook and disappeared round
the angle of the lane.
“A TERR’BLE VOOLISH LITTLE MAID.”
The cottage next door to Mrs. Cross had long been occupied by Mr. and
Mrs. Frizzel, but when that good couple went to live “Darchester-side”
near their married daughter Susan, their discarded dwelling was taken
by a respectable widow woman named Chaffey; and on a certain autumn
morning she entered into possession.
From under the green “shed” of his cart the carrier extracted a variety
of goods and chattels, exciting keen interest in the mind of Mrs.
Cross, who, with her nose flattened against the leaded panes of her
bedroom window, watched the proceedings closely. The large articles
of furniture had arrived on the previous day in a waggon--a wooden
bedstead, so solid in construction and uncompromising in shape that
its legs had hung over the edge; an oak settle and carved linen chest
at which Mrs. Cross had turned up her nose, deeming them “terr’ble
old-fayshioned”.
She was better pleased with the parlour suite of painted wood cushioned
with brightly coloured cretonne--couch, armchair and three small
chairs; the lot must have cost at least three pound ten, thought
Mrs. Cross, for she had seen the like in the upholsterer’s window at
Branston. Her respect for the newcomer immediately increased, and
this morning as she squinted down at her from her attic, vainly
endeavouring to see all round her at once, she was much impressed by
her appearance.
Mrs. Chaffey was a spare woman of middle height, wearing a decent
brown stuff gown and grey fringed shawl. Her black bonnet with its
yellow flowers was quite “fayshionable” in shape, and though her black
kid gloves were unbuttoned and had moreover grown somewhat grey about
the finger-tips, they nevertheless conveyed the idea of exceeding
respectability.
“Quite a genteel sort o’ body,” commented Mrs. Cross, “and do seem to
know what she be about too,” she added a moment later, as Mrs. Chaffey,
having entered the house presently emerged again, having changed her
headgear for a gathered print sun-bonnet, and protected her dress by
the addition of a large white apron.
Mrs. Cross screwed her head in the other angle of the window and again
squinted down.
“That’s a feather bed,” she observed as a large tied-up bundle was
placed in the expectant arms of the newcomer who clearly staggered
beneath its weight; “carrier did ought to carry it for she. Pillows
next! And a basket--chaney most like. Fender--fire-irons--kettle--pots
and a pan or two--very small ’uns they be. ’Tis but a lone ’ooman they
d’ say, she’ll not want so much cookin’--clock--hassock----”
The carrier’s voice now interrupted the inventory: “This ’ere basket,
mum--that do make the lot. I hope ye’ll find all reg’lar, mum, and no
damage done.”
Mrs. Cross, who had been breathing hard in her excitement, was at this
point constrained to polish the window with her apron; by the time the
operation was concluded and her nose again applied, Mrs. Chaffey had
taken out her purse and was slowly counting out a certain number of
coins into the carrier’s hand. Mrs. Cross could not for the life of her
see how many, but she observed that the man’s face lengthened.
“Bain’t there nothin’ for luck?” he inquired. “I did take a deal o’
trouble wi’ they arnaments and sich-like.”
“You’ve a-had what I did agree for,” responded Mrs. Chaffey with
dignity; her voice was high and clear, and as she spoke she turned
towards the cottage with a final air.
“I d’ ’low she’s a bit near,” remarked Mrs. Cross as she retired from
the window, rubbing her nose pensively. “Poor Martha Frizzel! She was a
good soul, she _was_! Just about!”
She stood a moment looking round the little attic chamber, but without
seeing either the somewhat untidy bed with its soiled patchwork quilt,
or the washstand with its cracked jug, or the torn curtain pinned
half-across the window; she saw instead her neighbour’s shrewd, kindly
face bending over a pot of well-stewed tea, or nodding briefly in
response to sundry requests for the use of a bucket, or the loan of a
pan, and sometimes a few “spuds”.
“Mind you do bring ’em back,” was all Mrs. Frizzel would say. Well,
sometimes Mrs. Cross did bring them back, and sometimes Martha came and
fetched ’em, but she never made a bit of fuss, and was always as kind
and neighbourly as she could be.
Mrs. Chaffey must be getting a bit settled by this time, Mrs. Cross
thought, and resolved to pop in and ask how she was getting on. She
smoothed her rough hair with the palms of her hands, jerked down her
sleeves, which she usually wore rolled up till dinner-time, not because
she fatigued herself with over-much work, but because it seemed somehow
the proper thing to do of a morning; she twitched her apron straight,
pinned over a gap in her bodice--Mrs. Cross was a great believer in the
efficacy of pins, and rarely demeaned herself by using a needle and
thread--and finally composing her features to an expression of polite
and sympathetic interest, strolled leisurely downstairs and into her
neighbour’s premises.
Mrs. Chaffey was standing by her table, busily unpacking china, but
when the other entered remarking genially that she thought she’d just
look in to see how Mrs. Chaffey liked her noo place, and if she could
lend a hand anywheres, she came forward with a somewhat frosty smile
and set a chair.
“Sit down, won’t ye?” she said. “I’m a bit busy, but there! it do do
folks good to set a bit now and then.”
“E-es, indeed, my dear,” responded Mrs. Cross enthusiastically; it
was a sentiment she cordially endorsed. “Lard! if a body was to keep
upon their legs from morn till night, churchyard ’ud be fuller at
the year’s end nor it needs to be. I be pure glad you’ve a-took this
’ere house,” she added graciously, “’tis what I scarce expected as
any respectable party ’ud come to it. The chimbley smokes,” said
Mrs. Cross delightedly; “there, ’tis summat awful how it do smoke!
And in the bedroom the rain and wind do fair beat in when a bit of a
storm do come--’tis these ’ere queer little vooty winder-panes--rain
comes through them so easy as anything. And the damp! there, Mrs.
Frizzel, what lived here last, used to say many a time: ‘Mrs. Cross,
my dear,’ she did use to say, ‘the damp do seem to creep into my very
bwones’. But I be pure glad to see you here, I’m sure,” she summed up
cheerfully, “and ’tis to be hoped as you’ll find it comfortable.”
Mrs. Chaffey’s face, always somewhat plaintive in expression, had
become more and more dismal as her neighbour proceeded, and she now
heaved a deep sigh.
“I d’ ’low ’twill do for I,” she said gloomily; “I be a lone ’ooman,
Mrs. ----?”
She paused tentatively.
“Mrs. Cross be my name, my dear. E-es--Maria Cross. E-es, that be my
name, my dear.”
“Well, Mrs. Cross,” resumed the newcomer, taking up her discourse in
a voice tuned to just the same note of melancholy patience as before,
“well, Mrs. Cross, as I was a-sayin’, I be a lone ’ooman, a widow
’ooman, and I d’ ’low I must look to be put upon. I bain’t surprised to
hear o’ the house bein’ damp and the chimbley smokin’--’tis jest what I
mid have expected; and so I’ll tell the agent when I do go for to pay
my rent.”
