← catalogue

North, South and Over the Sea

by M. E. Francis · English · Gutenberg #12150 · 492,489 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of North, South and Over the Sea
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: North, South and Over the Sea

Author: M. E. Francis

Illustrator: H. M. Brock


        
Release date: April 1, 2004 [eBook #12150]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12150

Credits: Produced by Dave Morgan, Beth Trapaga and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NORTH, SOUTH AND OVER THE SEA ***

_"COUNTRY LIFE"
Library of Fiction._


NORTH, SOUTH
AND
OVER THE SEA.


By
M.E. FRANCIS
(Mrs. Francis Blundell.)

_with Illustrations by H.M. BROCK._


1902.


NOTE

_Some of these stories have already appeared in "The Cornhill Magazine,"
"Longmans' Magazine," and "Country Life," and are reprinted by kind
permission of the Editors of these periodicals._




CONTENTS


NORTH

GOLDEN SALLY
"TH' OWDEST MEMBER"
THE CONQUEST OF RADICAL TED
HEATHER IN HOLBORN
SENTIMENT AND "FEELIN'"


SOUTH

THE ROMANCE OF BROTHER JOHN
GILES IN LUCK
"THE WOLD LOVE AND THE NOO"
BLACKBIRD'S INSPIRATION
THE GIRL HE LEFT BEHIND HIM


OVER THE SEA

ELLENEY
IN ST. PATRICK'S WARD
THE FLITTING OF THE OLD FOLKS
"THE SPIDER AND THE GOUT"
ROSEEN




GOLDEN SALLY

The long warm day was drawing to its close; over the sandhills yonder
the sun was sinking in a great glory of scarlet and purple and gold.
The air was warm still, and yet full of those myriad indescribable
essences that betoken the falling of the dew; and mingling with, yet
without dominating them, was the sweet penetrating odour of newly-cut
hay.

John Dickinson walked moodily along the lane that led first to his
uncle's wheat-field, and then to the sandhills. He was a tall,
strapping young fellow, broad of shoulder and sturdy of limb, with
nevertheless something about him which betokened that he was not
country bred. His face was not brown enough, his hands were not rough
enough, the shirt sleeves, rolled up above his elbow, were not only
cleaner than those of the ordinary rustic after a hard day, but
displayed arms whereof the tell-tale whiteness proclaimed that they
were little used to such exposure. These arms ached sorely now; all
day long had John been assisting in "carrying," and the hours spent in
forking the hay from the ground to the cart had put his new-found
ardour for a country life to a severe test.

John had been born and brought up in Liverpool, having since he left
school acted as assistant in his father's shop. But on the latter's
death, his affairs were found to be so hopelessly involved that it was
impossible for his family to carry on the business. Mrs. Wilson and
her daughters had obtained employment in "town," and John had
announced his intention of taking to farming. Having been more or less
master in his father's small establishment he could not brook the idea
of accepting a subordinate post in the same way of business; and,
indeed, as his mother's brother, burly old Richard Waring of
Thornleigh, had offered to take him into his household and teach him
his work, there seemed to be no reason why he should not adopt the
career which was more to his mind.

John had frequently made expeditions into the country before, and had
spent many pleasant hours in the company of his aunt and uncle, and
their buxom daughter Jinny; but he found a vast difference between
these pleasure excursions and the steady routine to which he was now
subjected. All the household were abed at nine, an arrangement to
which John objected. As his aunt opined that it was "a sin an' a shame
to burn good lamps i' summer time when days was long enough for
onybody as was reasonable," he bought a supply of candles out of his
own meagre store, and, being fond of reading, spent an hour or two
with book or paper before retiring to rest. But the worst of this
arrangement was that when, as it appeared to him, he had just settled
comfortably to his first sleep, it was time to be astir again. His
uncle thumped at his door, his aunt, from the bottom of the stairs,
called out shrilly that if he wanted any breakfast he had best make
haste, for she was "goin' to side the things in a twothree minutes."
Jinny made sarcastic comments on his tardy appearance, and laughed at
his heavy eyes. That was the worst of it--Jinny was always laughing at
him; she "made little" of him on every possible occasion. His "town"
speech, his "finicky" ways, his state of collapse at the end of the
day, his awkwardness in handling unaccustomed tools, were to her
never-failing sources of amusement. John set his teeth and made no
sign of being wounded or annoyed, the sturdy spirit inherited from his
mother's people forbidding him to cry out when he was hurt; but his
spirits were at a low ebb, and to-day he had walked forth after tea
with a heart as sore and heavy as those over-strained arms of his.
Jinny had come out to the field with the "drinkin's," and her face
looked so bewitching under the sun-bonnet, and her waist so tempting
and trim beneath the crisp folds of her clean bed-gown, that John had
made bold in cousinly fashion to encircle it with his arm, whereupon
she had freed herself with an impatient twirl, remarking that she
didn't want no counter-jumpers to be measurin' of her--a sally which
had been regarded as exquisitely humorous by the bystanders. John's
cheeks burned as he thought of it.

"She needn't be afraid--I'll not come nigh her again," he muttered
vengefully.

He was skirting the wheat-field now, the tall, green ears stirring
with a pleasant rustling sound; in some distant reeds a bunting was
warbling, a belated lark was circling slowly downwards over his head.
From the village yonder voices and laughter fell faintly on his ear,
and all these mingled sounds served but to accentuate the prevailing
impression of peace and stillness; as John strolled onwards, his heavy
steps crushing out the aromatic perfume of the thyme which grew
profusely along the path, he was insensibly soothed and calmed by the
evening quietude.

Over the wooden railings now, and across the dewy pasture and up the
tallest sandhill, from the top of which he could, as he knew, look
down upon the sea. The waters would be ruddy and golden at this hour,
but by day ran brown and sluggish enough over the mud banks of the
Alt. On the other side of the shining expanse the houses of New
Brighton would stand forth all flecked with gold, and farther still
the very smoke of Liverpool would appear as a luminous yellow haze,
and the masts and riggings of the ships lying at anchor would be
turned into bars of gold. John knew these things by heart, but was
never tired of gazing upon them, and as he climbed the hill his heart
grew lighter and lighter; the salt, tart breeze that lifted his hair
as he topped it gave new vigour to his tired limbs, and a sudden sense
of exhilaration to his whole being. He stood at last with folded arms
on the summit letting it sing past him, and gazing about him in vague
delight. A golden world indeed; just what he had expected to find. A
golden sea, a golden sky, the very sand and grasses at his feet
appeared to be golden too.

Now, what was that? About twenty paces beneath him, on the seaward
side of the dune, he caught a glimpse of another golden object, an
unusual object, the nature of which he did not at once identify. He
shaded his eyes with his hand, and presently began to laugh softly.
That golden thing which had caught his eye was the uncovered head of a
girl. She was seated in a hollow of the hill, and the tall star-grass
and blossoming ragwort grew so freely at this spot that only her head
was visible. All at once a hand was thrust out from behind the screen,
and a sudden shower of gold fell downwards from that glittering crown.
John laughed again as the girl began very composedly to comb her hair.

He came down the hill, stepping as lightly as he could, and paused in
front of her quaint 'tiring-room. She looked up as his shadow fell
across her, paused a moment with the comb poised in mid-air, and then
calmly drew it through her yellow locks. What hair it was! It fell
round her like a veil as she sat: it would reach almost to her knees,
John thought, if she were standing. He looked at her with a kind of
awe; for a moment the strange tales he had so often heard of mermaids
and witches recurring to his mind. But he was reassured on a closer
inspection of the girl and her attire. She wore a bed-gown and apron
like Jinny's, but not, alas! so neat or clean; her stuff petticoat,
too, was ragged and old, and the feet, which were stretched forth from
under its folds, were brown and bare as the hands which so deftly
wielded the comb.

John's eyes rested with intense disapproval on these shapely feet, and
travelled slowly backwards over the ragged petticoat and the pink
cotton jacket--which, instead of being neatly buttoned over at the
neck, fell loosely open, disclosing the girl's throat, firm and round
as a pillar--and so on till they reached her face; then suddenly
drooped before the disconcerting gaze of another pair of eyes, very
large and bright.

"I hope ye'll know me again," said the girl.

John looked up with a grin. "It'll be hard work if you keep your face
covered up with all that hair," he said.

She gathered together the heavy yellow masses with both hands, twisted
them up with astonishing speed and deftness, and let her arms fall
upon her lap.

"Theer!" she said.

It was not a pretty face John at first decided; tanned as it was to
the colour of ripe corn, and the eyes, such a light blue and with such
blue whites, looking so strange in this setting. The cheeks, moreover,
were not rosy like those of his cousin Jinny, nor rounded in their
contours--the chin was too pointed; yet even as John looked a sudden
dimple flashed there, and a smile, swift and mischievous, lit up the
whole face. Then he did not feel quite so sure.

[Illustration: GOLDEN SALLY
"I hope ye'll know me again," said the girl]

"What in the name of fortune are you doing here?" he asked abruptly,
almost roughly, for the smile nettled him. "Can't you find some better
place than this to do your dressing in?"

"If I didn't comb my hair i' th' sandhills I wouldn't comb it at all,"
she returned. "It's the on'y place I have to do onythin' in. Mony a
time when th' owd lad is fuddled, me an' my Aunt Nancy sleep on 'em."

"Sleep out o' doors!" ejaculated John, much scandalised.

"Aye, oftener than not, I can tell you. Tisn't so very coomfortable
when theer's snow about--though we mak' up a bit o' fire an' that; but
it's reet enough this time o' year. Aye, I like to lay awake lookin'
up at the stars, an' listenin' to the wayter yon. The rabbits coom
dancin' round us, an' th' birds fly ower we'r 'eads when the leet
cooms. It's gradely."

John slowly lowered himself down on the sand beside her, as if to
endeavour to look on this strange aspect of life from her level. His
respectable commercial soul was shocked, but he was nevertheless
interested.

"My word!" he ejaculated; and then, after a pause, "What's your name,
if I may ask?"

"Sally."

"Sally? It's a good enough name. What's th' other one?"

"I haven't got no other one as I ever heerd on. My uncle's Jim
Whiteside, an' soom folks call'n me Sally Whiteside, an' then he gets
mad an' says 'tisn't none o' my name. An' soom folks call'n me 'Cockle
Sally.' Aye, that's what they call'n me mostly."

Dickinson looked at her disapprovingly. He had heard of the wild,
disreputable "Cockle Folk" who roamed about the sandhills; who were
worse than tramps in the opinion of respectable people, and who had,
many of them, no fixed abode of any kind.

"Well," he remarked, "it's a pity. I could ha' wished ye'd ha'
belonged to different folks. I don't hold with these cocklers. They're
a rough lot, ar'n't they?"

The girl laughed.

"My Aunt Nancy says I'm as rough as ony mysel'. Would ye like soom
cockles?" she asked, breaking off suddenly. "I'd fetch ye soom
to-morrow if I've ony luck. They're chep enough--an' big ones. Wheer
do ye live?"

"At Mr. Waring's farm," responded John, distantly; adding, more
truthfully than politely, "I doubt you'd best keep away though. My
aunt 'll be none too pleased if you come yonder."

"Aye, I knows her. Hoo buys mony a quart of me, an' then hoo chivies
me out o' th' road. I'll coom. If you're not there, I'll coom to the
field."

"Well, you might do that," agreed John, accommodatingly. "Some o' th'
other chaps 'ud be glad enough to take a few of these cockles off you.
'Twould be a bit of a change wi' th' bread and cheese. We're goin' to
cut the big meadow to the right as you go to the village. Come to the
top of the hill, and I'll show it you."

"Nay, I'll not go near field if they're all theer. I went once, an'
farmer he said he'd set dog at me; an' th' lads began o' jokin' an'
laughin' at me. Aye, I get mad wi' nobbut thinkin' on't."

She coloured as she spoke, and John's face clouded over, as though her
indignation had infected him. In fact, he had too recently suffered
from the rude jests and laughter of his fellow-labourers not to
sympathise with Sally.

"I know them," he said bitterly, "and a rough lot they are. They leave
me no peace; they give me plenty of their impudence too, if it's any
comfort to you, Sally, to know that."

"Eh dear!" cried Sally in amazement. "Why, whatever can they find
amiss wi' you?"

The blue eyes were upturned with such genuine and admiring
astonishment that John could not but be touched and flattered. In this
actual mood, moreover, when his spirit was still smarting from the
remembrance of the manner in which scornful Jinny had turned him into
a laughing-stock, Sally's respectful appreciation was doubly sweet to
him.

"I'll bring ye th' cockles if ye'll coom up th' lane at dinner-time,"
she went on. "I'll stand near the white gate. Coom, I'll show ye."

She sprang up and began quickly to ascend the hill. Her figure had the
erectness common to those accustomed to carry burdens on their heads,
and also a grace and freedom of movement which impressed John with
vague astonishment. As she turned upon the summit to point out the
place of meeting, her face sparkling with animation, her eyes alight
and eager, the golden coronet of hair radiant in the mellow glow, he
gave a little gasp of amazement. The girl was beautiful! What a pity
she should lead such a life!

"Yonder, see," she continued. "Aye--why do ye stare at me that way?"

"Sally," said practical, plain--spoken John, "I'm lookin' at you
because I think you're real handsome, an' I think it's a terrible pity
for ye to be traipsin' about like this. Why don't you leave your uncle
and aunt and go to live with decent people--and put on shoes and
stockings?" he added severely.

The girl gazed at him in amazement.

"Whatever put that i' your 'ead? Decent folks wouldn't have nought to
say to me. I'd as soon go cocklin' as do onythin' else--an' I couldn't
do wi' shoes an' stockin's."

"Didn't you ever go to school?"

"Nay, scarce at all. We was wonderful clever 'bout that. We shifted
an' shifted an' gi'ed 'em all th' slip."

"Don't you go to church on Sundays?"

"Eh dear! I wonder what they'd say if me an' Aunt Nancy an' Uncle Jim
was to go paddlin' in among all the fine folks--wi' bare feet an'
all."

She laughed grimly.

"Will yo' coom yonder for the cockles?" she inquired presently.

John nodded, and, turning, she ran down the hill, fleet as a hare, and
disappeared round its curved base.

John walked homewards thoughtfully, his own troubles quite forgotten
in the consideration of Sally's lot. All that evening, and even during
his work on the following morning, he pondered over it, and it was
with a portentous face that he betook himself at noon to the
trysting-place. So punctual was he that he stood there for some
minutes before a musical cry of "Cockles! fine cockles!" came ringing
down the lane, and presently Sally appeared, the basket poised upon
her head throwing a deep shadow over her face, but the curves of her
figure strongly defined by the brilliant summer sunlight. Halting by
the gate she balanced her basket on the upper bar, and immediately
measured out a quart by way of greeting.

"How much?" inquired business-like John.

"Ye may have 'em for nought; I've got plenty, see. They're fine ones,
ar'n't they?"

"I'd sooner pay you for them. You want the money perhaps."

"Well, then," said Sally, and thrust out her brown palm.

"Sally," said John, seriously, "I've been thinking a deal about you. I
think it is somethin' dreadful the way you are livin'--you so comely
an' all. It's an awful thing to think you don't know anythin' and
never go to church or that. Do you never say your prayers?"

Sally looked at him, and twisted open a cockle before replying.

"Nay, I dunnot. Aunt Nancy doesn't neither."

"Do you know who made you, Sally?"

"I larned at school, the on'y time I went, but I forget now."

"Well, Sally, I've been thinkin'--somebody ought to teach you. I could
teach you myself of an evening if you'd come yonder to the big
sandhill."

Sally looked reflective, but presently nodded.

"I will while I'm here," she said; "but we's be shiftin' afore aught's
along--we're allus shiftin'. We have to be terrible careful not to get
cotched for sleeping out. They're that sharp wi' us they won't let a
body do naught, so we dursen't stay too long i' one place. But I'll
coom, an' ye can teach me if ye've a mind. If ye dunnot see me when ye
coom to th' top o' hill, jest call out 'Cockle Sally! Cockle Sally!'
an' I'll coom."

"No; that's an ugly name," said John, who had been idly watching the
play of the sunbeams on the little curling strands of hair which were
lightly lifted by the summer breeze. "I could find you a better name
than that, I think. You look like--"

He paused.

"What do I look like?" inquired Sally.

John's glance once more travelled over her whole figure. The faded
buff jacket, the not altogether immaculate apron of unbleached calico,
were transfigured by the all-pervading sunshine; golden lights
outlined the tanned face and hands; as for the hair, it was at that
moment a very glory.

"I reckon I'd call you Golden Sally," he said with a laugh. "You look
as if you were made of gold this morning, and I'll engage you're as
good as gold," he added gallantly.

"Coom, that's too fine a name for me," cried Sally, well pleased,
nevertheless, and smiling broadly.

"I'll christen you by it all the same," replied John, smiling too.
"You must be good and mind what I tell you," he added with mock
severity. "If you don't, I must find some other name for you."

Sally's long eyelashes suddenly drooped, and she drummed on the gate
nervously.

"I'll do my best to please ye," she said. "I'll coom when ye call,"
she added after a pause.

Lifting up her basket, and balancing it once more on her head, she
raised her downcast lids, and flashed a farewell smile at John as she
turned away. In another moment she was speeding in the opposite
direction.

