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diff --git a/75281-0.txt b/75281-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dda0c1a --- /dev/null +++ b/75281-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10477 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75281 *** + + + + + +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. + + * * * * * + +THE ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS LIMITED + + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: + + + Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. + + Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. + + Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. + + Archaic or variant spelling has been retained. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75281 *** |