“It did ought to be considered in the rent,” suggested Mrs. Cross.
“It did,” agreed Mrs. Chaffey, and for a moment her eyes assumed an
uncommonly wide-awake expression. “I’ll mention it to the gentleman,
but I don’t look for much satisfaction--I don’t indeed, Mrs. Cross. A
few shillin’s back maybe, and a new chimbley-pot, and toils put right
on the roof, and a bit o’ lead paper maybe at back o’ my bed--no more
nor that, Mrs. Cross--they’ll not do more than that for a lone ’ooman.”
“And didn’t ye never ha’ no childern?” inquired Mrs. Cross, with her
head on one side; “it do seem molloncholy for ye to be left wi’out
nobody to do a hand’s turn for ’ee, poor soul.”
Mrs. Chaffey shook her head with a portentous expression.
“A-h-h-h, Mrs. Cross, my dear,” she said, “if there was sich a thing as
a bit o’ gratitood in this world, I wouldn’t be left wi’out a creature
to do for me at my time o’ life. Childern of my own I have not,” said
Mrs. Chaffey, with an air which indicated that the fact was very much
to her credit, “but there’s them livin’ now as I’ve been more than a
mother to, what have gone and left I in my ancient years--as thankless.”
“Lard, now!” ejaculated her neighbour, much interested; “ye don’t
tell I so, Mrs. Chaffey. Somebody what you’ve a-been very good to, I
suppose, mum?”
“Good!” echoed Mrs. Chaffey. “Good’s not the word for it, Mrs. Cross.
’Twas my first cousin’s child--a poor little penniless maid what was
brought up in a institootion--an orphan, my dear, as hadn’t nobody in
the world to look to. Well, when her time was up at the institootion, I
come for’ard, and I says, ‘I’ll take her,’ I says; ‘she don’t need to
go to service,’ I says. ‘I’m her mother’s cousin,’ I told ’em, ‘and she
can come to live wi’ I.’”
“And they were delighted of course,” suggested Mrs. Cross, as she
paused impressively.
“No; if you’ll believe me, they fair dathered I wi’ axin’ questions,
and wantin’ I to make promises and that. ‘Why didn’t I come and see
the maid afore?’ says they, as if ’twas likely, Mrs. Cross, as I’d go
trapesin’ off to a institootion to ax arter a maid as was too small to
be any good to anybody. Then they did want I to give her wages. Wages
to a little bit of a thing as knowed nothin’, and couldn’t do nothin’!
‘No,’ I says, ‘I’ll give her a home,’ I says, ‘and I’ll be a mother to
her, and train her same as if she was my own child, but more than that
I will _not_ do.’”
“O’ course not,” agreed Mrs. Cross; “lucky enough she was to get sich a
good offer, _I_ think.”
“And so you may,” agreed the other solemnly, “and so I did often say
to the maid herself. ‘You may think yourself lucky,’ I did say to her
often and often; ‘many another,’ I did tell her, ‘’ud put you out on
the road when you do behave so voolish. But me! look at the patience
I’ve had wi’ you!’ ’Twas a terr’ble voolish maid, Mrs. Cross--she was a
bit silly in herself to begin with, and they institootions--Lard, they
do never seem to teach a maid a thing as ’ull be a bit o’ use to ’em!
She could scrub a stone passage a mile long if she was put to it, but
there bain’t no passages in cottages, and she couldn’t so much as peel
a potato or wash a cabbage. Well, I did take so much pains wi’ her as a
mother could ha’ done--I did make her find out for herself how to hold
a knife, no matter how much she did cut herself. ‘Find out,’ I did
say; and she _did_ find out. And when grubs come up on the dish wi’ the
cabbages, I’d cut off the bits as was nearest to ’em and put ’em on her
plate; so she did soon learn, ye see. Sleep! that maid ’ud sleep many
an’ many a cold morning arter I’d pulled blankets off her--e-es, there
she’d lay so fast as anything, and never take a bit o’ notice till I
got a drap o’ cold water--an that didn’t always wake her up all to
once. There, she was fair aggravatin’!--when I did get her up at last
and get back to bed again, I couldn’t get a wink o’ sleep for thinkin’
on’t.”
“Dear, to be sure! Well now!” commented Mrs. Cross, scratching her
elbows appreciatively.
“E-es, indeed,” continued Mrs. Chaffey, warming with her theme. “I did
tell her many a time, ‘You’ll come to no good’. Ah, that I did, and she
didn’t come to no good neither.”
“Didn’t she though?” queried the other with interest. “Took up with a
soldier, very like?”
“Nothin’ o’ the kind. There weren’t no soldiers anywheres near us.
’Twas another kind of a man altogether.”
“A-h-h,” groaned Mrs. Cross sympathetically. “And I s’pose he wouldn’t
marry her, mum?”
“E-es, he married her, Mrs. Cross,” responded the widow in a tone of
dignified surprise. “E-es, he married her. Indeed he did.”
“But there was carryin’s on, I s’pose?” suggested Mrs. Cross
respectfully.
Mrs. Chaffey fixed her with a stony stare.
“I’m not one as ’ud allow no carryin’s on,” she returned loftily.
“When the man come and axed Jenny--that was her name--I says to her,
‘Not with my consent,’ I says--well, she took and got married wi’out
it.”
“Lard ha’ mercy me,” ejaculated the listener, seeing that she was
expected to say something, “well, that was----” she hesitated, “I
s’pose the man wasn’t one as you’d ha’ picked for her, Mrs. Chaffey?
Maybe,” she added darkly, “he wasn’t in work?”
“He was in work,” replied Mrs. Chaffey solemnly, “reg’lar. Oh, e-es, he
was in _work_.”
Mrs. Cross was a good deal mystified, and being too uncertain of her
ground to venture on a comment, contented herself with clicking her
tongue and turning up her eyes.
“’Tis a queer tale; ’tis indeed,” resumed the widow; “but as I did
often say to she arter the job was done: ‘Don’t blame me, Jenny--what
you did do, you did do wi’ your eyes open. I’ve a-told you plain,’ I
says, ‘I’ve gied ye the best advice. Stay,’ I says, ‘where you’re well
off. You’ve a-got a good home,’ I did tell her, ‘and one what is a
mother to ye--don’t ye go for to take up with this ’ere stranger.’”
“Ah,” interrupted Mrs. Cross, beginning to think she at last saw
daylight, “he was a stranger, was he?”
“He was a man what come to the door,” returned the other impressively,
“what come to the door like any tramp. I did take en to be a tramp
first off.”
“Oh, and he wasn’t a tramp then?” put in her neighbour, slightly
disappointed.