John was vexed and disappointed that she should terminate the meeting
so abruptly, but consoled himself with the reflection that he was free
to assume the office of instructor that very evening if he chose.

The long, toilsome day seemed slow of passing, the company of the
farmer and his men more tedious even than usual, but by way of
compensation Jinny's sallies seemed to have lost their power to wound
him. It was late when, the last waggon-load having been conveyed from
the field and the evening meal disposed of, he found himself free to
attend to Sally's education. He strode along the sandy lane and across
the field at a very different pace to that of the previous evening,
and was almost breathless when he found himself on the top of the tall
dune, gazing about with anxious eyes. No golden head was to be seen
amid the star-grass and ragwort this time; no graceful girl's figure
was outlined against the evening sky. His heart sank, and it was in a
disconsolate, uncertain voice that he called aloud:

"Golden Sally! Golden Sally!"

Then, starting up, as if by magic, from some unsuspected place of
ambush, she came quickly towards him. Her face was blushing and eager,
her hands outstretched; and John was somehow so glad to see her after
the chill disappointment of the moment before, that he not only
grasped the hands, but kissed the glowing cheek.

It would be difficult to say how much Sally learnt from her zealous
young instructor--for zealous he was, sincere and earnest in his
desire to improve her mind. But he taught her one thing very rapidly
and completely--to love himself with all her undisciplined heart.
After a time she made no secret of this devotion, and John was oddly
abashed and disconcerted by her occasional outbursts of affection. He
was much interested in Sally, very much attracted by her. Her worship
of him was distinctly pleasant, if a little too demonstrative. Now and
then he himself could not refrain from a tender word or a caress; but
he was thoroughly convinced of her inferiority, and nothing could have
been further from his thoughts than the wish to marry her.

Sally sometimes made him presents: bags of cockles, which, on leaving
her, he not infrequently dropped into a ditch; a few flowers, procured
he knew not how; and once she astonished him by producing, carefully
wrapped up in paper, a very handsome silk handkerchief, with a curious
pattern of sprigs and flowers.

"Why, Sally," he cried, "I scarcely like to take this. It's worth a
deal of money I'm sure."

"It is," said Sally, with an odd look. "Aye, I am fain that ye like
it. I wish I could find summat better to give ye. Theer's nought too
good for ye."

John, much flattered, and moreover sufficiently of a dandy to rejoice
in the possession of a handsome and unusual article of wearing
apparel, thanked her warmly, and assured her that he would value it
all the days of his life.

On the following Sunday he was tempted to wear it, and came down to
breakfast much pleased with his appearance; but he was both astonished
and alarmed at his aunt's demeanour on beholding it.

"Lor', John, wheerever did ye get yon 'andkerchief? Dear, now, I could
swear it's the same as the one Mr. Lambert, of Saltfield, lost a five
or six week ago. Mrs. Lambert towd me 'bout it when we drove yon on
neighbourin' day. Eh, hoo was in a way! It's been i' th' family for
years an' years; and hoo'd weshed it hersel' an' put it on th' hedge
to dry, an' soombry coom an' whipped it off. Eh, I mind it well. Hoo'd
often showed it me. Hoo thought a dale of it."

John coloured up to his temples, a horrible suspicion darting through
his mind; but he was nevertheless determined to carry off the
situation in a high-handed manner.

"This can't be hers, anyhow," he returned angrily, "seein' it's mine."

"Well, I could ha' sworn it were the same," retorted his aunt. "Such
an old-fashioned thing too. It's strange ye should get one of the same
pattern. How long have ye had it, John? Happen them as stole it sold
it again."

John hated telling a lie, but conceived it advisable to tell one now.

"I've had this years an' years. My father gave it to me."

"Well, if he gave it you so long ago as that it can't be the same, I
suppose, but it's wonderful like it. I wonder wheer he got it. It's a
pity we can't ask him, but he's dead, as how 'tis, poor fellow! Coom,
pull up an' tak' your breakfast."

John dutifully drew his chair to the table, but he felt as though
every morsel choked him. His own falsehood, to begin with, stuck in
his throat, while the thought of Sally's possible perfidy seemed to
turn the wholesome farmhouse bread to sand in his mouth. Was it
possible, could it be possible, that this love-token of hers was
stolen? Had she dared to offer him that which it was a disgrace to
possess If such were the case, of what avail was all his teaching? To
what purpose had he stooped to associate so constantly with one so
much beneath him?

Meanwhile the eyes of all the Waring family were fixed upon his
luckless neckerchief in a manner which made him feel more and more
uncomfortable; and he was fairly beside himself when, after church,
his aunt informed him that she was thinking of axin' Margery Formby,
who was Mrs. Lambert's sister, to step round after dinner and have a
look at it, "It's so amazin' like the one Mr. Lambert lost, I reckon
it 'ud be a kind o' comfort if hoo could tell Mrs. Lambert hoo needn't
set sich store by it, as sich things is easy to be got."

"Well, aunt, I'm not goin' to stop in to have Margery Formby pokin'
and pryin' at my things. I never see such queer folk in my life.
'Tisn't thought manners in other places to be passin' remarks an'
askin' questions about a fellow's clothes."

"Well I never!" ejaculated Mrs. Waring, scarlet with indignation.
"Upon my word, John, if it's thought manners in town to be givin'
impudence to your own aunt ye'd best go back theer. It's not thought
manners here, and what's more, we won't put up with it. Your uncle'll
ha' summat to say, I'll warrant."

John heard no more, for, seeing that the good woman was working
herself up into a most unchristian fury, and being, moreover, in no
mood to meet the astonished queries of Margery Formby, he went quickly
out of the room and out of the house, resolved to extract an
explanation from Sally without delay.

Very bitter and angry was his mood, far more bitter and angry than on
the evening when he had first beheld her. That which he had originally
dismissed as an unjust suspicion had now grown to be almost certainty;
and he waited doggedly the word which must confirm it. His blood
boiled within him as he thought of Sally's effrontery. It was an
insult, an unpardonable impertinence; one which he was, indeed,
resolved never to pardon. He would make her confess, and then he would
have done with her for ever.

Had his temper been less wrathful he might have been touched at the
joyful alacrity with which she sprang to meet him. It had needed no
call to bring her to his side; some instinct seemed to have warned her
of his coming, and she had caught sight of him while still a long way
off and hastened towards him as he approached. She uttered a little
cry of joy as her eyes fell upon her gift.

"Eh! ye've got it on! It looks gradely."

"It looks gradely, does it?" returned John grimly. "I've a word or two
to say to you about this, Sally? Where did you get this? Is this the
handkerchief that was stolen from Mr. Lambert of Saltfield?"

Sally looked back at him quite unabashed, and began to laugh.

"Think o' your guessin'!" she cried. "Well, doesn't it suit ye a dale
better nor yon ugly owd chap?"

John turned quite pale; then, with an oath and a sudden fierce
gesture, tore the handkerchief from his neck and threw it on the
ground.

"How dare you?" he cried, turning on Sally with flashing eyes. "How
dare you look me in the face after treating me like this? Insultin'
me--makin' a laughin' stock of me--"

He stopped, stammering with rage. The angry colour had now returned to
his face; it was Sally who was pale. She stared at him aghast, and
presently began to sob like a frightened child.

"I'm sure I dunno whatever I've done to mak' ye so mad," she cried
brokenly. "I did but look to please ye."

"Please me!" cried John, stamping his foot. "How could it please me
for you to give me a thing that no respectable man ought to touch--a
thing as was stolen? I was a fool to think it could have been honestly
come by; but when you gave it me, looking so innocent, I never guessed
you'd gone and picked it off a hedge."

"I didna," sobbed Sally. "I took it out of Aunt Nancy's bundle. Hoo'll
be soom mad when hoo finds out, and hoo'll thrash me for 't. Hoo
reckoned to pop it as soon as we'd getten a bit further away fro'
Saltfield."

John turned quite sick. This gift of Sally's had, then, been doubly
stolen. He had been wearing an adornment which had been stolen from a
thief! Words failed him, but he looked at Sally as though he could
slay her.

"Dunnot be so mad," she pleaded, laying her hand upon his arm. "I
didn't think to vex ye. I nobbut looked about for the best I could
find. They flowers ye didn't seem to set mich store by, and I could
on'y get a twothree now and again when theer was nobry about."

He shook her off with an angry laugh. "So the flowers were stolen,
too! Now, look you, Sally, I'm goin' to have an end o' this. You may
pick up yon handkerchief and take yourself off. I'll have no more to
say to you after this. I'll have nothing to say to a thief. Don't you
ever think to come botherin' me again, for I'll have no more to do wi'
you."

She stood looking at him stupidly for a minute or two, and then, to
his great annoyance and discomfiture, flung her arms round his neck,
sobbing out inarticulate words of entreaty and remonstrance. She
didn't think to vex him, she didn't think it was any harm.

He shook her off roughly and impatiently. Sally had evidently no sense
of decency or even decorum. "Get out of my sight," he cried fiercely,
"or if it comes to that I can go myself. I've done with you, I tell
you--ye needn't come after me no more."

She had been looking at him piteously, the big tears standing in those
strange blue eyes of hers, and on her tanned cheeks; but now a curious
sullen expression came over her face. Stooping and picking up the
handkerchief, she tore at it fiercely, first with her hands and
subsequently with her teeth. A kind of angry curiosity caused John to
delay his departure.

"You've no right to make away with Mr. Lambert's handkerchief," he
cried. "If I did what was right I'd give notice to the police."

"Well, why dunnot ye?" she retorted with a fierceness which startled
him. "Ye can if ye've a mind."

And she walked away slowly, still plucking at the handkerchief.

*       *       *       *       *

A year later, on just such another Sunday afternoon, John stood on the
same spot with a woman by his side--the woman was Jinny, and Jinny was
his wife. Many things had happened since John had parted in wrath and
bitterness from the girl whom he had once called "Golden Sally." His
demeanour towards his aunt on the momentous morning alluded to had led
to a violent quarrel with her and her husband, which had had
unexpected results, for Jinny had taken his part--Jinny who was the
idol of her parents and the pivot on which the whole establishment
turned. John's whilom indifference had led first to pique on Jinny's
part and then to interest. John, perturbed of spirit and sore of
heart, had been grateful for her favour. The attachment which poor
Sally had for a time diverted was soon re-established, and before six
months had passed the young couple were courting in due form.

Farmer Waring was at first a little annoyed, but consoled himself with
the reflection that blood was thicker than water. He had no son of his
own; it would be pleasant to keep Jinny still at the farm with a
husband whom he could "gaffer" and break in to his own ways; so, by
and by, consent was given, and John Dickinson was treated with great
respect by all at the farm, and already assumed the airs of a master.
As for Sally, he had never set eyes on her since the moment of their
parting. It had once come to his ears that she and her aunt were in
prison for sleeping out of doors, and, shortly after their release,
she had apparently "shifted" with the rest of her family. John thought
of her as little as possible, for the mere recollection of the manner
in which he had been duped, and, as he conceived it, disgraced, filled
him with disgust.

There was certainly no memory of her in his mind now as he climbed the
hill with Jinny on his arm. They had only been married a few days, and
his attitude towards her was still that of a lover. They sat down on
the summit of the hill, and John put his arm round Jinny's waist.
After the manner of their kind they did not talk much, but were
vaguely content with one another and their surroundings. Jinny had
some sweets in her pocket, and crunched one occasionally. John did not
care for sweets, but was thinking of having a pipe by and bye. The
larks were singing, and the little sandpipers fluttering about them,
uttering their curious call.

"Here's soombry comin'," remarked Jinny all at once, between two sucks
of a lemon drop.

John looked round without removing his arm. He gave a start, however,
as his eyes fell on the figure which was rapidly advancing towards
them along the irregular crest of the hill. Half unconsciously he
released Jinny, and turned over a little on the sand to avoid meeting
the direct gaze of the new-comer.

"It's nobbut wan o' they cocklers. You've no need to mind," remarked
Jinny a little petulantly. She had thought John's arm in the right
place.

John made no answer. He did not dare to raise his eyes, but his ears
were strained to catch the swift patter of the approaching bare feet.
If Sally should recognise him--_if_, of course she must--if she should
speak, what irreparable mischief might not be made in a few moments!

The steps came nearer; there was a pause, Dickinson's heart beating so
loudly that he feared his wife must hear it. He did not raise his
eyes, but from beneath their drooped lids he caught sight of Sally's
well-known skirt. He made no sign, however, and after what seemed an
interminable time the skirt brushed past, actually touching him, and
the soft _pat pat_ sounded a little farther off. Even then John did
not raise his eyes, but continued to draw patterns on the sand with
his forefinger. The silence seemed to him unbearable, and yet he did
not dare to break it. He could hear Jinny crunching her sugar-plums
with irritating persistency. Why did she not speak?

At last she edged round on the sand, and he felt that she was looking
at him.

"What's the matter wi' you?" she cried peevishly. "You're as dull as
dull. Can't you say summat?"

John rolled round, squinting up at the pouting, blooming face.
"There's not much to say, is there? What's the good of talkin' if
you're 'appy?"

"I'm glad to hear you're 'appy, I'm sure," retorted Jinny somewhat
mollified. "I can't say as you look it, though," she added.

Words did not readily occur to John, but he made the best answer that
was possible under the circumstances. Throwing out his arm he drew
Jinny's face down to his and kissed it.

"Now do you believe I'm 'appy," he said.

"Well, if you ar'n't you ought to be," said Jinny coquettishly. "Did
you see that cocklin' wench, Jack?"

"Her as went by just now?" inquired John indifferently. "Nay, I didn't
take much notice."

"Hoo was a funny-lookin' lass," pursued Jinny. "A bit silly, I think.
Hoo stood an' hoo stared at us same as if we was wild beasts or
summat."

"Perhaps she wanted us to buy some of her cockles," remarked John,
hurriedly volunteering the first explanation that came into his head.

"Eh! very like hoo did. My word, I wish I'd thought on axin' her to
let us 'ave a quart--I'm rale fond o' cockles. Could we run arter her,
think ye, Jack?"

This was the very last thing which John wished to do, and in order to
divert Jinny's mind, he hastily proposed that they should hunt for
cockles themselves.

"Nay," she returned, "I'll not go seechin' for cockles--I've got my
weddin' dress on, see, an' my new boots an' all."

"Well, then, I will," cried John eagerly. "I need but to kick off my
boots an' socks, an' turn up my trousers, an' paddle down yon by the
river; there are plenty hereabouts, I know."

"Tide's comin' in--you'd best be careful," screamed Jinny as he
bounded barefoot down the slope; but he was already out of earshot.

There sat Jinny on the sunny, wind-swept hill-top; her silk skirt
carefully tucked up, and the embroidered frill of her starched white
petticoat just resting on her sturdy, well-shod feet. One plump hand,
in its tight kid glove, toying with her posy of roses and "old man,"
the other absently tapping John's discarded foot-gear. Her eyes
followed the movements of the lithe young form that wandered hither
and thither on the sandy expanse below; her lips were parted in a
smile of idle content. All at once a shadow fell across her, and,
looking up, she beheld the strange cockle girl standing beside her
with folded arms. Jinny stared at her for a moment in astonishment
from under the brim of her fine befeathered hat:

"Have ye got any cockles to-day?" she inquired at length.

"Nay, I haven't," responded the girl rudely; "an' if I had you
shouldn't ha' none."

"My word!" exclaimed Jinny angrily, "ye might as well keep a civil
tongue i' your 'ead. I don't want none o' your cockles, as it jest
falls out--my 'usband's gone to get me some."

"Your 'usband," repeated the girl, clapping her hands together in what
Jinny thought a very odd and uncalled-for way. "Your 'usband!"

Jinny felt very uncomfortable; the girl's demeanour was so strange
that she began to think she had been drinking. Hastily collecting
John's socks and boots she scrambled to her feet.

"He's gone cocklin', has he?" inquired Sally, fixing those queer blue
eyes of hers on the wife's face with an extraordinary expression; "an'
you're takkin' care o's shoon till he cooms back? Ha! ha!--happen
he'll ne'er coom back."

Jinny turned very red and walked indignantly away; most certainly the
girl was either mad or drunk. "Happen he'll ne'er coom back," indeed!
Such impudence! Jinny did not quite like being left alone with her in
that solitary place, and partly on this account, partly to disprove
her ridiculous assertion, bent her steps towards the shore, calling
loudly to her husband to return.

But a fresh breeze was blowing, and the waves were leaping shoreward
with unusual haste and energy; her voice did not reach him, and he
wandered still further away from her, stooping ever and anon to
examine the sand. He had crossed the river some time before, and was
now pacing the opposite shore. The muddy waters of this little tidal
river had been shallow enough for him to wade through not half-an-hour
previously, but were now rising rapidly. He would find his return
difficult if not dangerous, and the difficulty and danger were
increasing every moment. When Jinny realised this, which she did
suddenly, she forgot all about her silk dress and her new boots, and
ran frantically towards the water's edge, screaming with all her
might; and at last John heard, and began to walk placidly towards the
spot where he had originally crossed. The mud banks were out of sight
now, and a broad belt of water was spreading rapidly on the other
side. It was advancing rapidly also at his rear; soon the stretch of
shore, half sand, half mud, on which he stood, would be entirely
submerged.

"John! John! coom ower at once!" screamed Jinny, as he paused, looking
about him.