“He _mid_ ha’ been one,” resumed the narrator, with a dignified wave
of the hand intended to discourage further unnecessary and frivolous
questions. “I’m willing to tell ’ee about it, Mrs. Cross, if you be
willing to listen. ’Twas a Sunday of all days. We’d a’ been pretty
busy till dinner-time. I’d got Jenny up soon arter four to get through
wi’ cleanin’ up--I’m always one what likes to have the place reg’lar
perfect, ye know--and by the time I come down for breakfast she’d a’
got everything straight. Well, her an’ me fell out--she did want if ye
please to go to church wi’ I--so I says to her, ‘Who’s to get dinner
then? Be I to wait on you?’ says I. ‘No,’ I says, ‘you stay at home
and do your dooty, and you can go to the childern’s service in the
afternoon if you behave well,’ says I. Well, but she wouldn’t hear
reason; I did leave her cryin’ like a baby.
“I were a bit late comin’ back--chattin’ to this one and that one, an’
when I got in, what did I see but a strange man by the fire. Ye could
ha’ knocked I down wi’ a feather. I did jist drap in the first chair I
come to and p’int that way wi’ my finger--I couldn’t get out a word.
“‘Please ye, ma’am,’ says Jenny (I wouldn’t have her callin’ I _Cousin
Maria_, d’ye see, a little maid same as her out of a institootion! She
did offer to call I so once or twice, but I soon checked her). ‘Please
ye, ma’am,’ she says, ‘this ’ere poor chap was so terr’ble cold--froze
up he was--he’d a-been walkin’ ten mile an’ more in the snow; and when
he axed I to let en in to warm hisself a bit, I didn’t think you’d
object.’
“‘You didn’t think I’d object,’ says I. ‘You little good-for-nothin’
hussy! We might ha’ been robbed an’ murdered for all you care.’
“The man turned round laughin’ as impident as ye like. He was a
Irishman, Mrs. Cross--I could tell it the very minute I clapped eyes on
his face, afore he so much as opened his mouth, and when he did begin
to speak, Lard ha’ mercy me! I never did hear sick languidge.”
“Swearin’ an’ that?” questioned Mrs. Cross, with her head on one side.
“Oh no, nothin’ o’ that sort, but sick a queer, ignorant fayshion o’
talkin’. ‘The top o’ the mornin’ to ye, ma’am,’ says he. ‘Is it murther
ye’re talkin’ of? Sure, how could I be afther murtherin’ ye when ye
weren’t here?’ he says. ‘Don’t ye be afeerd,’ he went on--I can’t
really remember his queer talk, but he said he had come over harvestin’
an’ then got laid up wi’ a fever, an’ was a long time in hospital, and
now, he said, he was on his way to see a friend who had been in the
hospital at the same time, and after that he had the promise of work.
“A reg’lar cock-and-bull story; I didn’t believe a word on’t. I did
tell en so.
“‘Why be ye a-trapsin’ the roads then,’ says I, ‘if you’ve a-been
invited to stay with a friend?’
“‘I missed my road,’ says he, ‘I took the wrong turn; I shan’t get
there till night now,’ he says. ‘I’m a bit weak still with being sick
so long, and it’ll take me all my time to get there.’
“‘You’d best be startin’ then,’ says I, p’intin’ to the door. Then if
ye’ll believe it that little impident maid ups and interferes.
“‘Oh, ma’am,’ she says, ‘let him bide and eat a bit o’ dinner wi’ us.
I’m sure he’s a respectable man, and it’s Sunday and all. And there’s
more dinner nor we can eat.’
“Well, I could ha’ shook her--‘I’ll thank ye, Jenny, to mind your own
business,’ I says, ‘a little chit like you, what’s kept for charity.
Bain’t it enough,’ I says, ‘to be beholden to I for every bit you do
put into your own mouth wi’out wantin’ to waste the food what don’t
belong to ye on good-for-nothin’ tramps and idlers?’ I says. Then the
man gets up.
“‘That’ll do, ma’am,’ he says, ‘I wouldn’t touch bite or sup of yours,’
he says, ‘for fear it ’ud stick in my throat. Good-bye my dear,’ he
says to Jenny, ‘an’ blessin’s on your pretty face and your kind heart.
Maybe better times ’ull be comin’ for you as well as for me,’ he says.”
“Ah,” put in Mrs. Cross excitedly, “he had summat in his mind about
her, you mid be sure.”
Mrs. Chaffey threw out a warning hand once more and pursued her
narrative.
“I did give the maid a right-down good talkin’-to, you mid think, but
it didn’t seem to do her much good.
“About a week or two arter, I was sendin’ her to fetch the washin’
back--I did use to wash for a lady what lived a mile away, and
sometimes carrier did fetch it, and sometimes I did send Jenny. Well,
’twas a heavyish basket, and when I did see her marchin’ back down the
path, I says to her:--
“‘You’ve a-been quicker nor I could ha’ looked for,’ I says.
“‘Oh, e-es,’ says she, ‘somebody helped I for to carry it.’
“‘Somebody,’ I says. ‘Who?’
“She went quite red, and opened her mouth and shut it again, and then
she says very quick:--
“‘Oh, a man what I met, as said it did seem too heavy for I.’”
“Ah-h-h!” said Mrs. Cross, seizing her opportunity as the other paused
for breath, “it was him?”
Mrs. Chaffey resented the other’s eagerness to jump to a conclusion,
and continued in a voice of increased sternness, and without noticing
the interruption:--
“Next day was a Sunday again. I wasn’t feelin’ so very well, so I did
tell her she mid go to church that mornin’ an’ I’d bide at home. Well,
that there little maid took so long a-dressin’ of herself as if she was
a queen; so arter I’d called her once or twice I just went upstairs an’
looked in at her. I had my soft shoes on, and she didn’t hear I comin’.
“There she was, if you please, a-kneeling before her bed, a-turnin’ of
her head this way an’ that, an’ a-lookin’ at herself in a wold lid of
a biscuit-box, what she’d picked up somewheres an’ rubbed up till it
did seem so bright as silver. There! the little impident hussy; she
had stood it up against her pillow, an’ she was a-lookin’ at herself
an’ a-holdin’ up a bit o’ blue ribbon, fust under her chin an’ then
sideways again her hat.
“‘Jenny,’ I says, an’, dear, to be sure, how the voolish maid did jump!
“‘Lard, ma’am,’ says she, ‘you did fray me!’
“‘What be doin’ there?’ I axes her very sharp. ‘What be doin’ with that
there ribbon? Where did you get it?’ I says, for I knowed very well
she hadn’t a penny of her own.
“She went so red as a poppy, an’ stood still, gawkin’ at I, wi’out
making no answer.
“‘You did steal it, I d’ ’low,’ I says, an’ I gives a kind of a scream.
“Then she did go white, and her teeth fair chattered in her head.
“‘Oh, no, ma’am,’ she cried; ‘no, indeed. It be mine, honest. It was
give me.’
“‘Give ye,’ says I. ‘Who give it?’
“Then she did begin a-cryin’ and a-rockin’ of herself backwards an’
forrads. ‘It be mine,’ she sobs; ‘somebody did give it to I.’
“‘_Somebody!_’ I says, an’ the notion come to I all to once. ‘It was
never that man as you met on the road yesterday?’
“Not a word would she answer, but goes on cryin’.
“‘Jenny Medway,’ I says to her, ‘I’ll come to the bottom of this here
tale if I do have to call Policeman Jackson in for to take ’ee to
prison. Tell I the truth this minute, or I’ll run out an’ fetch en. It
won’t be the first time as you’ve met that man, whoever he be. Own up,
or I’ll call Jackson.’
“Well, she was real scared, an’ she ketched hold o’ my arm:--
“‘Oh don’t, ma’am, don’t do that!’ she says, ‘I’ll tell ’ee--I’ll tell
’ee. ’Twas the man what did come to the door----’
“‘You wicked, wicked wench!’ I says. ‘I d’ ’low ye’ve a-been meetin’ of
en regular.’
“‘No, indeed, ma’am,’ she cries, ‘I never set eyes on en since that
day, till yesterday, when I did meet en quite accidental-like--an’ he
did offer to carry my basket for I, an’ he did put his hand in’s pocket
an’ pull out this bit o’ ribbon--he’d a-been carryin’ it about hopin’
to meet I, he did say, for he did think it jist the same colour as my
eyes.’”
“Well! well! well!” exclaimed Mrs. Cross, clapping her hands together
and shaking her head. “Lard now! dear to be sure! What nonsense-talk,
weren’t it, ma’am?”
“I did tell her so indeed,” returned Mrs. Chaffey, severely. “I did
tell her plain what I thought of her--‘Courtin’ an’ carryin’ on wi’ a
tramp on the road!’ I says.
“‘He bain’t a tramp,’ she cries, quite in a temper, if you please.
‘He’s an honest, respectable young man. He’ve a-got good work now, an’
he be a-lookin’ for to settle.’”
“Ah!” put in the irrepressible Mrs. Cross. “He was lookin’ out for a
wife.”
Once more Mrs. Chaffey quelled her with a glance and proceeded:--
“‘An’ be he wantin’ you to settle wi’ en?’ I axed the maid straight-out.
“She hangs her head, an’ begins a-playin’ wi’ the buttons of her bodice.
“‘He did say so,’ she says, very low; ‘he did ax I to walk wi’ en an’
think it over--he be gettin’ good wage,’ she says, lookin’ up at me.
‘He says he’ll do all what he can for me--I think I could like en very
well--I d’ ’low he be a good man.’”
Mrs. Cross clicked her tongue and shook her head with an air of
disapproval.
“Yes, indeed, my dear,” cried Mrs. Chaffey warmly, “that was my own
opinion. My dooty did stare I in the face.”
“‘Put that there notion out of your head, Jenny,’ I says to her, very
firm, ‘for I’ll never hear on’t--never!’ I says. ‘If you was a-thinkin’
o’ meetin’ that idle good-for-nothin’ fellow this mornin’, you may give
up the notion. Take off your hat,’ I says, ‘an’ put by that jacket of
yours. Outside this house you don’t set foot this day. You bide at
home,’ I says.”
Mrs. Cross looked dubious at first, but catching the other’s severe
eye, shook her head once more in an impersonal way, and folded her arms
with an appearance of great unconcern.
“The way that maid did go on,” pursued Mrs. Chaffey, “was scandalous,
quite scandalous, I do assure ’ee. She cried an’ sobbed, and acskally
tried for to dodge round to the door, but I were too quick for her. I
nipped out first, and turned the key in the lock.
“Well, if you’ll believe me, jist about dinner-time, who should come
walkin’ up to the house as bold as brass, but my gentleman himself, an’
before I could shut door in’s face if that little bold hussy didn’t
call out to en from the window: ‘I’m locked in, Mr. Connor, I’m locked
in!’
“‘Locked in, are ye?’ says he; an’ for the minute I was frightened at
the looks of en.
“If ye’ll believe me, Mrs. Cross, the fellow walks straight into the
house, makin’ no more o’ me nor if I wasn’t there. He pushes past I,
and marches upstairs and bursts open the door o’ Jenny’s room.
“‘Locked in, are ye?’ he says. ‘I’ll soon settle that. Come down,
asthore’--E-es, ’twas some such name as that he did call her--‘come
down, asthore. I’ve a little word to say to ye, an’ I want this good
lady to hear it as well as yerself.’
“‘I’ll call the police,’ I says. ‘I’ll call them in a minute,’ I says.”
“I’d a-done that, I’m sure,” cried Mrs. Cross. “I’m sure I would.
Housebreakin’ ye know. _Did_ ye call ’em?” she added, as Mrs. Chaffey
seemed to hesitate.
“Well, no, my dear,” returned that lady. “I did not. I was all shaky
an’ trembley like. Besides,” she added, casting up her eyes, “I be
always for peace, Mrs. Cross. ‘Peace an’ quietness,’ is my motto. I
could no more break the law o’ Christian lovin’ kindness nor--nor
anything, Mrs. Cross.”
“‘Now, Jenny, alanna,’” says the man, ‘you an’ me was talkin’
yesterday, so I may as well come to the p’int at once. I want a home,
an’ you want a home.’
“‘You make a mistake,’ says I, ‘the girl does _not_ want a home. Jenny
has got a good home--a better home nor she do deserve,’ I says.
“‘A pretty home!’ says he; ‘a prison! Don’t mind her, me darlin’. Just
look me in the face, an’ tell me will ye have me?’
“‘I will,’ she says, so bold as brass--the little barefaced, impident
wench! I did really blush for her.
“‘Then,’ says he, ‘I’ll put up the banns on Sunday, an’ the two of us
’ull be j’ined together before the month’s out.’
“Well! To think of the chap settlin’ everythin’ straight off, an’ she
givin’ in wi’out so much as a question! I stood gawkin’ at ’em both,
wi’ my tongue quite speechless. Then the chap goes up to Jenny, and
says he:--
“‘I’m sorry we can’t walk out by ourselves,’ he says, ‘but we must do
wi’out that.’ An’ before my very eyes, Mrs. Cross, he puts his arm
round her waist, an’ kisses her. ‘I’ll strive to be a good husband to
ye,’ says he, ‘an’ I’ll engage I’ll have the best little wife in the
world.’
“Then he turns round to I an’ whips off his hat, jist out o’ pure
impidence.
“‘Good mornin’ to ye, ma’am,’ he says; ‘I’m afraid its losin’ yer black
slave ye’ll be.’”