"I'm in a fix," he called out. The breeze, which had baffled her
endeavours to make herself heard, bore, nevertheless, his words to
her. She beckoned and gesticulated, continuing her useless entreaties
the while. John laid down his handkerchief full of cockles and began
to roll up his trousers higher. Jinny fairly danced with impatience.
He made a step or two forward--the water was up to his knees; he
walked on, plunging deeper at every step.

Suddenly Jinny uttered an even wilder and more piercing scream--John
had disappeared from her sight, and, for a moment, the only trace of
him which was evident was his hat rolling and tossing on the brown
wavelets. But, before she had time to reiterate the anguished cry, he
reappeared, pale and drenched, on the opposite bank.

"Run lass," he cried, "run quick an' fetch a rope, else I'll be
drowned. I can't get across the river--the water's nigh ower my head
as 'tis, an' my feet keep sinkin' into the mud."

Almost before he had ceased speaking Jinny had turned and was
staggering with trembling limbs towards the sandhills. How should she
get help in time? There was no habitation within a mile at least, and
the water was rising moment by moment. It would be better for him to
make a bold dash for safety now. Surely he could get across where he
had crossed before, by those brown stepping-stones.

What Jinny took for stepping-stones were in reality the remains of a
submerged forest, and no doubt, if John could have discovered their
whereabouts, would have afforded him a tolerably secure footing, but
they were indistinguishable now beneath the brown, swirling waters.
Oh! he would be drowned!--he would be drowned! The yielding sand
crumbling beneath Jinny's feet rendered her faltering progress even
more slow. She paused hesitating, ran distractedly backwards a few
paces; then, as John imperatively waved his arms, plunged forward
again and toiled up the slope. All at once her distracted eyes met
those of the girl from whom she had fled a little while before, the
cockling girl, who was seated very composedly on an out-jutting point
of the sandhill, whence she must have had a good view of John and his
recent struggle. Jinny, panting upwards, cast a desperate glance upon
her.

"For God's sake help me! My 'usband 'll be drowned before my e'en.
Wheer can we get help? Will ye run one way an' I'll tak' t' other?"

Sally looked down at the convulsed face. "I'm not goin' to run
noways," she retorted. "Run yoursel'; I'm not goin' to be sent o' your
arrands."

"But he'll be drowned!" gasped poor Jinny.

"He'll be a fool if he drowns then," retorted the girl with a sneer.
"He can get across easy enough if he finds th' reet place."

"Oh, thank God for that!" cried Jinny with momentary hope. "Will ye
show me wheer's th' reet place, quick, for the wayter's coomin' in
awful fast. It's down by th' steppin'-stones yon, isn't it?"

"Aye," replied the girl, 'it's down theer; ye'd best go an' look for
'em."

"Eh dear! won't ye show me?" cried Jinny wringing her hands. "I'll
gi'e you all as I 'ave i' th' world. My watch, see--an' I've money i'
th' box a' whoam--I'll gi'e you everythin'. Eh, do run down wi' me
now, else it'll be too late."

"I want noan o' your brass an' stuff," cried Sally violently. "He's
nought to me--let him drown if he can't save hissel'. He's yourn an'
not mine. Ye'd best see to him."

"Eh, you wicked, wicked wench!" sobbed Jinny. "'Owever can ye find it
i' your 'eart--but I'll waste no more time on you."

She clambered on, and soon was flying down the slope on the farther
side. How long she ran she could not tell--it seemed to her a century
since she had left the shore behind. Her brain reeled, her heart
throbbed to suffocation--the terrible thought was ever present to her
mind: "At this moment perhaps he is drowning--I may find him dead when
I go back." Her very desperation lent her speed, and, moreover,
fortune favoured her quest, for it was in reality only a very few
minutes after her parting with Sally that she came upon a loving
couple seated by the road-side. The man was a fisherman well known to
Jinny. How she explained and what she promised she never quite knew,
but, in an inconceivably short space of time they were speeding back
together, the man preceding her with long, swinging strides. There was
no time to lose in looking for a rope--he thought he knew a place
where he could get Mr. Dickinson across; if not available, he himself
could swim.

But, lo and behold! when they reached the summit of the hill and were
about to plunge downwards to the shore, an unlooked-for sight met
their eyes. There, on the hither side of the river stood John, alive
and well, though plastered with mud from head to foot, and by his side
was Sally, with her drenched raiment clinging to her, and the water
dripping from the loosened strands of her long hair.

"Seems soombry else has had the savin' of him," cried the fisherman,
astonished and perhaps a little disappointed; Mrs. Dickinson had
promised such wonderful things.

Jinny, speechless with joy, ran down the slope and flung herself upon
her husband. His face was pale and all astir with emotion.

"Jinny," he said, when at length she allowed him to speak--"Jinny,
_she_ saved me."

Jinny turned to Sally. "Eh, how can I ever thank you," she cried
brokenly. "You saved my 'usband arter all. I don't know how to thank
you."

Sally looked round with a fierce light in her eyes. "Ye needn't thank
me--I didn't save him for you."

"I'm sure," said John, in a voice husky with emotion, "I don't know
what to say mysel'--it is more than I could have expected, that you
should risk your life for my sake."

"'Twasn't for your sake neither then," said Sally still fiercely.

"Then, in the name of fortune! why did you do it?" he ejaculated.

"I did it--for mysel'," said Sally.

She turned away, the water dripping from her at every step, and
bounded up the slope with the erect carriage and springing gait which
John remembered of old.

The fisherman retired somewhat disconsolately, and husband and wife,
still palpitating, walked slowly away together; while "Golden Sally,"
once more standing aloft on her sandy pinnacle, wrung the moisture out
of her yellow hair.




"TH' OWDEST MEMBER"


Doctor Craddock rode slowly along the grassy track which led from
Thornleigh to Little Upton, and as he rode he smiled to himself.
Though he had been settled for more than a dozen years in this quiet
corner of Lancashire, his Southern mind had not yet become accustomed
to the idiosyncrasies of his North Country patients. He had just been
to see old Robert Wainwright, who was suffering from an acute attack
of gout in his right foot, and who was, in consequence, unapproachable
in every sense of the word, answering the Doctor's questions only by
an unintelligible growl or an impatient jerk of the head. Moreover, on
being informed that he must not expect to set foot to the ground for
several days more, he had emitted a kind of incredulous roar, and had
announced his opinion that his medical adviser was a gradely fool.
Poor Mrs. Wainwright had subsequently apologised for her lord's
shortness of temper, explaining in deprecating tones that he was apt
to be took that way sometimes; adding that he had been moiderin ever
sin' mornin' about Club Day.

"He reckons he's th' owdest member, ye know. Him an' Martin Tyrer, of
Little Upton, is mich of an age, an' they'n walked same number of
times--they're a bit jealous one o' th' t'other an' our Gaffer reckons
if he bides awhoam, owd Martin 'ull be castin' up at him, an' sayin'
he's beat him."

"There'll be no Club meeting for Tyrer, either, to-morrow," Doctor
Craddock said; "he's laid up with a bad attack of bronchitis."

"Eh, is he?" exclaimed Mrs. Wainwright, with such visible satisfaction
that the Doctor smiled now as he recalled it; she had barely patience
to escort him to the door, and before he mounted his horse, he heard
her joyfully informing her Gaffer that owd Martin Tyrer had getten th'
'titus, and she hoped that now he'd be satisfied and give ower
frettin' hissel'.

"I shall have an equally warm reception here, I suppose," said the
Doctor to himself, as he dismounted before Tyrer's door, "but,
whatever happens, the old man must not think of going out to-morrow.
It would be serious if he caught fresh cold."

Martin Tyrer was sitting, almost upright, in his bed, supported by
many pillows, for when he lay down, as his wife explained to the
Doctor, he fair choked. He was an immensely tall and stout man, with a
large red face, and a stolid lack-lustre eye, which he brought
solemnly to bear upon the Doctor as he entered the room.

"Well," said Craddock, "how are you to-day, Tyrer? Better, I hope."

Tyrer rolled his eyes in the direction of his wife, apparently as an
intimation that she was to answer for him.

"Noan so well," said Mrs. Tyrer lugubriously, proceeding thereupon to
give accurate, not to say harrowing, particulars of her master's
symptoms; Tyrer, meanwhile, suffering his glance to wander from one to
the other, and occasionally nodding or shaking his head. It was not
until she paused from want of breath that he put in his word.

"I mun get up to-morrow," he remarked, apparently addressing no one in
particular.

"If you do you'll make an end of yourself, my friend," returned the
Doctor decidedly. "You stay where you are, and go on with your gruel
and poultices--by-the-bye you needn't make those poultices quite so
thick, Mrs. Tyrer--and I'll come and see you on Wednesday. You mustn't
think of getting up. If you go out in this east wind, it will be the
death of you. Really you people are mad about your Club Day--you
should have seen old Robert Wainwright, when I told him just now that
it would be quite impossible for him to go out."

"He's not goin' to walk!" cried husband and wife together, their faces
lighting up much as Mrs. Wainwright's had done.

"He'd be very much astonished if he were to try," said Doctor
Craddock; "he can't so much as put his foot to the ground."

[Illustration: THE OWDEST MEMBER
"I mun get up to-morrow," he remarked]

"Coom," said Mrs. Tyrer, looking encouragingly at her spouse, "that's
one thing as should mak' thee feel a bit 'appier. He were takkin' on
terrible, ye know," she explained, "thinkin' Robert 'ud be crowin'
ower him at not bein' able to walk. He's allus agate o' saucin our
mester is yon--he reckons he's th' owdest member o' th' Club, an' my
'usband he's turned seventy, an' he's walked fifty-two times. Ah,
fifty-two times it were last Club Day, weren't it, Martin?"

"It were," agreed Martin, endorsing the statement with a nod; "but
Robert, he says he's walked fifty-two times, too, an' he's seventy-one
last Lady-day, an' so he reckons _he's_ th' owdest member, an' he's
ever an' allus throwin' it i' my face."

"Eh, sich a to-do as he mak's about it you'd never believe," put in
the wife, "he'll never let our Gaffer tak' a bit o' credit to
hissel'--eh, it's terrible how he goes on! I b'lieve if he were fair
deein' he'd get up an' walk sooner nor let poor Martin ha' th'
satisfaction o' sayin' he'd walked once oftener nor him. An' th' folks
has getten to laugh at 'em both, an' to set 'em on, one agin th'
t'other. At th' dinner yonder, at th' Thornleigh Arms, soombry 'll
allus get up an' call for th' 'ealth o' th' owdest member, an' then
th' two owd lads 'ull get agate o' bargin' one another, an' Upton
folks 'ull be backin' up Martin, an' th' Thornleigh folks 'ull be
backin' up Robert, an' they mak' sich a din, they say as nobry can
hear theirsel's speak."

The Doctor laughed loud and long. "Well, it must be a drawn battle
this year," he said; "certainly Wainwright will not be able to go to
the Club meeting unless he hops on one leg."

With a cheery nod he withdrew, chuckling all the way downstairs; Mrs.
Tyrer duly escorted him to the door, and then climbed slowly up again,
every step creaking beneath her weight. When she entered the sick room
she found her husband drumming on the sheets with his fingers, and
staring in front of him with a somewhat peculiar expression.

"Well," she cried, letting her ponderous person sink into the
old-fashioned elbow chair that stood by the bedside, "owd Robert, yon,
'ull ha' to keep quiet for once! He'll noan be castin' up at thee this
year as how 'tis."

Martin rolled his head from side to side, but said nothing.

"Ye'll be able to start fresh next Club Day," resumed his spouse
cheerily. "Happen th' gout 'ull mak' an end on poor owd Robert first,
though."

Martin looked at her with a startled air. "Happen it will," he
assented doubtfully; "ah, it 'ud ha' been a fine thing if I could ha'
stolen a march on th' owd lad this time! I never got the chance
before, but theer he lays yon, fast by the leg! If I could ha' made
shift to walk this year he could never ha' cotched me up--eh, I'd ha'
had a gradely laugh at him."

"Well, well, ye'll happen ha' th' best on't another time," said Mrs.
Tyrer soothingly. "Happen he'll noan be able to walk no more next year
nor this--happen he'll noan be here! Dunnot thou go frettin' thysel'
this road; nobry knows what's goin' to come about i' this world."

Martin's eyes travelled slowly from the ceiling to her face with a
puzzled, discontented gaze.

"If th' owd lad dees afore next year it 'ull spile
everything--'twouldn't be no satisfaction to walk oftener nor him if
he were dead."

"Well, dunnot thou go frettin' thysel' as how 'tis," repeated his
missus with a vague attempt at consolation.

Meanwhile old Wainwright had somewhat calmed down since his wife had
imparted to him the welcome tidings that his rival had unwillingly
"paired" with him for the morrow's festivities. He ceased roaring at
his sons and daughters and throwing his bandages at his wife's head;
it must be stated that he never employed any more dangerous missile
even in moments of supreme irritation. Robert Wainwright's bark was on
all occasions worse than his bite, and though recently his bark had
been very loud indeed, no one in the little household was in the least
scared by it. This evening, however, "our Tom" and "our Bob," who had
of late satisfied themselves with screwing their bullet heads and a
small portion of their persons round the angle of the door, walked
boldly in, and cheerfully inquired how feyther felt hissel'; while
"our Annie" and "our Polly" actually helped their mother to
"straighten" the bed, and ventured to draw the sheet lightly over
feyther's afflicted toe. The Gaffer, moreover, consented to swallow a
basin of gruel with just a dash of spirits in it to take away the
sickliness of it. Doctor Craddock had forbidden all stimulants, but,
as Mrs. Wainwright remarked, "a little taste like that, just to make
the gruel slip down, couldn't coom amiss." It certainly did not seem
to come amiss to Robert, who grew quite jovial as he scraped the
basin, and commiserated "owd Martin Tyrer, yon," with genuine
sympathy.

"Poor owd lad! To think of his being laid up just when Club Day cooms!
Eh, he will be takken to. Ye mind how he allus got agate o' boastin'
about bein' th' owdest member o' th' Club? an' he nobbut seventy! Eh,
I 'ad to get vexed wi' him soomtimes--he would have 't ye know, as
'twere him as were th' owdest, an' he'd get up, when th' folks had
called for me--eh, I could scarce stand it!"

"He'll be soom mad," cried our Tom, chuckling.

"Nay, thou munnot mak' game o' th' poor owd chap's misfortun'," said
his father with a tolerant air as he handed the empty basin to Annie.
"It's bad enough for him to be layin' theer wi'out havin' folks
crowin' ower him."

Tom, much abashed, grinned sheepishly, and old Robert continued, after
a pause, still evidently in high good-humour:--

"Well, wheer's thy cornet? Thou should be practisin' i'stead o'
standin' about findin' fault wi' thy neighbours."

Tom, who was a member of the Thornleigh band, had secretly resolved to
retire presently to the cartshed that he might prepare for the labours
of the morrow without being overheard. He was rejoiced, however, to
find that he might pursue his musical avocations in the house without
causing the old father chagrin or irritation.

"Mun I practise a bit i' th' kitchen?" he inquired joyfully.

Old Wainwright consented, and presently the somewhat husky tones of
Tom's cornet resounded through the house.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, though the unseasonable east
wind still blew pitilessly keen. The Wainwright's house was only
divided from the main road by a little patch of garden, and old
Robert's bedroom window looked out upon the street. Beside this window
he insisted on establishing himself, being half carried thither by his
two stalwart sons, whose stout necks he encircled with either arm,
while he hopped with his sound leg across the floor; Mrs. Wainwright
supported the injured limb in front and Annie and Polly brought up the
rear carrying pillows and blankets. Thus, by the united exertions of
the whole family, old Bob was safely deposited in his straight-backed
arm-chair, a good deal redder in the face and shorter in the temper
than before the transit, but otherwise none the worse. Polly pushed
forward a chair under the limb which her mother was still embracing.
The pillows were put at feyther's back, the blankets over his knee,
his pipe and screw of 'baccy being placed handy on the window-sill;
then Tom and Bob withdrew to assume their Sunday suits in preparation
for the day, while Mrs. Wainwright and her daughters made the bed and
tidied the room. Presently the girls slipped away, and, after pausing
for a moment, hands on hips to make sure that her Gaffer was
coomfortable, Mrs. Wainwright remarked that she'd better be seeing to
things downstairs a bit, for they lasses 'ud be sure to be off arter
the Club as soon as her back was turned.

"If thou wants me, thou'll shout for me, wunnot thou?" she asked,
turning just at the door.

"I'll not want for aught," returned Bob gruffly. "I don't want no
doin' for, I'm out o' th' road up here, an' ye're fain enough, all on
ye'! Thou can be off arter th' Club thysel' if thou's a mind to."

With many protests Mrs. Wainwright withdrew, and her husband, left to
himself, proceeded to relieve his feelings by tossing his pillows over
the back of the chair, and extricating his suffering limb from the
blankets.

"I'm welly smoored," he remarked indignantly, half aloud, "welly
smoored I am. They reckon I'm a babby to be croodled and cossetted
this gate. I'll be that nesh afore they'n done, I'll be fit for nought
when I get about again."

Leaning forward, and supporting himself on one leg, he threw open the
window. The air, fresh and invigorating if keen as a knife, circled
round the room, lifting his thick white hair, and making the prints on
the wall flap and rustle.