“_Oh!_” interrupted Mrs. Cross, much scandalised. “Such a thing to say.”
“E-es, indeed,” responded Mrs. Chaffey, “an’ me as had a-been so good
to her. I did tell her so, so soon as I’d got my breath. ‘Me, what has
been a mother to ye,’ I did tell her, ‘that ye should go a-backbitin’
o’ I an’ a-sayin’ such things.’
“‘I never said nothin’, ma’am,’ says she.
“Such a story. It do stand to reason as if she must ha’ gone abusin’ o’
I.”
“Maybe he thought of hissel’ you was a bit hard on her,” said Mrs.
Cross, struck by a brilliant idea.
The inspiration, however, was not a happy one apparently. Mrs. Chaffey
took great umbrage, and it was, indeed, some time before her neighbour
could pacify her sufficiently to induce her to continue her tale.
“I did talk to her kind, an’ I did talk to her sharp,” she resumed, in
an aggrieved tone. “But no; she wouldn’t hear reason, an’ at last I did
fair lose patience.
“‘Well, then,’ says I, ‘I be done wi’ ’ee; I’ll ha’ no more to say to
’ee from this out. If you do leave yer good home,’ I says, ‘an’ desert
one what’s the same as yer mother, I be done wi’ ’ee. Mark my words,’ I
did tell her, ‘this ’ere marriage’ll turn out unlucky. You’ll repent it
all the days of your life.’”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Cross, sucking in her breath with gruesome relish. “An’
she did, Mrs. Chaffey, I should think. She _did_.”
“She did ought to,” returned Mrs. Chaffey, impressively, and paused.
“I d’ ’low she hasn’t done so very well for herself?” insinuated the
other. “She hasn’t a-got such a very good home.”
Mrs. Chaffey rubbed her nose and coughed, but apparently did not feel
called upon to enter into particulars as to the recreant Jenny’s
domicile.
“Her man be out o’ work pretty often, I dare say?” hinted Mrs. Cross.
“Not as I’ve heerd on, so far,” returned her neighbour, in a tone which
implied that Mr. Connor would probably find himself thrown upon the
world in a very short time.
“Any family, my dear?”
“Two,” replied the widow. “Two childern, Mrs. Cross--a boy an’ a girl.”
“You haven’t ever seen them, of course?”
“E-es, my dear,” responded Mrs. Chaffey, with a superior air. “I do see
’em two or three times a year. I bain’t one for to bear malice. When
her ’usband do drive her over on a Bank Holiday I could never have the
’eart for to shut my door i’ their faces.”
“Drive over!” exclaimed Mrs. Cross. “They must be free wi’ their dibs
to go throwin’ ’em about on car-hire.”
“It don’t cost them nothin’,” said Mrs. Chaffey hastily. “’Tis their
own trap.”
Mrs. Cross gasped.
“They keeps a trap! They must be pretty well off.”
Seeing that this remark was evidently unpleasing to her new friend, she
obsequiously hastened to allude to what she felt sure must be a genuine
grievance.
“An’ not a bit grateful, as you was a-sayin’ jist now! She don’t
remember, I shouldn’t think, all what you’ve a-done for her. She don’t
never make you no return I d’ ’low. She don’t never give ’ee nothin’,
do she?”
“Nothin’ to speak of,” retorted the other, peevishly, and closed her
mouth with a snap.
“Such as half a dozen fresh eggs, I suppose?” suggested Mrs. Cross.
“She wouldn’t ever give ’ee a fowl now, would she? Would she?” she
persisted, as Mrs. Chaffey did not answer. “I shouldn’t think she’d
ever give ’ee a fowl. Lard, no, not a fowl--would she?”
Mrs. Chaffey was at length goaded into an answer.
“If she did it wouldn’t be so very much. I wouldn’t think meself at
all beholden to her--no, that I wouldn’t. Seein’ that she’s got dozens
of ’em a-runnin’ about her place, I don’t think I need be so very
thankful if she do spare a couple every now an’ then, an’ a ham at
Christmas, wi’ all the pigs they’ve got.”
“A ham!” ejaculated Mrs. Cross. “A _ham_! Why, they _must_ be doin’
pretty well!”
“Well--not so bad,” conceded Mrs. Chaffey, very unwillingly. “Connor,
he did take a kind o’ little farm a few year ago, a kind o’ dairy farm.
They’ve a-got pigs an’ chickens an’ sich-like--a deal of ’em. I hope
there mayn’t be too many,” she added darkly. “I hope they mayn’t be
a-livin’ too free an’ a-spendin’ too fast. I hope not. I hope there
mayn’t be a day o’ reckonin’ comin’.”
She shook her head in an ominous manner, and Mrs. Cross hastened to
follow her example.
“They bain’t a-layin’ anything by, ye may be sure,” she exclaimed
conclusively.
A kind of spasm crossed the other lady’s face, and she rose hastily,
remarking that if she didn’t begin to straighten up a bit she wouldn’t
get the house put to rights before bedtime.
Mrs. Cross took the hint, rose likewise, and backed meditatively
towards the door.
“Well, ’tis a strange tale what you’ve a-told I, Mrs. Chaffey, an’ I do
feel for ye terr’ble. As for that there voolish----”
She paused suddenly, a slow grin dawning on her face.
“She don’t seem to ha’ done so very bad for herself, after all,” she
remarked, and vanished.
SWEETBRIAR LANE.
“There they go,” said Grandmother Legg, “a-marchin’ off together so
happy as a king and a queen.”
Susan Ball, a visitor from the town, craned her head round the
door-post and gazed after the young couple with interest. David Samson,
a big broad-shouldered, rather awkward looking young fellow was walking
arm-in-crook with Rebecca Yeatman, Mrs. Legg’s orphan granddaughter.
A little slender fair-haired thing, lissom and graceful in all her
movements was Rebecca--she looked like an elf as she paced along beside
her cumbersome lover.
“They’ve a-been a-courtin’ a long time, haven’t they, mum?” queried
Miss Ball.
“They’ve a-been coortin’,” responded Grandmother Legg emphatically,
“since they was no higher than nothin’ at all. Dear, yes! he’d come
Sunday after Sunday same as if they was reg’lar coortin’ folk, an’
Rebecca, she’d lay down her doll, and fetch her hat, an’ walk off so
serious as a grown-up maid. Poor Legg--he had all his senses then same
as anybody else--he’d laugh fit to split he would.”
Miss Ball looked towards the chimney corner where Grandfather Legg
was now installed and received from that worthy old gentleman a smile
calculated to give any weak-minded person a “turn,” accompanied by
some unintelligible remark delivered in a quavering treble. Miss
Ball, who was not troubled with nerves, smiled back at him and nodded
cheerfully.
“He haven’t got no wits at all now, mum, have he?” she inquired
parenthetically of Mr. Legg’s better-half. “But we was a-talkin’ of
Rebecca. I do ’low she an’ David ’ull be gettin’ married one o’ these
days?”
Grandmother Legg screwed up her mouth and shook her head dubiously.
“I don’t know I’m sure,” she replied. “David he’s not earnin’ more nor
ten shillin’ a week, nor likely to for a good bit, and Rebecca, she
wouldn’t be much good at keepin’ house on such a little money. ’Tis a
child, Miss Ball, nothin’ but a child. There, if you was to see the
antics she do carry on wi’ David! I do truly wonder the chap has so
much patience wi’ her. Sweetbriar Lane is where they do always go. ’Tis
Coortin’ Lane, you know--so they do call it hereabouts--and a-many
do go a-walkin’ there of a Sunday an’ they do tell I that Rebecca do
seem to care for nothin’ but teasin’ and tormentin’ the poor boy. Mary
Vacher--e-es, ’twas Mary--did tell I last week as she an’ her young
man was a-walkin’ in Sweetbriar Lane o’ Sunday and she did see our
little maid a-playin’ all manner o’ tricks on Davy. One minute she’d
be runnin’ round a haystack, then when the poor chap ’ud run after her
she’d trip off and hide behind an elder-bush. Mary did say she’d go
dancin’ from one place to another just lettin’ him nearly catch her but
poppin’ off the minute he’d come close.”
“Well, there now,” commented Susan, “it do seem childish, don’t it?”
“It be reg’lar nonsense I do tell her,” said Mrs. Legg severely; then
relaxing--“but Mary Vacher did say ’twas really so good as a play to
watch ’em. Her an’ her own young man stood lookin’ arter ’em a long
while, she said. There, Rebecca ’ud go flyin’ up the path same as a
bird or a butterfly; an’ every now an’ again she’d stop and smile round
at Davy an’ beckon him, an’ off ’ud run poor Davy, hammerin’ arter
her so hard as he could, an’ just as he’d be holdin’ out them great
long arms o’ his off she’d go again. An’ she’s real fond o’ him, mind
ye--’tisn’t as if she looked at anybody else.”
“Ye did ought to speak to her a bit sharp, mum,” said Miss Ball
severely, “you did ought to scold her for it. They bain’t sensible,
sich goin’s on.”
“Scold her!” ejaculated the other. “I mid just so well speak to the
wall. I mid just so well expect that there settle to hear reason. She
don’t mind me, what’s her own grandmother, no more nor if I was the
cat. She haven’t got no respect for nothin’. I’ve see’d her pinch
David’s arm when they was a-walkin’ up the church steps one day----”
“Never!” ejaculated the scandalised Susan.
“She did though! And she’ll carry on her antics up in the churchyard
yonder--you know the churchyard up Sweetbriar Lane?--she’d as soon
play off her tricks there as on the Downs. Even when she was a little
bit of a maid she’d never run past the lychgate same as the other
children--she’d go a-swingin’ round the pillars or a-climbin’ on the
trestles, or she’d maybe pop through the gate and put her face up again
the bars and dare David to kiss her. He dursn’t go nigh the place, poor
boy, an’ she knowed that very well.”
“Well, well!” sighed Susan Ball, “I wouldn’t like to say nothin’ unkind
o’ your granddaughter, Mrs. Legg, but ’tis to be hoped as she’ll not
come to a bad end, mum.”
“’Tis to be hoped so,” agreed Mrs. Legg, “but there’s no knowin’.” She
echoed Susan’s sigh but smiled the while; indeed it was evident that
she looked on the misdemeanours of Rebecca with a certain tolerance,
one might almost say satisfaction, as distinguishing her from the
ordinary run of maidens.
Meanwhile Rebecca and David, having finished a somewhat discursive
progress up Sweetbriar Lane, emerged on the Downs beyond. Here Rebecca
took up a position on a sunny little gorse-crowned hillock and
despatched him to a neighbouring copse with orders to collect some of
the wild strawberries which grew there in abundance.
Nearly a score of journeys did David make to and from that copse, while
Rebecca fanned herself with a beech-branch and gibed at him for his
slowness.
“I do ’low you do eat more nor you do pick,” she remarked at last.
David stood stock still, indignant and disheartened.
“There’s no pleasin’ ye!” he cried. “I haven’t so much as ate one.”
“No more have I then!” exclaimed Rebecca; and uplifting her beechen fan
she proudly showed him a pile of the ruddy berries neatly arranged on a
flat stone beside her.
“There, you be to eat ’em all!” she announced with an imperative wave
of the hand, “I did save ’em up for ye.”
“You must have half,” said he.
But Rebecca shook her head.
He sat down beside her on the short turf and placed the stone between
them.
“Certain sure you must have some of ’em,” he cried. “I shan’t care to
eat ’em if you don’t.”
“You be to eat ’em all,” reiterated Rebecca; “I’d like to watch ye.”
“Nay now, you must taste one,” said David, and leaning forward tenderly
he endeavoured to force one into her mouth. But thereupon Rebecca set
her little white teeth, jerked back her head, and uplifting a small but
vigorous hand slapped his face with all her might.
“I won’t have ’em neither then!” cried he, flushing hotly and
clambering to his feet. “You do go too far, you do.”
“I do go too far, do I?” retorted the freakish sprite. “Let’s go home
then.”
Too much wounded to protest, David turned about and walked sulkily
beside her as she tripped down the lane.
“A body never knows where to have ’ee, maidie,” he complained after
a pause. “There’s times when you do seem so sweet as honey, and next
minute I fair wonder if you do care a pin for me.”
The two were now walking under a hedge so tall that it almost arched
over their heads; it grew on the summit of the high bank which bordered
one side of the lane. A serried mass of greenery was this hedge; the
star-like foliage of maple mingling with the rougher, darker green of
hazel and guelder, while amid the stronger growths, delicate trailing
wreaths of dog rose and sturdy bushes of wild sweetbriar flourished
side by side. It was from this latter that the winding path took its
name. The sweetbriar, indeed, grew so freely about the place that in
the summer time all the air was filled with fragrance.
Rebecca seemed not at all moved by her lover’s lament; she gave a
little laugh and continued the song she had been humming to herself.
“There’s times,” continued David warmly, “when I do truly think I’d do
better to go off and coort some other maid.”
“Well, and why don’t ye?” inquired Rebecca blithely.
“I don’t know but what I will,” cried he. “Most maids ’ud give ye a
kind word back when ye speak ’em fair, and ’ud say thank ye when ye do
make ’em a present, and ’ud not go for to rub their cheeks after their
sweetheart had given them a kiss.”
This was indeed an offence which Rebecca committed but too often. She
darted from him now, and, approaching the bank, made two little upward
springs at the hedge, bringing down with each a small trophy. One was a
wild rose, the other a tuft of sweetbriar.