"That wakkens me up a bit," cried Bob; "does me good, that does. Our
missus may barge as hoo likes, I'll keep it oppen."

He could hear voices and hurrying feet in the road below; people were
beginning to assemble at the church; by-and-by the whole procession,
headed by the band, would go marching down the street and in at the
park gates to be refreshed and complimented at Thornleigh Hall; then
it would take its way across the fields to Upton, turning the big
banner so that the arms of the Squire of that place would be most _en
evidence_ when they halted for similar entertainment before the door
of _his_ mansion. Thence, through Upton village along the lane to the
Thornleigh Arms; then the dinner--mirth and jollity lasting till
evening. Old Bob, with knotted hands clasping the wooden arms of his
high-backed chair, saw it all in fancy, his memory conjuring up each
detail of the well-known scenes. He could see the grassy fields and
the hedges white with bloom; he could smell the fragrance of the
trampled earth; he could feel the sunshine and the brisk air; and then
the warmth, the brightness, the good cheer at the Thornleigh Arms--his
mouth watered at the thought of them. Would any one miss the oldest
member, and drink his health? Well, this time at least, old Martin
would not be there to dispute the honour.... Now he could hear the
gate of his little garden swing open and then bang; the lads were
starting. Bob, leaning on his elbow, craned his neck forward to see
them. A certain expression of gratified parental pride stole over his
face as he took note of the brave appearance presented by young Bob,
who with his be-ribboned hat placed a little aslant on his curly
locks, his Sunday suit brushed till not a speck of dust rested on its
glossy surface, and his white staff held jauntily in his sunburnt
hand, was indeed the picture of a comely young holiday-maker. When the
father glanced at "our Tom," however, his face darkened. There was Tom
with his ill-fastened shoelaces trailing, his smart bandsman's coat
buttoned awry over a pair of trousers which were neither his Sunday
best, nor the white-piped blue ones which formed part of his uniform
as musician--these were a shabby, shiny, pair of worn broad-cloth
usually kept for wet Sundays and Saturday expeditions to town; a suit,
in fact, which had long been considered by no means presentable.

"Slovenly chap," growled the father with great irritation, "my word,
if I were near enough I'd larn thee to put on the reet mak' o' clooes
of a Club Day! I'd holler now, an' mak' thee coom back an' change 'em,
if our missus wasna so nigh, but if hoo chanced to look an' see me at
th' window, hoo'd be bargin' me for opening it.... Ha, th' owd lass
has called him back hersel'. Reet! hoo'll noan let him mak' sich a
boggart of hissel'--hoo'll fettle him up afore he goes."

He chuckled to himself, as Tom was hauled back, sheepish and sulky,
and pushed into the house by the womankind; presently emerging in full
bandsman's dress, tied shoe-laces--in every way as spick and span as
father or mother could desire. Brandishing his instrument, he ran
clattering down the street to overtake his brother, only just in time
apparently, for, a minute or two after he had disappeared, the distant
sounds of music could be heard.

"They're coomin'," said Bob, drawing a long breath, and rubbing his
withered hands together. His eyes grew suddenly very round and red,
and he felt a queer choking in his throat. Yes, they were coming; he
could distinguish the tune now, and the _tramp, tramp_ of many feet.
Bob again leaned forward, thrusting his head almost through the window
in his anxiety to see and hear. The missus and the lasses standing at
the gate were too intent on watching and listening to notice him. Now
they were rounding the corner--a brave sight; the big banner with its
gay streamers held well aloft, the stewards with their white wands
also decorated with ribbon; the fine old Thornleigh Arms were to the
front this time, and the Thornleigh folk too--there they came rolling
along, every man happy and merry, and here was "th' owdest member,"
who had walked his fifty-two times, laid by the heels in his solitary
upper chamber! His big, old, gnarled hands shook as they rested on the
sill, his underlip trembled and drooped like a child's, babyish tears
gathered in his eyes.

But what was this? The lads were pulling up, the big banner halted
right opposite his door, just as if it had been the Squire's--with a
sudden crash the band stopped short, and somebody called out loudly:--

"Three cheers for th' owdest member!" And thereupon ensued lusty "Hip,
hip, hurras," long kept up with vigour and enthusiasm by the
Thornleigh members, while the Upton folk, standing aloof and silent,
eyed each other askance and seemed rather glum.

Poor old Bob! His wrinkled rubicund face was a study as he leaned
forth, nodding to his cronies, and shouting at intervals, "Thank'ee
lads, thank'ee."

Mrs. Wainwright was too proud and jubilant to scold him for his
temerity, and stood smiling at her gate, calling to the neighbours to
"Jest see our Gaffer! Theer, he's gone an' oppened window all hissel',
an's lookin' out same's ony on us."

At last the procession moved on again, the band--at least that portion
of it which hailed from Thornleigh playing "He's a Jolly Good Fellow,"
while the Upton musicians tried to drown the efforts of their comrades
by striking up "See the Conquering Hero Comes."

The meaning of this last was presently made clear to Old Bob
Wainwright, whose triumph was of but short duration, for lo! beneath
his window, the second part of the procession suddenly halted, and
there in the middle of the Upton folk, stood his rival, Martin Tyrer!
Much enveloped, indeed, in wraps and comforters, rather pale as to
complexion, very hoarse as to voice, but nevertheless no other than
Martin Tyrer himself. Bob's face fell, and he stared vacantly forth
without attempting to move.

"Well," cried Tyrer huskily, but triumphantly, "thou'rt theer, art
thou, owd brid? I'm fain th' lads gave thee a cheer to keep thy
sperrits up--we'se drink thy health jest now. I've cotched thee at
last thou sees! This here's fifty-three times as I've walked.
Fifty-three times!" raising his voice to a bellow--"I'm th' owdest
member, now, as how 'tis. Good-day to thee, Robert, I hope thou'lt be
about wick an' hearty this time next year--thou'lt be _second_ owdest
member, an' we'se be fain to see thee among us."

With a cheer and a roar of laughter the party moved on, Martin,
turning after a few steps, to hold up all five fingers of one hand,
and three of the other, intending thereby, according to an
arithmetical system of his own, to denote the number of fifty-three.
Bob quite understood the exasperating allusion, and grew, if possible,
redder in the face than before, though, for the moment, his surprise,
anger, and humiliation left him absolutely dumb.

His family had a bad time of it during all the remainder of that day:
bandages were flying, pillows were pitched aside, food was spurned and
upset, and plates were broken. The choice language, however, which
usually accompanied these tokens of displeasure was not heard to-day.
Since the insult which had followed so close upon the heels of the old
man's triumph, he had continued vengefully mute.

The lads came home at nightfall, not quite perhaps as hilarious as
usual after a Club Day dinner, but with their tongues sufficiently
loosened by Jack Orme's good beer to make them less cautious and more
garrulous than was their custom when within earshot of their father.
Old Bob, sitting up in bed and clutching wrathfully at the blankets,
heard them relate how they had been told that Martin Tyrer was that
set on walking that day, that though his missus had locked up his hat
and boots, he had managed to give her the slip, and had run across the
road and had got Tom Lupton's Sunday hat off him and also his best
boots. Mrs. Tyrer was in an awful to-do, and had come to fetch him at
the Thornleigh Arms. The doctor said it would be the death of her
Gaffer, she declared--but old Martin wouldn't go. He had stayed till
the very end, drinking healths with everybody, and boasting and
bragging he had beaten Bob Wainwright, and _he_ was th' owdest member
now. At this point of the narrative Bob senior overturned his
gruel--which till now he had respected on account of the
flavouring--and kicked so hard at the bed-clothes that he hurt his
gouty foot, and uttered a roar of rage and pain which caused his sons
to lower their voices to a discreet whisper.

Next morning news came that Martin Tyrer had been taken very bad, and
that the doctor had a poor opinion of him. When Doctor Craddock,
indeed, called later in the day to see Bob Wainwright, he confirmed
the report with a sigh and a shake of the head:

"I am afraid the poor old fellow has done for himself," he said
gravely. "It is astonishing how obstinate some of these people are. I
am glad that you at least have had more sense, Wainwright"--turning
with a smile to Bob.

"I sh'd ha' gone if I could ha' getten foot to th' ground," returned
Bob, glowering at him.

"Well, well, luckily for you you couldn't, though it might not have
been quite so serious with you. But Tyrer was very ill indeed when he
went, and now naturally he is very much worse."

"Raly, it looks like a judgment," observed Mrs. Wainwright, with an
air of pious regret, "soom people might say it was, ye know, Doctor.
Martin, he's been goin' on awful to my husband--that set up he were--"

"Howd thy din!" interposed Bob, wrathfully; whereupon Mrs. Wainwright
retired outside the door, waiting to pursue the conversation till the
doctor should be ready to go downstairs.

When, a day or two after, Martin Tyrer died, Mrs. Wainwright received
the tidings with the same mournful satisfaction. It was what she had
looked for, she remarked; she "couldn't but feel that Martin was
callin' down a judgment on hissel! Well, it was to be 'oped that th'
A'mighty wouldn't be 'ard with him, not but what he was 'ard enough,
Martin was, wi' other folks. A body would ha' thought that when he see
the Gaffer laid up in's chamber on Club Day he wouldn't 'ave 'ad it
in's 'eart to go castin' up at him, same's he did." But Mrs.
Wainwright would say no more, Martin Tyrer was gone, poor man, an' it
did not become her to judge him. Upon which she proceeded to say a
great deal more, in exactly the same strain, until her Gaffer hammered
on the floor with his stick, and requested her to stop that.

The whole family were much astonished on receiving invitations to
Martin Tyrer's funeral. They had, indeed, heard that Mrs. Tyrer was
going to give him a very nice burying--that all Upton folks were going
and a good many from Thornleigh too--it was to be "summat gradely"
every one said. It was the kind of festivity which, as a rule, the
Wainwrights much appreciated, but on this occasion they were rather
affronted at being bidden to assist, and both the young men declared
stoutly that they'd noan go if they knew it.

"Why not?" growled feyther from his big chair in the corner. (He was
now well enough to hobble down stairs.) "You yoong chaps thinks too
mich o' yoursels--_I'm_ goin' as how 'tis."

Mrs. Wainwright positively gasped. "Gaffer, thou'll noan think o' sich
a thing--thou as couldn't so mich as walk on Tuesday! I'm sure thou
needn't be puttin' thysel' out for Martin Tyrer!"

"I'm goin' as how 'tis," repeated Bob gloomily; he had been very
gloomy all these days. "I'm goin' to foller Martin Tyrer to his long
home, if I ha' to hop," he added sternly. "Him an' me has walked
together for fifty-two year, an' I'll walk at Martin Tyrer's buryin'!
Theer now, my mind's made up."

Young Bob and Tom stared at each other, then they remarked,
unwillingly, that if he went of course they would go too; upon which
old Bob returned that they might please theirsel's--_he_ was going.

When Doctor Craddock was told of this decision, he said that now
Robert was so much better it might not do him any harm, adding that he
thought it showed very good feeling on his part. Mrs. Wainwright was
much elated at the compliment, but Robert himself received it in stony
silence. When the report circulated round the village every one was
touched and edified. Wasn't it beautiful, people said, and who'd have
thought Robert Wainwright had that much feeling! He had a wonderful
good heart, Robert had--he wasn't one to say much, but he felt the
more. Mrs. Wainwright went about shaking her head and casting up her
eyes. She had begun by being exasperated at this sudden determination,
but finding how very much other folks admired and respected her Robert
for it, she had gradually become infected by the general enthusiasm;
and, indeed, when she hunted out and carefully brushed her husband's
Sunday clothes, she murmured tearfully to her daughters that "Feyther
was a'most too good for this warld," and that "it 'ud be mich"--with a
sniff--"if they weren't gettin' ready blacks to weer for him next!"

"It mak's me go all of a shake," the good woman added. "Eh, I cannot
tell ye! It seems onnatural-like. Yer Feyther's noan like 'issel'. To
think of his takkin' on that gate about owd Martin Tyrer; mony a one
'ud be fain enough as he were out o' the road!"

Meanwhile Robert himself certainly did not say much, as the neighbours
observed; in fact, he said nothing at all. When his friends came and
stared at him after the manner of their kind, and made remarks to each
other or to Mrs. Wainwright about how strange it was that he should be
that taken to about Martin Tyrer--though some of them added,
sympathetically, that he _would_ be like to miss him, he _would_, when
all was said and done; him and Martin had walked together such a many
years--"rale cronies ye know for all their fallin's out"--Robert would
stare at them and heave a deep sigh; occasionally he would take his
pipe out of his mouth as though about to make a remark, but invariably
put it in again without uttering a syllable. Then his friends would go
away, shaking their heads and sighing, after pausing to impart to Mrs.
Wainwright their conviction that her Gaffer was failing.

When the day of Martin's funeral came Robert was, with the assistance
of his wife and daughters, attired in his best "blacks"; he himself
saw to his foot-gear, having possessed himself of a pair of shears
with which he cut a large piece out of the top of one boot. Mrs.
Wainwright had been tearful enough with sentimental foreboding all the
morning, and, when she saw the irreparable damage wrought by Feyther's
ruthless hands, she began to cry in good earnest.

"I knowed as summat was boun' to happen," she groaned; "dear o' me,
seventeen-an'-six, no less--an' the soles scarce soiled! Eh,
Gaffer!--it's downright flyin' i' th' face o' Providence to be so
wasteful."

Gaffer, meanwhile, purple in the face with suppressed anguish, had
forced his foot into the mutilated boot, and now silently and
frowningly pointed to his hat.

The Wainwrights started early, for, though many neighbours had offered
to give Bob a lift, the old man had insisted on walking all the way.
It was a very painful pilgrimage, but he set his teeth and leaned hard
on his stick, and hobbled along dauntlessly, though every now and then
his injured foot would give a twinge which made him snarl to himself
and stagger.

They arrived just as the mourning procession was setting forth from
the widow's door. Bob had counted upon being refreshed by a short rest
and a glass of "summat"; but there was no time for that now, so he
merely wiped his face, drew a deep breath, and fell into line. The
Upton folk were surprised and gratified by his presence; many of them
nodded to him in a friendly way, and a few came up and spoke to him.
One or two told him they considered it "rale 'andsome" of him to come.
Bob nodded back, and said nothing.

He stood by, solemnly, while the final sad rites were being performed,
and lingered even after all was over. At last, however, he heaved a
deep sigh and turned to go. Mrs. Wainwright tenderly supported his
left elbow and cast a tragic glance round.

"I doubt it's been too mich for him," she sobbed--she always sobbed at
funerals, being a very feeling woman, but on this occasion she
surpassed herself, some of the Upton folk indeed thought it was scarce
decent. Young Bob and Tom began to blubber too; Polly remarked to
Annie that "Feyther'd go next for sure." Friends and neighbours
gathered round with long faces and sympathetic murmurs. Robert
Wainwright, however, pushed them aside and hobbled forward a few paces
without speaking; then he suddenly halted and jerked his thumb over
his shoulder.

"Well," he said with a chuckle, "_he_ walked on Club Day--ah, he
did--but I've walked to his buryin', so I reckon I've cotched him up.
I wonder who's th' owdest member now!"




THE CONQUEST OF RADICAL TED


It was Saturday afternoon, and Ted Wharton and Joe Lovelady had left
off work early, as was their custom on that day of the week. They were
now betaking themselves with solemn satisfaction to the "Thornleigh
Arms," where a certain portion of their weekly wage would presently
transfer itself from their own pockets to that of its jovial landlord.
Joe Lovelady was a great, soft, lumbering fellow, who was considered
rather a nonentity in Thornleigh; but Ted Wharton was a very different
person. He was the village Radical--an adventurous spirit who, not
content with spelling out his newspaper conscientiously on Sunday, was
wont to produce, even on week-day afternoons, sundry small,
ill-printed sheets, from which he would read out revolutionary
sentiments the like of which had never before been heard in
Thornleigh. For the most part his neighbours considered it extremely
foolish of Ted to be "weerin' his brass on sich like," when a ha'porth
of twist would have been so much more satisfactory. They cared nothing
at all about Home Rule, and did not see that the labour question in
any way bore upon their own case. What they wanted to know was when
Government was going to raise the price of wheat, and what was the use
of growing 'taters when it wasn't worth while carting them to
Liverpool?

But Ted was not only the village Radical: he was also the village wag,
with a reputation for humour which rendered him enormously popular. He
was about thirty-five years old; a small man with sandy hair, a
serious, not to say solemn, expression of countenance, and twinkling
light grey eyes, which he had a trick of blinking when about to
perpetrate a joke. His trousers were a little too short, his
coat-sleeves--when he wore a coat--a little too long. On ordinary
occasions his hat was tilted to the back of his head, and when in a
jocular humour he cocked it knowingly over one eye. Probably these
peculiarities, coupled with a certain dry method of enunciating, added
largely to Ted's renown.

As they walked briskly along this hot summer's afternoon, the two men
did not take the trouble to converse with each other. Joe, indeed, was
at all times a taciturn person, and Ted was probably reserving himself
for the delectation of the cronies whom he expected to meet at the
"Thornleigh Arms." When he had caught up Joe on the road he had
volunteered that he was steppin' up yonder, and Joe had replied that
that was reet, jerking his head forward at the same time as an
indication that he was steppin' up yonder too; thenceforth they had,
as a matter of course, proceeded together, Ted walking a pace or two
in advance and whistling to himself.