“Look ye, David,” said she, “which do ye like best of these two?”
“The sweetbriar o’ course,” cried he, recovering his spirits at once
at what he took to be a sign of softening on her part, and his face
wreathing itself with smiles as he stretched out his hand for the
little sprig.
Rebecca waited till he had taken hold of it, and then with a sudden
malicious squeeze of both her little hands, pressed his fingers close
about the prickly stem.
“Ha’ done,” cried he in real displeasure, “that were a spiteful trick
and one as I didn’t expect from ’ee, Rebecca. I d’ ’low I _will_ go off
and ha’ done wi’ it.”
As he spoke, however, he fastened the bit of sweetbriar in his
button-hole. Rebecca laughed and pointed to it.
“Sweetbriar has twice so many thorns as wild rose,” said she, “but ye
like it best for all that. An’ if ye do go a-courtin’ any other maid
’twill be just the same. Ye’ll come back to I.”
Taking hold of the lappet of his coat she sniffed at the little sprig.
“Bain’t it sweet?” said she.
“’Tis sweet indeed,” returned he earnestly, and emboldened by her
unwonted softness he did what any other lover under the circumstances
would have done, and Rebecca, after a pause, loosed his coat and
deliberately polished her cheek with her handkerchief.
Yet for all that David did not court another maid.
Not long after this the young pair were unexpectedly parted. David
had an uncle who was a large sheep-farmer in Westmorland, and it
was thought by all his family a great opening for the lad when this
well-to-do and childless relative offered to take him into his
employment. Every one rejoiced at David’s good fortune except David
himself and his poor little sweetheart. Even he was not so much
broken-hearted as Rebecca. David scarcely knew whether to be more
afflicted or elated at the girl’s despair.
“I never reckoned you cared for I that much,” said he, as they went for
their farewell stroll up the lane.
She looked at him reproachfully without speaking, her pretty blue eyes
were drowned in tears, her mouth drooped, her little face looked very
white and pitiful.
“There I shouldn’t ha’ said that,” cried he remorsefully. “Ye never
loved anybody but me, did ye? An’ you’ll always be true--won’t ye?”
“Always! always!” she sobbed--“faithful an’ true, David. Whenever you
do think of me you must always say that to yoursel’. Rebecca was a
teasin’ maid, you may think, but she loved me an’ she’ll always love
me--faithful and true.”
Then David in a kind of rapture of anguish, felt her arms about his
neck--such little, light, slender arms--and her golden head sank upon
his breast.
Before that time he had had many misgivings in thinking of the two
years that must elapse before they again met, and had wondered to
himself often if Rebecca would be likely to stick to him when he was no
longer at hand; but now all such ignoble doubts died within him, and in
spite of the knowledge that the morrow must part him from her, he was a
proud and happy lad as he folded her in his arms.
In two years he would come back--his uncle had said he might come
home for a holiday after two years. He would earn a lot of money and
meanwhile they would write. They would often write; Rebecca wouldn’t be
too partic’lar about blots or spellin’, would she? No, Rebecca was not
in the mood to be particular about anything. Then David would give his
word to write often.
“An’ whenever ye see a bit o’ sweetbriar, ye’ll think o’ me?” said
Rebecca.
Yes, he would think of her then and always.
“I do want the sweetbriar to remind you o’ me,” went on the girl,
“because--because--I reckon it’s like me--full of prickles. I’ve often
been a bad maid to ye, Davy, haven’t I? Often an’ often I’ve pricked ye
and hurt ye, but I’ve loved ye all the time.”
And thereupon David assured her he didn’t mind the prickles, and that
there was nothing in all the world so sweet as the sweetbriar, and then
having reached the top of the lane they kissed each other again and
came home through the scented dusk full of a melancholy happiness.
The memory of that hour comforted David during the first weeks of
separation, but as time went on the old habit of jealous distrust
reasserted itself in some measure. Rebecca was a bad correspondent. The
wilful little maid had never taken much pains to make herself a scholar
and letter-writing was to her a matter of difficulty. David would brood
over each scanty ill-spelt scrawl, torturing himself with doubts:
Rebecca said so little--was she already beginning to forget him? She
was so pretty, so gay--surely somebody else would “snap her up” while
his back was turned.
Yet now and then a little word in one of Rebecca’s letters would make
his heart thrill afresh with hope and love, and he would be filled with
remorse for his unworthy suspicions. And when towards the end of autumn
she sent him a sprig of sweetbriar saying that “it would mind him of
her,” he carried the thorny trophy in his breast till it shrivelled and
fell to pieces.
The northern winter was long and cold and the lad thought regretfully
many a time of genial Dorset with its unseasonable flowers peeping
out at all manner of times, its gleams of sunshine and blue sky even
on the shortest days, the breeze rushing over the Downs, mild for all
its freshness, and carrying with it always a hint of the sea not far
distant. He dreamed of Dorset often, of his father’s little homestead,
of the farm on which he had used to work, of the animals he had been
wont to tend, of the church to which he had betaken himself Sunday
after Sunday--but strangely enough, though he longed and almost prayed
to dream of Rebecca, the vision which haunted his thoughts by day kept
aloof from his pillow.
One night, however, he did dream of Rebecca, and his dream was so
vivid that he could hardly believe that it was not indeed reality. He
thought he saw her standing in the sunshine on the Downs at the top
of Sweetbriar Lane; he was toiling up this lane at some distance from
her, running, but after the manner of dreams, not seeming to make much
progress, and she kept afar off, waving one little slender arm and
calling:--
“I want you, David!” she cried. “Davy--Davy--I want you!”
Her voice was ringing in his ears when he woke; the sweat stood on his
brow, and his heart was thumping violently.
“If she do want me, I’ll go,” he said.
It was not yet six months since he had left home; according to his
contract another eighteen should elapse before he took a holiday, yet
he did not hesitate for a moment. An unendurable longing was upon him;
he was drawn by an inexplicable force. Without pausing to reflect on
the possible consequences which might ensue, he rose, dressed and set
forth on his journey before any one, even in that early household, was
astir.
He had but little money, and his progress was necessarily slow, his
resources only permitting him to travel a part of the way by train. He
walked the rest, begging occasional “lifts” from good-natured waggoners.
It was nearly a week after that dream had come to him when he arrived
late one afternoon at his native place. So travel-stained was he, so
haggard and gaunt with fatigue and privations, that his old friends
would have found it difficult to recognise him had he traversed the
village; but Rebecca’s home lay on the outskirts and he made his way
there immediately.
His heart had been torn by a thousand conflicting hopes and fears
during his long journey. What if Rebecca did not want him at all? What
if she should laugh at him for his pains? What if she should join in
the chorus of disapproval which would, he knew, greet his foolhardy
undertaking? His uncle had probably written home to announce his
disappearance; his parents would have plenty to say on the subject,
but for that he cared little. What would Rebecca say? what would she
think? And then he remembered her parting words: “She’ll always love
me faithful and true,” and he seemed again to feel her arms about his
neck.
His heart leaped up within him as he approached the cottage, for he
half-expected to see the elfin shape come flitting forth to greet
him; and then he chid himself for his folly. How could she be on the
look-out for him? he had sent her no word of his coming.
It was a frosty night, clear and unusually cold. The moon had already
risen and the sky was spangled with stars. He could see the withered
hollyhocks standing stiff on either side of the whitewashed flagged
path, and observed that the door was fast closed. A little glimmer of
firelight came through the kitchen window, but otherwise there was no
sign of life about the place.
Three strides carried David up the garden path and in another instant
his hand rattled at the latch; but the door did not yield to his
hand--it was bolted within and no sound broke the succeeding stillness
except the barking of a distant dog and the tremulous beating of his
own heart.
“Rebecca!” he cried. His voice was hoarse and his great frame trembled
like a leaf. “Rebecca! I’m here. I be come.”
A shrill cackle from within--Grandfather Legg’s unmistakable laugh--was
the only response.
David’s hand dropped from the latch and he darted to the kitchen window
and peered in the room.
By the dim light of the fire he could make out the old man’s form in
its accustomed place, and rapped sharply at the pane.
“Eh?” cried Grandfather Legg.
“Be every one out?” shouted David. “Where’s Rebecca?”
The old man leaned forward so that the firelight fell full upon his
shrivelled face; his habitually vacant eyes wore a cunning look and he
laughed again, as though amused by some secret joke.
David uplifted his voice once more and in his excitement shook the
little casement. “Look at me!” he cried. “Don’t ye know me, Mr. Legg?
It’s me--David Samson.”
“Oh, I know ye,” chuckled Mr. Legg. “I know ye, David.”
“Right!” cried David, delighted at having extracted an intelligible
response. “Then tell me where’s Rebecca? I’ve come a long way to see
her. Which way has she gone? I be talkin’ of _Rebecca_, Mr. Legg.”
“E-es,” rejoined the other, still chuckling; “oh, e-es, Rebecca--surely.”
“Where is she, I say?” shouted David.
Grandfather Legg lifted a lean hand and jerked his thumb expressively
in the direction of Sweetbriar Lane.
“Rebecca,” said he, “Rebecca be yon.”
David stepped back from the window and stood a moment paralysed. The
eager excitement of a few moments before left him all in a minute and
he became suddenly cold. Rebecca was out at this hour--Rebecca had gone
a-walkin’ in Sweetbriar Lane with another man. That dream which told
him she craved for him was but a mockery.
After a pause he began to walk rapidly away in the direction indicated
by the old man. He would see for himself; he would find Rebecca and
tax her with her infidelity; he would--here he drew in his breath and
clenched his hands--he would reckon with the other fellow.
Now the lane lay before him, winding upwards between its shadowy hedges
silent and deserted. His steps rang sharply on the frozen surface; deep
shadows lay beneath the hedgerows but the path itself gleamed silvery
white in the moonlight. Up, up--there was never a soul in sight--if
Grandfather Legg spoke truth Rebecca must have wandered on a long way
with that new sweetheart of hers. He pressed forward with what speed he
might, he would come upon them sooner or later and then!
Yonder at the turn of the lane, the outline of the lychgate was
visible, and, topping the churchyard wall the dark heads of a group
of cypresses; his eyes wandered absently over them, insensibly taking
note of how bravely the frost-encased needles gleamed; the hoar lay
thick on the ancient tiles of the lychgate roof too, and even edged
the time-worn pillars which supported it. As he brought his absent
gaze down to these pillars he saw a face peep out at him from behind
one. The moonlight fell full upon it and he recognised at once that it
was Rebecca’s. Very small and pale it looked, and yet it wore a smile,
tender and a little sad.
David with an inarticulate cry rushed towards her. But before he could
reach it the little figure came gliding forth from its ambush and went
fluttering up the path before him as it had so often done in former
days. She paused every now and then to turn round with the arch smile
which he knew so well, and to beckon, but she spoke no word, and her
feet fell so lightly on the stony track that they made no sound. She
wore a cotton dress familiar to David, and no wrap of any kind in
spite of the cold; her fair hair, too, glistened in the silvery light
unshaded by a hat.
“Rebecca! Rebecca!” cried David, lumbering in pursuit of her, a prey
to such a tumult of emotions that he almost wept. “Rebecca, come back,
love. I came because ye did call me. Ye must have a word to say to me
sure. Ye’ll never go for to treat me so foolish now I have come all
this way to see ye.”
But the little figure only waved its arms for all response and went
gliding on--on, always out of reach, now lost to sight at the turn of
the lane, now in obedience to some such freakish impulse as had often
roused his ire long ago, darting behind a clump of bushes, now peering
down at him from the top of a high bank. Always tantalising, always
elusive, but his own Rebecca for all that--his Rebecca who had never
given a thought to any other man. She would surely soon tire of her
play and run to his arms.
Here were the Downs at last, and Rebecca, as though in answer to his
yearning, paused, turning towards him and beckoning. For a moment he
saw her thus almost as he had seen her in his dream, save that the
light which bathed her slight figure was not the noonday glow of his
fancy but the ethereal radiance of the winter’s night, and that no word
passed her smiling lips. As he gazed upon her the dream powerlessness
came upon him, his feet remained rooted to the ground, his arms hung
useless by his side, he tried to call her name aloud but his tongue
clove to his palate. Only a moment did this nightmare-like oppression
endure and then, with a cry, he rushed towards the spot where she had
stood--but Rebecca had vanished.
His arms closed upon the empty air, his dazzled eyes beheld only the
frost-bound Downs, the clump of firs against which he had seen her
form outlined--there was no trace of her anywhere. Calling upon her
frantically, first in anger, then with anguish, then in wild terror, he
searched about the place, but all was silence--desolation.
He came down the hilly path at last slowly, looking neither to right
nor to left, his head sunk upon his breast and his figure swaying.
Here was the bank where she had picked that sprig of sweetbriar to
which she had likened herself; the leafless bush coated with frost like
its fellows gave forth no perfume as he passed, and he did not even
pause.
Now the lychgate came in sight once more, and David quickening his
pace ran unsteadily towards it. The gate yielded to his hand, but no
fairy form lay in ambush behind it, no arch mocking face peered at him
through the bars. Yet as it swung to behind him David stood still,
catching his breath with a gasp; a rush of overpowering perfume greeted
his nostrils, here in the dead of the winter’s night the frozen air
was heavy with the scent of sweetbriar. As he staggered forward with a
choking cry his feet sank deep in the soft mould of a newly-made grave.
* * * * *
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