The village was now left behind, and on one side of the road, behind
the dusty hedge, some colts were keeping step with them, occasionally
starting and floundering forward after the manner of their kind, and
then wheeling and coming slowly back with foolish heads extended and
ears pricked, all ready for another bounce if either of the
pedestrians raised his hand or kicked a stone out of his path. To
their left the corn stood tall and yellow, almost ready for the
harvest. Now they approached some woods, familiarly known as "the
Mosses," from the peaty nature of the soil. A few weeks before the
thick undergrowth of rhododendrons had been ablaze with clustering
purple blossoms, and many wild flowers grew now on the borders of the
deep ditch which surrounded them. These woods lay cornerwise with the
main road, a sandy lane following the angle they described. On the
grassy border of this lane a flock of geese were tranquilly basking,
and, as Ted approached, a vigilant and pugnacious gander rushed
towards him, flapping its wings and extending its long neck with
portentous hisses. Ted had been carrying his coat over his arm for the
sake of coolness, and now, whether because he thought it would be a
humorous thing to do, or because he was secretly a little terrified at
the rapid advance of the bellicose gander, he struck with it at the
luckless bird with such force that he stretched it on the sod.

"Hello!" cried Ted, stopping short, astonished and perturbed at his
sudden victory, "I b'lieve I've done for th' owd chap."

"My word," commented Joe, "if thou has thou'll be like to hear on it!
That theer's Margaret Hep.'s gander; hoo thinks the world on't, hoo
does."

Ted was meanwhile bending over his prostrate foe, which, to his
relief, was not absolutely dead, though it was gasping and turning up
its eyes in rather a ghastly manner. He took it up in his arms, still
enfolded in his coat.

"It's wick still, as how 'tis," he remarked. "Eh! how it's kickin' out
with they ugly yaller legs! Now then, owd lad, what mun we do wi'it,
think'st thou? Mun I finish it off an' carry it wi' me to Jack Orme's
for a marlock? Eh! the lads 'ud laugh if they see me coomin' in wi'
it! I'll tell 'em I'd brought 'em a Crestmas dinner in July. My word,
it's tough enough! I reckon it 'ud want keepin'; it wouldn't be ready
mich afore Crestmas!"

Joe's wits, at no time very nimble, required some time to take in this
audacious proposal, and he was just beginning the preliminary
deprecating roll of the head, which he intended to precede a remark to
the effect that Margaret 'ud happen have summat to say about that,
when the angular figure of Miss Heptonstall herself appeared at the
corner of the lane. She paused a moment aghast at the sight of the
struggling gander, still enveloped in Ted's coat, and then, with
extended hands and wildly-flapping drapery, hastened towards him--her
aspect being not unlike that assumed by the unfortunate biped in
question when he had first advanced to the attack.

"Victoria!" she gasped, when she at last halted beside the men. "Eh!
whatever's getten Victoria?"

"Do ye mean this 'ere?" questioned Ted, hoisting the gander a little
higher up under his arm. "Well, I cannot think whatever coom to the
poor thing. Joe and me was goin' our ways along to Orme's when we
heerd it give a kind of skrike out, and we looked round, and it were
staggerin' along same as if it were fuddled, ye know, and all at once
it give another skrike an' tumbled down aside o' th' road. Didn't it,
Joe?"

Joe again rolled a deprecatory eye at his crony and cleared his
throat, but did not otherwise commit himself.

"It mun ha' been a fit or soom sich thing," continued Ted, cocking his
hat over his eye and glancing waggishly at Lovelady. "When Joe see it,
says he, 'My word, there'll be a pretty to do! This is Margaret Hep.'s
gander,' says Joe--no, I think he said, 'Miss Heptonstall's gander.'
Didn't thou, Joe? Joe's allus so respectful and civil-spoke,
pertic'larly when it's a lady as he's a-talking about."

Joe grinned and began to look jocular too. His friend's last assertion
pleased him better than the wild flights of a little time before.

"That's it," said Joe. "Ho, ho! Reet!"

"He'd never go for to call ony lady out o' their name," pursued Ted,
placing his hat yet a little more aslant; "never did that in's life.
He's quite a lady's mon, Joe is. Haw! haw!"

"Coom!" said Joe, grinning still more broadly.

At this juncture the invalid gander made a frantic struggle, and,
freeing one wing from Ted's encircling coat, began to flap it wildly.

"Ye've no need to stan' grinnin' an' makkin' merry theer when th' poor
dumb thing's goin' to dee, as like as not," cried Margaret
indignantly. "Hand him over to me this minute--theer, my beauty,
theer--missus'll see to thee."

"Well, an' ye ought to be very thankful to me," asserted Ted; "didn't
I pick him out o' th' road, an' put my own coat o'er him an' fondle
him mich same's if he was a babby? Why, he 'ud noan be wick now if it
hadn't ha' been for me. Theer, my boy, howd up! Theer, we'se tuck in
thy wing for thee, and cover thee up warm an' gradely--'tisn't
everybody as 'ud be dressin' up a gander i' their own clooes. Do you
know what 'ud do this 'ere bird rale good? Just a drop o' sperrits to
warm his in'ards for him--that's what he wants. See here, I'll carry
him awhoam for ye, and ye mun jest fotch him a glass o' whisky, and in
a two three minutes he'll be as merry as a layrock."

Margaret looked doubtfully at him.

"Do ye raly think it 'ud do the poor thing good?" she asked dolefully.

"I'm sure on't," returned Ted, firmly pinioning the gander's
struggling legs, and setting off at a brisk pace towards Margaret's
cottage. "Theer's nought as is wick as wouldn't feel the benefit of a
drop o' sperrits now an' again."

Joe considered this a very proper sentiment, and gave a grunt by way
of endorsing it; he, too, followed Ted and the gander, being as much
amused at the transaction as it was in his nature to be at anything.

Margaret kept pace with Ted, every now and then uttering lamentations
over her favourite.

"He were as good a gander as a body need wish for; wonderful good
breed he were, an' as knowin'! Eh, dear, I never wanted for coompany
when Victoria were theer."

"Victoria!" ejaculated Ted, stopping short and facing her; "why,
that's a female name!"

"It's the Queen's name," rejoined Margaret, with a certain melancholy
triumph.

"I thought it had been a gander; it _is_ a gander, surely?"

"Oh, it's a gander reet 'nough. But I thought it were a goose to begin
wi'. It were the biggest o' th' clutch, an' the prattiest, an' so I
called it Victoria, an' it geet to know th' name, an' to coom when I
called it--eh, it 'ud coom runnin' up an' croodle down aside o' me,
turnin' its yead o' one side that knowin'! Eh, dear, theer never was
sich a bird. An' when it were upgrown, an' turned out to be a gander,
I 'adn't it i' my 'eart to change th' name, seein' as it had getten to
know it so well, an' arter all, seein' as it's th' head of all th'
fowls i' my place, it doesn't seem to coom amiss. Canon, he wanted me
to call it Prince Consort, or else Albert Edward, but it didn't seem
natural like, an' I've allus been used to call my white drake Albert
Edward; and Prince Consort, he's th' owd rooster."

"Well," said Ted, hoisting up the gander again under his arm, and
chuckling as he walked forward, "well, that beats all! I never heerd
sich a tale i' my life. Coom, Victoria, howd up, owd lad; we'se soon
be theer now. An' so th' owd rooster is Prince Consort? An' the
drake's th' Prince o' Wales? Ho, ho! Have ye getten any more royalties
yonder?"

"I've used up pretty near all th' royal fam'ly," replied Margaret,
with a recurrence of her former dolorous pride; "it's the only mark o'
respect as I can show my sovering. Every time Her Gracious Majesty
gets a new grandchild or great-grandchild, Canon, he cooms an' says,
'Margaret, have you any more chickens as wants names?' An' soomtimes
the one christening 'ull do for a whole brood; they royal childer has
sich a mony names, ye know."

Ted sneered and looked immensely superior; the loyalty of this
benighted woman filled his Radical mind with as much contempt as
amusement. He was about to utter some scathing remark, when his
attention was diverted by their arrival at Margaret's cottage.

Throwing open the little wicket-gate which divided her premises from
the lane, she pressed forward, and unlocked her door. Ted followed her
into the kitchen, while Joe stood without, craning forward his neck to
see what was going on in the interior of the cottage, and drawing the
back of his hand across his lips when he saw Miss Heptonstall produce
a small bottle of whisky.

"He looks a dale livelier now," remarked Ted, uncloaking the gander
and setting it on its legs on Margaret's immaculate table. "Whoa,
steady theer," as the bird began to struggle in his grasp, flapping
uneasy wings, and making a sickly attempt at a hiss.

Margaret, who had been about to uncork the bottle, paused, surveying
Victoria with her head on one side.

"Theer dunnot seem to be mich amiss, do theer?" she remarked; "it
seems a'most a pity to be givin' it sperrits. It'll upset it again as
like as not."

"Theer mun ha' been summat amiss i' th' first place, though," returned
Wharton, with a judicial air, "else it wouldn't ha' been took bad same
as it were. If I was you, Miss Heptonstall, I'd give it a drop to
strengthen its in'ards a bit."

"Ah," agreed Joe from the doorway.

Ted fumbled in his pocket and produced a large red cotton
handkerchief, which he carefully spread on the table beneath the
gander.

"It 'ud be a pity to let this here table get dirty," he observed,
looking admiringly at its spotless surface. Margaret eyed him with
more favour than she had hitherto displayed; then, smiling sourly,
began to pour out the contents of her little black bottle.

"Fill up, Miss Heptonstall, fill up!" cried Ted, energetically; "eh,
if you dunnot gi' it no more nor that, Victoria met jest as well be a
bantam. He'll noan as mich as wet that great yaller beak of his wi'
that drop."

Margaret smiled no more, but she filled up the glass. Joe, in the
doorway, cleared his throat reflectively. Ted, again encircling the
gander with his arm, forced open its beak.

"Now then," he whispered eagerly, "fotch a spoon, Miss Hep. Coom, owd
bird, this'll fettle thee up, an' no mistake."

But whether Victoria's struggles were more lively than he had
anticipated, or whether Ted purposely relaxed his hold, certain it was
that the gander, with a scream of fury, backed out of his grasp and
fluttered on to the floor; proceeding to waddle with great speed and
evident indignation across the kitchen into the yard without.

"He's teetotal," said Ted, gazing at Margaret with a twinkle in his
eye. "I met ha' knowed he'd be, seein' as he's bin brought up so
careful, an' took to water nateral fro' th' first."

Miss Heptonstall had been about to restore the liquor to its bottle,
but she now hesitated, looking towards Ted with a grim smile; his
style of humour tickled her. Seized with a sudden fit of generosity,
she extended the glass to him.

"You're noan teetotal, I'll be bound," she observed. "Theer! Sup it
up."

"Your 'ealth!" said Ted, nodding towards her, much elated. Joe again
cleared his throat tentatively, but Margaret ruthlessly corked the
bottle, and, assuming her usual frosty air, remarked with somewhat
scant politeness that it was time for her to be setting about her
business, and there was no need for other folks to be waiting.

Thereupon the "other folks" were constrained to depart, Ted being
still jubilant and Joe very glum.

"Well," began the former, as soon as they had advanced some paces, "t'
folks up yon 'ull laugh fit to split when they hear this tale! Th' owd
lady is a dacent sort o' body when all's said an' done. Hoo behaved
uncommon 'andsome to me."

"Ah," returned Joe with surly sarcasm, "uncommon 'andsome. Hoo gave
thee th' gander's leavin's, didn't hoo? Ho, ho! gander's leavin's."

Joe so seldom made a joke that he was quite astonished at himself, and
after three or four repetitions of the same, with much wagging of the
head, and a few knowing jerks of his thumb over his shoulder,
apparently to accentuate the point of the jest, he became quite
good-humoured again, and the pair walked on in amicable silence, each
preparing to astonish his cronies with the recital of his own prowess.

The Thornleigh Arms was a snug old-fashioned hostelry standing a
little back from the high-road. An air of homely jollity and comfort
seemed to pervade the place; the ruddy afternoon sun lit up the
small-paned windows with as cheerful a glow as that which in winter
was reflected from the roaring fire piled by old Jack half up the wide
chimney; the very Thornleigh lion of the imposing sign seemed to lean
confidentially on his toe and to grin affably, as though to assure the
passers-by of the good cheer within.

Ted and Joe found the usual Saturday customers already there, and
presently shouts of laughter made the very rafters ring as he
recounted his adventures with Margaret Heptonstall and her gander; his
companion meanwhile sipping his beer with an air of suppressed
importance. By-and-by he, too, would add his quota to the evening's
entertainment, but he would wait till the culminating point of Ted's
story was reached, and the company was, so to speak, ripe for it.

"Me an' Miss Hep. is meeterly thick now, I tell ye," summed up Ted at
the conclusion of his tale. "Hoo thinks a dale o' me, if hoo doesn't
think mich o' menfolk in general."

"Hoo gived Ted the gander's leavin's," put in Joe, seizing his
opportunity, and bringing out his joke with a great shout and a
vigorous nudge to his nearest neighbour. "Th' owd lad needn't be that
set up--hoo give him nought but the gander's leavin's, when all's said
an' done."

"Hoo didn't give _thee_ a drop as how 'tis," retorted Ted. "Poor Joe
were stood i' th' doorway, ye know, an' he sighed an' licked his lips,
th' poor chap, but he didn't get nought. Miss Hep. didn't fancy nobody
but me."

"Thou'll be for coortin' her next," suggested somebody humorously.

"Nay, nay," said an odd little short man with comically uplifted
eyebrows. "'T wouldn't be no use coortin' Margaret Heptonstall. Eh, I
remember when our missus reckoned hoo were deein' an' took a notion to
mak' up a match between Margaret an' me--"

The rest of his narrative was drowned in a roar of laughter. Every one
knew that story.

"Hoo wouldn't ha' noan o' thee, would hoo Tom?" cried one.

"Thy missus couldn't bear the notion of havin' all they dumb things
about as Margaret sets sich store by?" queried another.

"Nay, 'twas me as couldn't bear the notion of her," rejoined Tom
stoutly. "I'd be hard put-to to do wi' onybody at arter our Betty.
Hoo's wick an' 'earty, an' I dunnot want nobry; but if I did have to
pick a second missus, it shouldn't be Margaret Hep."

"Hoo's reg'lar set in her ways, isn't hoo?" put in old Jack. "Ah,
hoo's reg'lar cut out for a single life, Marg'ret is. I reckon
nobody'll want to coort her at this time o' day, an' if onybody did,
hoo'd send him packin'."

"I haven't tried my hand yet, ye see," remarked Ted, looking round for
applause. "If I was to get agate o' coortin' Margaret Hep., hoo'd be
fain enough."

There was general laughter at this statement, which nearly every one
present hastened to deny. All agreed that were Ted to urge his
pretensions he would be very soon sent to the right-about.

"Well, then," cried Ted when the uproar had somewhat subsided, "I'll
bet you a nine-gallon cask of owd Jack's best to a five-shillin' bit
that Margaret Hep. an' me 'ull be shouted before the month's out."

The din at this point reached such a height that Mrs. Jack hastened in
from the back premises to inquire what was to-do, and Ted himself was
obliged to hammer on the table with his knuckles before he could make
himself heard.

"Well," he resumed, "I've said it, an' I'll stick to it. You'll see,
Margaret an' me 'ull be keeping coompany afore aught's long, an' Canon
'ull be shoutin' us at th' end o' th' month."

"Mon, you're noan goin' to wed sich an owd, tough, dried-up body as
yon, for sure?" cried comfortable Mrs. Orme incredulously. "Ye mun be
a good ten or fifteen year younger nor her."

"I didn't say we'd go as fur as wedlock," explained Ted, with a wicked
leer. "I said we'd be shouted. Eh, theer's mony a slip 'twixt cup an'
lip, ye know. Margaret an' me 'ull happen fall out afore weddin' day
cooms; but once Canon shouts us ye mun down wi' your five shillin's."

"Ah, th' marlock 'ull be cheap enough at five shillin'," cried some
jovial spirit. "My word, I would laugh to hear the names called! I
reckon Canon hisself 'ud scarce keep a straight face."

"Nay, but think of th' poor wench," cried Jack, with an explosion of
mirth. "Ted, it's rale cruel o' thee to play an innicent trustin' lass
sich a trick."

"I reckon Margaret Hep. can take care of herself," put in Mrs. Jack.
"Hoo can keep her e'en oppen as weel's onybody. I don't know but what
it 'ull be Ted as 'ull ha' to pay for th' nine-gallon cask. Ye'd best
be savin' up your brass, Ted, for we wunnot give no credit for 't."

With this professional sally she retired. Thomas Alty, remarking in an
undertone that his Betty would be coming to look for him if he didn't
make haste home, withdrew also, after a good-humoured nod to the
friend who had treated him; for, as Mrs. Alty invariably impounded
Tom's wage, it was only when he met with a crony in a generous humour
that he visited the Thornleigh Arms.

It was not till considerably later that Ted betook himself homewards;
the plan which he had at first proposed out of a mere spirit of
bravado having now, owing to the gibes of Jack and the rest, become a
fixed resolution.

On the following afternoon, just at the time when young Thornleigh
went a-coortin', and elderly Thornleigh took off its boots and coat,
or put a clean white handkerchief over its cap, the better to enjoy
its Sabbath snooze in the ingle-nook, Ted Wharton cocked his hat over
his eye, put a posy in his coat, and set off to call on Margaret
Heptonstall. He found that damsel engaged in neither of the avocations
already stated, but, with her Sunday gown pinned behind her, and her
week-day sun-bonnet hanging limply over her face, feeding her numerous
family in the middle of her yard.

"Good day to ye, Miss Heptonstall," remarked Ted, approaching with a
jaunty air, "I thought I'd just call round to ax how Victoria finds
hissel this morning."

"Mich the same as us'al, thank ye," replied Miss Hep. with a starched
air. "Get out o' the road, Alice," addressing an adventurous pullet.
"Thou'rt allus runnin' under a body's feet. Chuck! chuck! chuck! Coom
G'arge, coom Adylaide, coom Maud! Now then, Alexandra! Chuck! chuck!
coom lovies! That theer vicious Frederick has been a-chivying of you
till you're freetened to death, you are."

Ted stood by with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, smiling to
himself.

"Yon's gradely chickens," he remarked presently. "Ye never eat 'em do
ye? 'Twouldn't be respectful, I shouldn't think."

[Illustration: THE CONQUEST OF RADICAL TED
"Yon's gradely chickens," he remarked]

Margaret vouchsafed no reply. Ted resumed, with bitter sarcasm.

"H'm, mich the same as their r'yal namesakes, I reckon--kept for show
an' no manner o' use to nobry."

Margaret hastily scattered the remainder of the grain in her apron,
and whisked round.

"Howd your din," she cried angrily, "or else tak' yoursel' off. I'll
noan stand by an' hear sich talk i' my place."

Ted, feeling he had made rather an inauspicious beginning, suddenly
became lamb-like.

"No offence," he pleaded humbly. "Mun I carry your basin for you into
th' house?"

Margaret looked over her shoulder and snorted; then, without returning
yea or nay, she stalked over the cobble-stones and entered her
kitchen, followed meekly by her visitor. Miss Heptonstall did not turn
her head until the sound of Ted's boots, falling upon her tiled floor,
made her look round sharply.

"If ye're for coomin' in ye'd best wipe your feet," she announced
briefly.

Ted obediently retraced his steps and polished his boots on the mat
outside the door. Then he re-entered, walking gingerly on the tips of
his toes, and casting about in his mind for a suitable topic with
which to inaugurate the conversation. Margaret's spare angular figure
and sharp-featured face did not look encouraging; but surely never
before was seen such a dazzling white apron, such a stiffly starched
collar, such spotless cuffs. Margaret's cleanliness had in it, it was
true, an aggressive quality, but Ted admired it nevertheless. The
kitchen and all its appurtenances bore witness to the same scrupulous
nicety. No floor in Thornleigh village was raddled so carefully, no
fire-irons glittered so bravely; the very walls seemed to shine; and
as for the pots and pans they positively winked at one another in the
ruddy glow. Ted rested a sunburnt hand on each of his knees, drew a
long breath, and remarked fervently--

"Ye mun be wonderful house-proud, Miss Heptonstall."

He could not have chosen a more pleasing theme; Margaret wrinkled up
her nose with a sniff and a smile.

"Well, I believe I'm reckoned to be," she remarked modestly; "theer's
nought else i' this world as I care for mich, but I'm wonderful fond
o' cleanin' and scrubbing', an' I've allus said I'd sooner do things
for mysel' nor let onybody do it for me."

Ted sighed and cast up his eyes.

"It seems a pity, Miss Heptonstall, as it's only yoursel' ye're doin'
it for--"

"Why so?" interrupted Margaret snappishly.

"Well, it seems sich terrible waste, ye know. It seems a pity ye
shouldn't be doin' for soombry else at th' same time."

"I dunnot want to do for nobry, nobbut mysel'," returned Margaret with
a toss of her head. "Did ye think I'd be for takkin' lodgers at this
time o' day?" she added suspiciously. "Nay, nay, I'll noan ha'
strangers here, botherin' an' messin' about."

"Eh, I wasn't thinkin' o' strangers," explained Wharton, hitching his
chair a little nearer. "I were jest wonderin' to mysel', seein' you're
so manageable an' clever an' that, as you hadn't never thought o'
gettin' wed an' doin' for a husband as well as yoursel'. I raly do
wonder, Miss Heptonstall," he repeated insinuatingly, "as ye haven't
getten wed."

He expected Margaret to be surprised and flattered, but she gave no
indication of being either the one or the other. She fixed her steely
blue eyes sternly on the visitor, and inquired stiffly what he thought
she wanted a husband for, and what use he reckoned sich-like 'ud be to
her. Ted edged his chair yet a little nearer, and thrust forward his
face till it was within a yard of Margaret's.

"A good husband 'ud be a great comfort to ye, Miss Heptonstall," he
urged. "He'd--he'd love ye, ye know"--(hesitating)--"an' work for ye."

This last was said with more assurance. Margaret appeared unconvinced.

"Eh, he'd be more bother than he was worth," she remarked trenchantly.
"Think 'o th' litter alone he'd mak' coomin' in an' out o' th' house.
It's bad enough to be cleanin' up arter th' cats an' the dog--poor
dumb things, they knows no better! But a mon stumpin' in an' out wi's
dirty boots, an' clooes as 'ud allus want mendin', an' stockin's
weerin' at th' 'eel! Eh, theer'd be no end to 't! An' then th' doin' for;
gettin's mate an' that--turnin' up 's nose very like--ill-satisfied wi'
a washin'-day dinner! Nay, nay, I'd sooner bide as I am wi' nobbut mysel'
to look to."

Ted threw back his head and coughed behind his hand, nonplussed for
the moment; presently, noting that the practical side of the case was
the only one likely to meet with favour, he resumed artfully--"Think
how coomfortable it 'ud be of a rainy day, i'stead o' startin' out i'
th' wet to feed pig an' do for chickens, to say to your gaffer,
'Sitha, thou mun see to they things afore thou goes to thy wark'--an'
of an evening, when he' coom awhoam, ye could set him to get th'
'taters, an' chop wood an' that."

Margaret crossed her arms and appeared to reflect.

"An' of a Saturday--pay day, ye know--ye'd jest say: 'Hand o'er,
wilto?' An' he'd hand o'er."

A faint smile began to play about the lady's lips; she leaned back in
her chair and looked attentively at Ted.

"'Tisn't everybody as 'ud be willin' to do that," she remarked after a
pause; "theer's a mony as 'ud sooner spend their brass at th'
Thornleigh Arms."

Ted privately thought this extremely likely, but he assumed an air of
virtuous indignation.

"Theer's chaps an' chaps! I reckon if onybody was to ax to wed _you_,
Miss Heptonstall, he'd be a steady-goin' sort o' fellow as wouldn't be
up to they mak' o' games."

Margaret smiled outright. Ted thought he would follow up his advantage
and clinch the point at once.

"Now, Miss Heptonstall," said he, "for instance, if _I_ was to coom
coortin' ye, I wouldn't be thinkin' of onything but makkin' ye
coomfortable. I reckon ye'd mak' _me_ coomfortable"--(with an air of
great fairness and impartiality)--"that's wheer 'tis; it 'ud be 'give
an' take, give an' take.' I feel dreadful lonely of an evenin', an'
it's a sad thing when a man allus has to do for hissel'. I'd be
thankful if ye'd have me--"

"I reckon ye would," interrupted Margaret with disconcerting
frankness; "I've a good bit o' brass saved."

This was news to Ted, and he looked at her with genuine interest.

"Have ye?" said he. "I raly didn't know. Well, I'm doin' pratty well
too, an' I've got a nice little place--"

"Nay," put in Margaret, "it isn't mich of a place; this here's twice
th' size, an' a dale coomfortabler. Nay, if we was to get wed, ye'd
ha' to coom here--I wouldn't go yonder."

Ted started for a moment, somewhat taken back by the matter-of-fact
coolness with which his advances were received; he might as well
finish the job now however, he reflected, and as he did not mean the
business to proceed beyond the "shouting" stage, it would not hurt him
to make any concession that Margaret might please to exact.

"Ah, I could coom here," he remarked heroically; "my little nook isn't
sich an ill place for all that; but I'll do it, an' I'll gi' ye my
wage reg'lar an' do th' dirty work all round, an'--an' turn teetotal
if ye want it."

"Naw," said Miss Heptonstall, "I wouldn't go as far as that; I like a
glass o' beer mysel' at dinner-time--I allus keep a little cask i' th'
buttery yon--but you'll ha' to gi' o'er callin' at th' Thornleigh
Arms."

"Tisn't like I'd want to be callin' at th' Thornleigh Arms if I'd a
coomfortable place like this to set in o' neets, and a missus o' my
own to look to."

He had for a moment contemplated qualifying the word "missus" with
some such adjective as "bonny," but a glance at Margaret's face nipped
this poetical flower in the bud. After a moment she sat upright,
gazing at him stolidly.

"I'll think on 't," she said. "Theer's things for it an' theer's
things agin it. One thing's agin it--I dunnot fancy your talk out o'
th' newspapers--speakin' ill o' th' Queen an' that--I reckon we'd ha'
words if ye carried on that road when we was mon an' wife."

Wharton rubbed his hands and looked embarrassed; he had hitherto had
no hesitation in perjuring himself, but he could not for the life of
him swallow his principles.

Margaret marched across the room and took down a framed photograph
from a shelf of the old-fashioned dresser. It represented Her Majesty
in royal robes.

"This here Canon give me at th' time o' th' Jubilee," she pursued.
"I've vallyed it--well, I couldn't say how mich I've vallyed it an'
_do_ vally it. See here, dunnot hoo look noble? I couldn't do wi'
onybody i' th' house as didn't respect this same as I do."

Ted cast a depreciating eye towards the portrait, but, after a glance
at it, suddenly regained his tongue and his spirits.

"See here, Miss Heptonstall," he cried eagerly, "th' Queen's not like
that! Theer now, it just shows how poor folks gets imposed upon! I've
seen the Queen mysel'--walked all the road to Liverpool when I didn't
know no better, an' I see her, an' hoo were nought but a wumman i'
black! Theer now, I'll tak' my oath on 't! Hoo hadn't no crown on, nor
yet no blue ribbon, an' none o' they fal-lals o' medals, an' nought i'
her hand. Hoo was jest an ord'nary wumman same 's ony other wumman.
'Well,' thinks I to mysel', 'if yon is to be stuck up at th' 'ead o'
Government, an' we all mun bow down afore a wuimman as isn't nought
different to ony other wumman, it's a shame,' I says. An' it _is_ a
shame, Miss Heptonstall."

Ted was working up into a fine declamatory vein, and would probably
have continued to hold forth for some time had not Margaret
indignantly interrupted him.

"Stop that! I'll ha' noan of it i' this 'ouse, an' so I tell ye. Did
ever a body hear sich talk! Ye ought to be ashamed o' yoursel', Edward
Wharton! If you was a mon ye should be ready to lay down your life for
your Queen!"

"Lay down my life!" repeated Ted, who was getting slightly irate in
his turn. "I'd do no sich thing. I wouldn't put mysel' onyways out o'
my road for th' Queen, now I know what hoo is. Hoo's fools enough to
fight for her and wark for her. I wouldn't do nought for her."

"Ye would then," said Margaret, suddenly becoming calm again and
smiling grimly to herself. "Theer's one thing ye'd do for her, Edward
Wharton--ye'd drink her 'ealth."

Before he could retort she rose and went into the buttery, returning
after a moment or two with a foaming brown jug in one hand and a
quaintly shaped Toby-mug in the other. She placed them both on the
table in inviting proximity to Ted.

"Now then," she said persuasively, "ye'll drink Long Life to Her
Gracious Majesty."

The day was exceedingly warm, and if there was one thing on earth for
which Radical Ted had a weakness it was his native nut--brown ale. He
looked at Margaret and grinned--the grin of compromise. Margaret,
still smiling, slowly filled the beaker, a beautiful creamy head
bubbling over the brim.

"Coom," she said, "ye'll say: 'Her Majesty's 'ealth, an' long life to
her.'"

Ted stretched out his hand and grasped the tempting handle; then,
averting his eyes, he hastily mumbled the prescribed words, burying
his face in the mug immediately after. While he slowly drained its
contents Margaret chanted the last verse of the National Anthem, to a
tune which might possibly have been like "God Save the Queen" if it
had not borne an equal resemblance to "The Dead March in Saul."

Music, we know, has charms to soothe the savage breast, and, whether
because of Margaret's patriotic outburst, or because the beer was of
excellent quality, Ted's face was wreathed in smiles when he set down
the mug.

"Ah," he said, "we'se never ha' no words if ye tackle me this gate.
I'd drink the Queen's 'ealth again if you axed me."

"Enough's good as a feast," returned his hostess sententiously. "It'll
be tay-time afore aught's long."

"Mun I bide for tay?" inquired Ted, with his head on one side.

"Ye can if ye've a mind," said Margaret, accommodatingly. "Ye can be
lookin' round if ye like while I'm gettin' things ready."

Ted complied, nothing loth, and stalked about the place with his
thumbs in his armholes and an air of proprietorship. Everything
without was as snug, neat, and prosperous as everything within. The
garden was well-stocked and weedless; the potatoes seemed to be coming
on nicely; the pig was as fat as a self-respecting pig ought to be,
and the chickens were healthy and well-grown. Ted re-entered the
house, scraping his feet carefully this time, and looking at Margaret
with increased respect as she bustled about. The kettle already sung
merrily on the hob, a plateful of most inviting buttered toast was
keeping warm within the fender, and Miss Hep. was in the act of
placing on the table a smoking dish of nicely-browned sausages.

"I made 'em mysel'," she explained briefly. "I dunnot often have 'em
at this time o' day, but this here's an occasion."

Ted looked blank for a moment, then, suddenly remembering that this
was practically a betrothal-feast, responded heartily, and drew in his
chair to the table with pleased anticipation.

Miss Heptonstall, he remarked, had everything "gradely" about her. The
table-cloth was not only snow-white and beautifully mended, but of
fine quality; the spoons were silver, worn to egg-shell thinness, but
resplendently bright; the teapot, a heavy, old-fashioned Britannia
metal one, was polished till it might have been of the same precious
ore; the cups and plates were of delicate transparent china. Margaret
came of good old north-country stock, and these possessions were
heirlooms. Ted looked at her, and a queer feeling suddenly came over
him. Supposing--only _supposing_--that instead of a jest his wooing
had been undertaken in sober earnest, he would be doing rather well
for himself than otherwise. Now that he was at leisure to survey Miss
Heptonstall with an impartial eye, it appeared to him that she really
was not ill-looking, and he didn't believe she could be more than nine
or ten years older than he was. She certainly was a notable sort of
body; she kept her place wonderful nice, and she had a tidy bit of
brass laid by in the bank. There was a very comfortable ring about
this last item. It was odd that from the time these reflections took
possession of him Ted became pensive and serious. The conversation
flagged, and by-and-by he rose to take his leave. Margaret accompanied
him to the door.

"Ye'll be lookin' in again, I fancy, afore th' weekend?" she remarked
casually.

Ted cleared his throat and replied that very like he would. He walked
rather slowly till he reached the corner of the lane, and there he
paused, slapping his thigh as he suddenly remembered something.

"I haven't said a word about the shoutin'!" he cried in a vexed tone.
He retraced his steps more quickly, and presently re-entered
Margaret's cottage.

"Miss Heptonstall," he began, screwing his head insinuatingly round
the doorpost.

"Well?" returned Margaret. She was standing with her back to him,
gazing meditatively into the fire.

"I were thinkin'," continued Wharton, "you an' me, ye know--theer
isn't much use in waitin', is theer?"

Margaret turned and looked at him, but did not speak.

"We met as well let Canon begin o' shoutin' us, dunnot ye think?"

Margaret reflected. "It 'ud be a pity for ye to gi' up your house
afore th' end o' th' year," she remarked. "Th' agent wouldn't let ye,
would he? Ye'll ha' to gi' six months' notice, wunnot ye? Theer's time
enough as how 'tis."

Ted bethought him of the cask of beer, and his face fell. If he was to
win his wager the banns must be published before the end of the month,
and but ten days of it remained to run.

"Well, I'd as soon as not hurry up things," he said, screwing a little
more of his person on the other side of the door. "I'm awful tired o'
livin' by mysel'. An' we met let my house an' turn o'er a bit o' money
that way. If we was to get wed at once ye'd be havin' the benefit o'
that as well's me. It 'ud be more to our mutual advantage," delivering
this phrase, culled from one of his favourite papers, with great
emphasis, "nor for both of us to remain single. That's what _I_ think,
Miss Heptonstall, but ye mun do as _you_ choose."

"Well, theer's summat i' what ye say," returned Margaret. "Happen
'twould be best to get the job done. Dear o' me, it seems sudden like!
I raly never thought o' changin' my state. Once before, ye may ha'
heerd, Mrs. Alty wanted me to wed her Thomas. I was again it, dreadful
again it at first, but hoo persuaded me, so I very nigh gave in. But
him an' me didn't agree so well at arter, and Betty didn't dee, so
that settled it. Well, then, I said to mysel', 'It's all for th'
best,' an' I reckoned to bide as I were. But raly now, as ye've coom,"
a sudden smile lit up her face, a smile less frosty, less sour, less
grim than any that had hitherto found their way there, "I dunno how it
is, but I seem to ha' taken a fancy to ye. I did fro' th' first. I
reckon ye'll mak' a good husband."

Ted left off embracing the lintel of the door and walked straight up
to her, quite forgetting to wipe his feet. His face was very red and
his eyes avoided hers; making a sudden dart at her hand, he shook it
solemnly.

"I will, Margaret, I will," he said huskily, "an' I reckon ye'll mak'
a good wife--better nor I deserve."

In another moment he was gone, walking very rapidly this time, almost
running indeed, as though to give himself no time for thought. When he
reached home, he shut the door hastily behind him and sat down on the
nearest chair.

"Well," he said, scratching his head, with an exceedingly perturbed
expression, "this here's a queer kind o' business! I didn't quite know
what I were lettin' mysel' in for, it seems."

Once or twice during the week he called upon his lady-love, who, on
one occasion, permitted him to inspect her Savings Bank book, and, on
another, presented him with a handsome silver-mounted pipe, which her
father had won many years before at some village sports. It was
bestowed, it must be owned, on the understanding that it was never on
any account to be used, but Ted's pride of possession was none the
less great. At the conclusion of each visit she had not failed to make
him drink Her Majesty's health.

On the following Sunday, when the Canon with the portentous "Hem," and
solemn glance round which invariably preceded the announcement of
banns, began: "Be it known unto all here present," it was observed
that the corners of his mouth were twitching in a most peculiar
manner, and his voice actually trembled as he coupled the names of
Margaret Heptonstall and Edward Wharton.

Had any stranger chanced to enter Thornleigh church at that moment, I
fear he would have been much disedified; every single member of the
congregation was a-grin; the Canon himself was smiling; the only
person who preserved his entire seriousness being Radical Ted himself.

Those among his cronies who were in the secret of the wager considered
this gravity affected, and part of the joke; and greeted him
hilariously on quitting the church.

"Well done, owd bird! Thou's lost no time as how 'tis."

"Ah," replied Ted, still solemn, "I haven't lost mich time."

"Well, thou's won th' bet i' gradely style! When wilto coom to
Thornleigh Arms to have th' five shillin' paid over?"

"Eh, I doubt Ted 'ud sooner ha' th' five shillin' worth," suggested
one of Ted's boon companions.

"I dunno," replied Ted; "I reckon I'd as soon ha' th' brass."

"Ah, but thou'lt coom to Orme's for it?"

"Nay--I fancy one on you had best bring it to my place--hoo met get to
hear on 't, ye know," he explained with a sheepish smile.

There was a great guffawing and stamping of feet at this. Ted was
slapped on the shoulder, his friends declaring that nobry could beat
him. By-and-by he managed to make his escape, and walked pensively
homewards, shaking his head now and then, and muttering to himself:--

"Ah, hoo'd happen get to hear on 't if I went yonder; aye, the brass
'ull coom in reet 'nough. I'll say nought about that."

He continued his courting assiduously during the ensuing week, and on
the Sunday he and Margaret were "shouted" for the second time.

The ecstasy of his friends knew no bounds. Was there ever such a chap
as Ted for a marlock? How long would he keep it up? they wondered. In
a day or two the news flew from mouth to mouth that Ted had given the
agent six months' notice, and that he had announced his intention of
letting his house and taking up his abode at Margaret's after their
wedding.

"Well! well!" cried the initiated, casting up their hands and eyes to
heaven; the more moderate among them were of the opinion that Ted was
carrying things a bit too far, particularly when' it became known that
Margaret was boiling hams and killing chickens--yes, Sophia and
Ernest, William and Augusta were laid low--in preparation for the
forthcoming nuptial feast.

On the third Sunday the general excitement reached fever-height, and
when once more the Canon linked the names of Edward Wharton and
Margaret Heptonstall, a kind of amazed murmur rippled from bench to
bench. All those who had been party to the plot against Margaret's
peace were totally at a loss to account for the conduct of the chief
conspirator. They made up their minds to take him to task at the
earliest possible opportunity; but, as on that particular morning he
did not come to church, they were forced to restrain their curiosity
till later in the day.

After dinner, therefore, a select deputation waited on Mr. Edward
Wharton at his own residence, but was again doomed to disappointment;
that gentleman having gone to call on his charmer, and not returning
till evening. However, the ardour of the deputation, though damped,
was not extinguished, and when the shades of night were falling, it
again betook itself to the abode of the bridegroom elect.

As the half-dozen members who made up the embassy walked at the usual
slow and somewhat shambling pace which the Lancashire rustic assumes
at times of leisure--pausing every now and then to emphasise the point
of some remark, switching at the hedge with their sticks, playfully
kicking up the dust, or sending a tempting pebble spinning along in
front of them--faint notes of music reached them, coming apparently
from the direction towards which they were bending their steps. These
notes were feeble and faltering, as though the player were practising
an unfamiliar air; in another moment or two it became evident that the
sounds proceeded from Ted's cottage, and that the musician was no
other than Mr. Wharton himself.

Quickening their pace, the hilarious party burst open the door,
discovering the master of the house seated astride a wooden chair,
concertina in hand; his face wore a most serious, not to say dismal,
expression, and his whole attitude betokened absorption.

Joe Lovelady advanced and clapped him on the shoulder with a loud
laugh; the others followed, less jubilantly; one or two of them,
indeed, felt themselves somewhat aggrieved at Ted's unaccountable
demeanour.

"Coom," cried Joe, "thou mun explain a bit, Ted, lad. We're gettin'
fair moidered wi' this job; how long dost thou mean to keep it up?"

"Haven't you and Margaret fallen out yet?" put in another. "Ye're
carryin' on th' coortin' longer nor we looked for."

"Ah, thou said thou'd content thysel' with bein' shouted, didn't thou?
Thou allus said thou didn't mean it to coom to wedlock."

Ted heaved a deep sigh, and looked solemnly from one to the other.

"Theer's no knowin' i' this warld what folks cooms to," he replied
seriously. "We says one thing an' we reckon we'se do it, an' when th'
time cooms it's impossible."

A blank silence fell upon the company, broken presently by Joe.

"Why," he said, "thou doesn't mean thou'rt goin' to carry out this
here business?"

Ted nodded, seriously and regretfully.

There was a general shout.

"Thou'rt never goin' to wed owd Marg'ret Hep.?"

"Hoo's noan so owd as that cooms to," retorted Ted indignantly. "Her
an' me's mich of an age--I _am_ goin' to wed her. Now then! I've
coorted her, an' we'n been shouted, an' I'm goin' to let it go forrud.
Theer! I hope nobry hasn't got no objections."

Nobody hadn't none, it appeared, though from certain low murmurs and a
general shuffling of feet, it was evident that this unexpected outcome
of Ted's joke caused a good deal of dissatisfaction. Joe, indeed, gave
voice to the universal opinion when he observed that it wasn't what he
had looked for, and he couldn't think it altogether 'andsome of Ted.
Somebody else wanted to know what about their five shillin'?

"Well, an' what about the five shillin'?" repeated Ted, reddening,
however, a little uncomfortably.

"Well, this here isn't what we expected; nay, not by a long road. We
was lookin' for summat joy'al, a gradely marlock, thou knows. This
here's an ord'nary kind o' business."

"Ah, we all paid up--we did that, an' we'n been waitin' for thee to
look in yonder at Orme's! We was all expectin' a bit of a do, thou
knows--an' thou's never so much as coom nigh th' place. An' thou
settled to get wed an' all, wi'out namin' it to nobry! It's scarce
honest."

Ted scratched his jaw reflectively; the argument seemed to touch him.
After a pause he rose and crossed the room to a chest of drawers in
the corner. Unlocking an upper drawer he took out a greasy leathern
purse with which he returned to the expectant group. Opening it, with
a kind of groan, he extracted five shillings, which he handed over to
Joe Lovelady.

"Theer," he said, "it is but fair when all's said an' done. Theer! ye
can have a wet wi' that."

"Reet, I knowed ye wasn't one as 'ud play us a dirty trick. Coom
along, an' we'se have a drop all round, an' drink thy 'ealth an' th'
bride's too. Ho! ho! ho! Aye, we'se wish thee an' thy missus good
luck! Coom, we'se step out an' mak' up for lost time."

"Nay, nay," said Ted, shaking his head with gentle melancholy. "I'll
noan go wi' you--I met rue it at arter. Nay, I'll wish ye good-bye an'
good luck, all on you, but I'll bide wheer I am."

He returned thereupon to his concertina, meeting all further
persuasions by deep sighs and obdurate shakes of the head; and,
finding their efforts useless, the party withdrew at last, to drink
his health without him.

As they retraced their steps the uncertain notes of Ted's concertina
came floating after them, borne upon the evening breeze; gradually
these shaped themselves into a tune, a tune which their incredulous
ears were at last forced to identify. Joe Lovelady suddenly paused and
threw out his hand.

"'Ark, all on ye, 'ark at that! Do ye know the tune th' owd lad's
hammerin' at?"

They all paused, holding their breaths; and then shouts of laughter
broke the stillness.

Radical Ted was playing _God Save the Queen_.




HEATHER IN HOLBORN


"I can scarce fancy her living here," said the man, pausing half-way
up the stairs to look upwards at the dusty length which remained to be
traversed. "Nay, she could never live here. I'm come on a fool's
errand, but I may as well see it through."

His tall, broad-shouldered figure disappeared behind another angle,
and halted at length on the fifth floor. On the door facing him a name
was neatly painted:--_Mr. Whiteside_.

"'Tis a Lancashire name, right enough," he said, "but there weren't
any Whitesides in our part when I was a lad. It'll be some stranger as
our Molly took up with--well, let's go for'ard."

His tap was answered by a fresh-coloured woman, neatly clad in a stuff
gown. The man surveyed her with a curious searching look, and she
stared back at him.

"What was you pleased to want, sir?" she inquired at length, growing
uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "Mr. Whiteside--that's my
husband--is out."

"Does Mrs. Rigby live here? No, I'm sure she does not--I beg your
pardon--it is a mistake."

"No, sir, no mistake at all; it's quite right. Mrs. Rigby does live
here--she's my mother."

The stranger again darted a swift, eager glance at her.

"Right," he said. "I'll come in; I want to see her."

Mrs. Whiteside hesitated for a moment. "My mother doesn't often have
visitors," she said. "We've been here more nor ten year now, and
nobody's ever come lookin' for her."

"I've come a long way to look for her," said the man; "I've come from
Australia. I'm bringing her news of her son Will."

"Eh dear!" cried the woman, clapping her hands together, "ye don't say
so! My word, mother will be pleased. We didn't know rightly whether he
were alive or dead. Tis twenty-five year or more since he left home.
Tisn't bad news I hope, mester?" she added anxiously, for the brown
face, as much of it as could be seen under the thick dark beard, wore
a troubled look.

"Bad news? No," returned he with a gruff laugh. "It wouldn't matter
much anyway, would it? seein' as you'd lost sight of him for so long,
and by all accounts he wasn't worth much at the best o' times."

"He's my brother," said Mrs. Whiteside shortly. "Will ye please to
step in, sir?"

He followed her into a narrow passage, and thence into an odd, little
three-cornered room; a room furnished in mahogany and green rep, with
a few brightly-bound books on the shining round table in the centre,
framed oleographs on the walls, stuffed birds in glass cases on the
mantel-piece, and a pervading odour of paraffin.

"I'll call mother," said Mrs. Whiteside, backing towards the door and
eyeing her visitor suspiciously, for her mind misgave her as to
whether it would be safe to leave him alone with the Family Bible or
the stuffed birds. "Mother!" she cried, raising her voice, "will you
come for a minute? There's a visitor here."

"Nay, lass, I can't leave the bread," called back an old woman's
voice, shrill yet strong. "Ax the body to step in here, whoever 'tis."

"Will ye come into the kitchen?" said Mrs. Whiteside unwillingly. "My
mother, 'tis a notion she has, 'ull never set foot in this 'ere room.
We're Lancashire folk, ye see, mester, and tis the custom there to
live mostly in the kitchen."

The visitor followed her in silence across the passage and into the
opposite room. Hardly had he set foot inside the door before he
uttered an exclamation, looking down the while at the floor. The
boards were scrubbed to an immaculate whiteness and strewn with sand.
He rubbed his boot backward and forward over the gritty surface with
an odd smile; then, raising his eyes, he looked hastily round the
room, averting his glance quickly when it fell upon the figure bending
over the great brown pan in the fender. Walking to the window he stood
looking out without speaking.

"I hope the man's got all his wits," said Mrs. Whiteside to herself,
"I never did see a chap act so strange."

Through the open window a fine view could be had of tall grimy houses,
and sooty roofs, with scarce a glint of sky between the
chimney-stacks, and far down in the street below was the turmoil of
city life; the roar and rush of it came echoing up even to that odd,
peaceful little chamber. The man neither saw nor heard; as he stood
there it seemed to him that he was looking out upon the moorland, with
the smell of the heather strong and spicy and sweet in his nostrils,
and the cry of the peewit in his ears. His chest heaved; then he
turned about and faced the room again. Yes, it was no dream; here was
the house-place of a North Country cottage. The sturdy deal table in
the midst of the sanded floor, the oak dresser with its noble array of
crockery, the big chest in the corner, the screened settle on one side
of the hearth; and there, kneeling on the patchwork rug, the sturdy,
strong-backed old woman, in bedgown and petticoat and frilled white
cap, with lean, vigorous arms half-buried in a shining mass of dough.

"Well, what's to do?" inquired she, glancing sharply over her
shoulder.

"This 'ere gentleman says he's brought news of our Will," said Mrs.
Whiteside hesitatingly.

The old woman uttered a cry, and, withdrawing her hands from the
dough, wiped them hastily in her apron, and ran towards the stranger.

"News indeed," she said. "Eh dear, and how is my poor lad? How is he,
sir? Eh, bless you for coomin'! I scarce reckoned he were wick, 'tis
so long sin' we'n had a word of him."

She was clasping the new-comer's hands now, and shaking them excitedly
up and down, her eyes searching his face the while.

"How is my lad?" she repeated. "He mun be a gradely mon now--a gradely
mon! Tis what he said hisself when he wur breeched. Dear o' me, I mind
it well. He come runnin' in so proud wi's hands in's pockets. 'I'm a
gradely mon now,' he says, 'same's my feyther.'"

She dropped his hands and wiped her eyes.

"My word, mother," said Mrs. Whiteside reprovingly, "how ye do run on!
Was my brother well, mester, when ye see him last?"

"Quite well," responded the stranger gruffly. "Well and hearty."

"Thank God for that!" cried the old woman.

"He told me," went on the other, and his voice still sounded rough and
harsh from behind his great beard; "he told me if I were anywhere in
Lancashire to look up the old place, and tell his folks he was alive
and well."

"Has he been doin' pretty well, sir, d'ye know?" inquired the younger
woman, politely, but with interest.

"Pretty well--lately; so I've been told," returned he.

"And he didn't send nothin' to his mother? Nothin' besides the
message?" she went on. "Well, I call it a sin and a shame; 'twas
scarce worth your while to seek us out for that."

"Howd thy din, Mary," cried Mrs. Rigby angrily. "Not worth while! Why,
I'll bless the gentleman for it, an' pray for him day an' neet while I
live. Wick an' hearty. My lad's wick an' hearty,--an' I was afeared he
wur dead. An' he took thought on his owd mother so fur away, an' sent
her word, bless him!"

"He might ha' sent ye somethin' else I think," said Mary wrathfully;
"I don't hold wi' makin' such a to-do about a chap as never did
nothin' for you in his life. There's others as is worth more nor him."

The old woman drew herself up, her eyes blazing in their sunken
orbits.

"Mary," she said, "if ye mean to cast up as ye're keepin' me in my owd
age, I tell ye plain, though there are strangers here, I think no
shame on't. I brought ye into the world, an' I reared you an' worked
hard for you till ye was up-grown, an' kept a whoam o'er your head wi'
nought but the labour o' my two hands. An' now as I'm stricken in
years an' the owd place is gone, I think no shame o' being' behowden
to ye for mate an' shelter."

"La, mother," stammered Mary "whatever makes ye go for to say such
things?--I'm sure I wasn't castin' up--"

"Ye've no need to cast up," interrupted her mother fiercely. "I'm not
behowden to ye for mich, as how 'tis--I reckon I addle my mate."

The man turned upon the younger woman with a savage glance, but she
was too much absorbed in her own grievance to heed him. "I wasn't
castin' up, mother," she asseverated. "I nobbut meant it seemed a bit
hard as you should think as much of Will as of me."

"Eh," said the old woman, beginning to laugh and shaking her head,
"I'll not deny but what the lad was a great fav'ryite. The only lad
ever I had, and my first-born. Dear o' me, I mind how proud I was when
they telled me 'twas a lad. 'A fine lad,' said the woman as did for
me. Eh, I thought my heart 'ud fair burst wi' joy! An' he wur sech a
gradely little chap, so peart an' lively, crowin' an' laughin' from
morn till neet. Dear, yes--soon as ever leet coom he'd come creepin'
up to our bed an' pull at the sheet. 'Wakken up, mother,' he'd say;
'mother, it's time to wakken up!' Eh, mony a time I fancy I can hear
the little voice when I wak' up now, i' this dark dirty place. I keep
my e'en shut, an' hark at the birds chirrupin', an' think o' the
little hand pluckin' at the sheet, an' the little voice. An' then
clock strikes an' I oppen my e'en and see the smoke an' the black
chimnies--eh, I'm welly smoored among 'em all! I could fair go mad to
find mysel' so far away fro' whoam."

"But surely," said the visitor, with a dreamy glance round, "you've
made this place very home-like."

"'Tis, an' 'tisn't. Says I to Mary when she axed me to shift wi' her,
'I'll not coom,' says I, 'wi'out I bring th' clock an' chest, an' all
they bits o' things as I'm used to.' 'Eh, mother,' says she, 'what
would you be doin' wi' 'em down i' London town?'--'What should I be
doin' wi' 'em?' says I. 'Same as I do here,' says I. 'If I coom wi'
you, my lass I mun keep to the owd ways. I'm too owd mysel' for aught
else. I mun keep th' owd things an' th' owd fashions.'--Is that a bit
o' heather as ye've getten i' your hat, sir?"

"Yes," said the man deliberately; "'tis a bit of heather--and it comes
from Boggart Moor. I picked it last week when I went to look for you."

"'Twas wonderful kind of you to go all that way, I'm sure," said Mrs.
Whiteside. "I doubt our Will reckoned we was livin' there still. Tis
years an' years since we've had a word from him. He didn't know I'd
got wed, very like."

"No, he didn't," said the man. "He thought his mother and sister were
livin' still in the little cot up yonder. I had hard work to trace
you."

"How does the little place look, sir?" asked the old woman, with a
wistful look.

"Much as usual," returned he, half absently. "They'n shifted the
horse-block, an' thrown the two shippons into one, an' tiled the
wash-house roof."

Mrs. Rigby clacked her tongue, and her daughter stared.

"How did ye know about the horse-block?" she inquired, "an' how did ye
guess the shippons was throwed into one? Did our Will tell you about
the place?"

He paused a moment, and then laughed.

"Often and often. He said he could find his way there blindfold, an' I
doubt he made me know it as well as himself."

Mrs. Rigby stretched out her hand and touched the sprig of heather
wistfully.

"The moor mun be lookin' gradely now," she said; "all one sheet o'
bloom, I reckon. Eh, I mind how I used to leave windows open, summer
an' winter, an let the air come in, soomtimes hot an' soomtimes cowd,
but al'ays wi' the smell o' the moor in it. Dear, when I think on't I
can scarce breathe here."

"Come, mother, we're keepin' the gentleman standin' all this time,"
said Mary, suddenly recalled to a sense of her hospitable duties. "Sit
ye down, sir, and sup a cup o' tea with us. Kettle's boilin', isn't
it, mother? You're not in a hurry, are you, mester?"

"I reckon I can stop a twothree minutes," said the man.

Mrs. Whiteside glanced at him sharply, and her mother clapped her
hands together.

"Ye're a Lancashire lad, for sure," cried she; "ye speak just same as
our own folks up on the moor yon."

He hesitated for a moment.

"Aye, I'll not deny the talk cooms natural to me," he said. "I thought
I'd forgot it, but my tongue seems to turn to it when I get agate o'
talkin' wi' Lancashire folks."

"I reckon you and our Will had many a crack together about the bonny
North," said Mrs. Rigby, as she spread the cloth, smoothing it
carefully with her wrinkled hands. "I'm fain to think my lad minds th'
owd place. Eh, I doubt he'd be nigh broken-hearted if he knowed we had
to leave it--I like as if I could be glad to think he knows nought
about it, poor lad. He didn't ever talk o' coomin' back, mester, did
he?"

"He met think on't," said the visitor slowly, "if he could be sure of
a welcome. But he run away, you see, again his father's will, an' he
wur allus reckoned a good-for-nothin' kind o' chap--so he seemed to
think."

"Who said that?" cried the old woman, pausing with the teapot poised
in mid-air, and reddening all over her withered face.

"Well, 'twas a kind o' notion he seemed to have, and o' course, though
it's ill blamin' the absent"--here he uttered a queer little
laugh--"when all's said and done he hasn't acted so very well. Any
chap wi' a heart in's breast 'ud ha' took thought for his own mother,
and 'ud ha' seen as she was kept comfortable an' happy in her owd age,
and not forced to shift to a strange place."

"I'm sure," put in Mrs. Whiteside indignantly, "I can't think what
you're droppin' hints o' that mak' for, sir. A woman has to follow her
husband, an' when his business takes him to London he takes her too.
Doin' very well, he is, i' th' coal business, an' I'm sure I make my
mother as comfortable an' as happy as I can. Turn London into the
moorside is what I cannot do, an' I'm not to be blamed for that. As
you said jest now if any one was to blame 'twas my brother."

"Well, I'll not have nobody blamin' my lad," cried the old woman.
"He's not to be faulted for what he knowed nought about. If he'd
knowed I doubt it 'ud ha' been different."

"That's true," interrupted the man; "if he'd knowed it 'ud ha' been
different. He'd ha' kept his mother on the moor. If he was to come
back now he'd have her awhoam again afore aught were long."

"Tis wonderful to hear you takin' up wi' that homely talk," said Mrs.
Whiteside, with a laugh, as she set a crusty loaf upon the table. "It
fair brings me back. I scarce ever talk i' th' owd fashion now, wi'out
'tis a twothree words now an' then to please mother. Pull up, sir.
Will ye pour out the tea, mother? All's ready now."

"Nay, fetch me a pot of the wimberry jam," said Mrs. Rigby. "Theer's
jest two of 'em left. My son-in-law," she explained to the visitor,
"he's oncommon kind about humourin' my fancies, an' every year he
fetches me a peck or two o' wimberries--you can get 'em reet enough
here i' th' market, an' I make us a few pots o' jam--'tis the only
kind as ever I could fancy. Eh, what baskets-full the childer used to
bring me in i' th' owd days! Will ye cut yourself a bit o' bread, sir?
Tis a bit hard, I doubt; 'tis the end o' the last bakin'. I wur jest
agate with the next lot when ye coom in."

He cut off a piece, and spread it with the wimberry jam, and ate a
mouthful or two in silence; he seemed to swallow with difficulty, not
because of the hardness of the fare, but because of a certain stirring
at his heart. How long was it since he had sat him down at such a
board as this, and tasted bread, pure and sweet and wholesome, such as
cannot be bought in shops, with the fruit of the moor for condiment?

"I doubt it's hard," said Mrs. Whiteside commiseratingly, "and you're
not eatin' a bit neither, mother. Come, fall to."

"Eh, I canna eat nought fur thinkin' o' yon lad o' mine. How could he
go for to think he'd not be welcome! Ye'll write and an' tell him
he'll be welcome, sir, wunnot ye?"

He nodded.

"Eh, I'd be fain to see him, I would that! Ye'll tell him kind an'
careful, mester, about me havin' to shift here, an' dunnot let him
think I'm axing him to do mich for me."

"It's time for him to do summat for ye, though," said Will's friend
gruffly.

"Nay, I don't ax it--I don't ax for nought. I nobbut want to see his
bonny face again."

"Happen you wouldn't know it," said Mrs. Whiteside; "he mun be awful
altered now."

"Know it? Know my own lad! I'd pick him out among a thousand."

"I'm not so sure o' that," persisted her daughter. "Ye've seen our
Will lately, I s'pose, mester? Can ye tell us what like he is?"

"He's rather like me," said the stranger.

"My word, ye don't say so!" gasped Mrs. Whiteside, while her mother,
leaning forward, gazed eagerly into his face.

"He is very like me," he said brokenly, and then, of a sudden,
stretching out his hand he plucked the old woman by the sleeve:
"Wakken up, mother," he cried; "mother, 'tis time to wakken up!"




SENTIMENT AND "FEELIN'"


As a rule our Lancashire peasants are not sentimental; in fact,
degenerate south-countrymen frequently take exception to their blunt
ways and terrible plain-speaking. But occasionally they display an
astonishing impressibility, and at all times know how to appreciate a
bit of romance.

When three months after his wife's death, for instance, Joe Balshaw
married her cousin, because, as he explained, "hoo favoured our Mary,"
all the neighbours thought such fidelity extremely touching.

I remember once when our little church was gaily decorated for the
harvest festival some one had the happy thought of placing among the
garlands of flowers and masses of fruit and vegetables--thank-offerings
from various parishioners--which were heaped on each side of the
chancel, a miniature hayrick beautifully made and thatched, and a tiny
cornstack to correspond. The sermon was over, and the service
proceeding as usual, when suddenly a burst of sobs distracted the
congregation, and Robert Barnes, the bluffest and burliest farmer in
the whole property, was observed to be wiping his eyes with a red
cotton handkerchief. In vain did his scandalised wife nudge and
reprove him; he sobbed on, and she grew alarmed. "Wasn't he well?" she
asked.

"Aye, well enough," groaned Robert; "but it's so beautiful. I cannot
choose but cry!"

"Is't th' music, feyther?" inquired his daughter.

"Nay, nay--it's them there little stacks. Eh, they're--they're
gradely. I never see sich a seet i' my life."

If this was not susceptibility, I don't know where to look for it.

No doubt a certain roughness of speech, an almost brutal frankness, is
a noticeable northern characteristic. It strikes a stranger painfully,
but is accepted and even appreciated by those accustomed to it from
childhood.

A sick man expects to be told he looks real bad, and preserves an
unmoved tranquillity on hearing how small a likelihood there is of his
ever looking up again, and what a deal of trouble he gives. The
visitor unused to our ways shrinks from hearing these subjects
discussed in the presence of the patient, but he himself listens
philosophically, and, it would occasionally appear, with an odd
pleasure in his own importance.

"Eh, I sometimes think it 'ud be a mercy if th' Lord 'ud tak' him,"
says the middle-aged daughter of a paralysed labourer, eyeing him
dispassionately. "Doctor says he'll never be no better, an' I'm sure
he's a misery to hissel', as well's every one else. Aren't ye,
feyther?"

"Ah," grunts feyther. "I'd be fain to go. I would--I'd be fain."

"What wi's restin' so bad o' neets, an' th' gettin' up an' down to
him, an' feedin' him, an' shiftin' him--he's that 'eavy I cannot stir
him mysel'--I 'ave to wait till th' lads comes back fro' work--eh,
it's weary work! I'm very nigh killed wi't."

"Well, but if he gets better, you know," suggests the visitor, "you'll
be glad to have nursed him so well."

"Eh, he'll noan get better now; doctor says he hasn't a chance."

The patient, who has been listening with close attention, and not a
little satisfaction, to his daughter's report, now rolls his eyes
towards his interlocutor.

"Nay, nay, I'll noan get better," he observes somewhat resentfully.
"Tisn't to be expected. I'm gettin' on for seventy-eight, an' this
here's my second stroke."

"Ah, his constitution's worn out," adds the woman; "that was what
doctor said. ''Tisn't to be expected as he could recover,' says he;
'his constitution's worn out.'"

The rugged old face on the pillow is indeed lined and wrinkled; the
one big hand lying outside the coverlet is gnarled and knotted, like
the branch of an ancient tree; the form outlined by the bedclothes is
of massive proportions. A fine wreck of a man this useless cumberer of
the earth.

"I shouldn't be worth my mate if I did get better," he says,
reflectively, and without the faintest trace of bitterness. "Nought
but lumber--in every one's road. Nay, I'd a deal sooner shift
a'together. I've allus worked 'ard--it 'ud not coom nat'ral to be
idle. I'm ready to go, if it's the A'mighty's will."

"Eh, He'll be like to tak' ye soon, feyther. He will--He'll tak' ye
afore aught's long," says the daughter. "Raly," she adds, as she
pilots her visitor downstairs after this consolatory remark, "it's
a'most to be 'oped as He will."

Yet when He does, and poor feyther is carried away to his long home by
his sons and cronies, there is genuine distress in the little
household. When the daughter has got her "blacks," and drawn the club
money, and the excitement of the funeral is over, she has leisure to
miss the quiet presence, the familiar voice. She starts up at night
many a time fancying she hears it, and weeps as she falls back on her
pillow again. She polishes "feyther's cheer" reverently, and treasures
his pipe, and sobs as she cuts up his clothes for suits for her little
lads, and takes in his great-coat to make it fit her gaffer.

"It was a blessed release," she says, wiping her eyes, "an' we had a
nice funeral, but it's lonely wi'out him."

"A nice funeral" is the most important of all desiderata, and many are
the privations which the living cheerfully endure, that the dead may
be interred with due respect and decorum. The most improvident of
these people look forward to and prepare for the contingency,
inevitable indeed, and yet deemed by other folk unutterably remote.

"Ah! it's bin a struggle to keep 'em," said a poor woman once,
speaking of her little flock of ten healthy hearty children. "I've
noan bin able to put by much, but theer's wan thing, I've got 'em all
in a buryin'-club."

Now and then when the death has been preceded by a long illness, and
the family exchequer has sunk low, the neighbours come to the rescue,
and with characteristic straightforwardness and goodnature avert
impending disgrace. One such case occurred here recently. The father
of the family had been hovering for months between life and death, and
when he "drew away" at last, wife and children were left absolutely
without means. Nevertheless the funeral was beautiful, it was
universally agreed. The wheelwright made a coffin free of charge, one
of the farmers sent the necessary refection; each household in the
village did something, one supplying a whole dress, one merely a
hatband. When the time came for the procession to start, every child
had its decent blacks, and though the question of how to live
to-morrow was still unanswered, the poor widow, wiping her eyes behind
her flowing veil, felt soothed and in a manner elated. No one could
say but what her master had a gradely buryin'. She could not repress a
certain honest pride, and, oddly enough, though the neighbours were
quite aware that without their assistance this desirable appearance
would never have been presented, they were none the less impressed,
and felt that Mrs. ---- deserved great credit.

If sentiment be not common among us, there is no dearth of "feelin',"
though it is sometimes exhibited in unusual and rather startling
fashion. The doctor, for instance, was somewhat taken aback one day by
the reply of a poor man with whom he had been condoling over the death
of an only son.

"I tell ye," sobbed the inconsolable parent, "if it hadn't bin for
what neighbours 'ud say, I'd ha' had th' little divil stuffed."

There is no rule without its exception, and, though our people are for
the most part affectionate and tender-hearted in their own rugged way,
I am bound to own there are some Stoics in our midst.

One old woman, in particular, whom I have known to be afflicted in a
variety of ways, has never betrayed the least sign of emotion; whether
she is incapable of it, or whether she heroically conceals it, I have
been unable to discover.

She lost two sons in rapid succession after a few hours' illness.

"What did they die of?" asked some one sympathetically.

As a rule such a remark would have led to a flood of tearful and
affectionate reminiscences, but this old lady was laconic.

"One deed of a Tuesday, and one of a Thursday," she replied.

The third son a short time afterwards, returning home from market
slightly hazy in his ideas, was run over by an express train as he
endeavoured to cross the line.

Next morning the body was found, horribly mutilated, and a porter was
despatched to break the tidings to the bereaved mother. The man,
overcome with the horror of the event, and full of compassion for the
white-haired woman--who stood stolidly awaiting his message, evidently
unsuspicious of its tenor--could scarcely find words with which to
tell the news.

"There's bin an accident," he faltered, "we'n foun' a mon o' th'
rails--dead--cut t' pieces by a train."

Old Lizzie stared at him in silence; then a light seemed to break in
on her.

"Ah," she said. "Happen it's our Bill!"

And with that she turned on her heel and went upstairs to select a
winding-sheet for him.

Some of our folks like to talk about their troubles. Over and over
again they tell you, almost in the same words, exactly how it all came
about. A poor woman pleats her apron and gazes at you with pathetic
eyes, which she stops to wipe occasionally. The story has grown
familiar to both relater and listener, and sometimes you are regaled
not only with the tale itself, but with the repetition of your own
comments thereon.

"I mind ye said so and so," she says, "an' it's often seemed to
comfort me."

Clearly there is nothing for it but immediately to say it again, and
you are rewarded by seeing the face brighten perceptibly, much as a
child's brightens as it hears a well--known point in a familiar tale.
These simple people are very like children.

But sometimes the pain is too great to be dilated on, and then a
chance phrase or word, infinitely pathetic, betrays the depth of
sorrow; sometimes there is silence more pathetic still.

Looking into a cottage, one day, where the week before a little child
had been carried to the churchyard, I found the mother hard at work,
ironing.

"I will not come in," I said. "You are busy."

"Nay, ma'am, coom your ways in an' sit ye down. There's no hurry. I'm
nobbut puttin' away our Teddy's little clothes."

Not another word did she say in allusion to her sorrow, and no tears
fell on the little worn garments. Poor little garments, so
pathetically bringing to mind the wee lost personality! Darned socks
which had covered active little feet; tiny short "knickers" patched at
the knees; shabby coat--moulded, it would seem, into the very shape of
the chubby figure--the mother ironed and polished them, and laid them
in a tidy heap. As she worked she tried to talk of other things, but
her face told its own tale, and I went away with an aching heart.

The men carry their troubles afield; manual labour dulls, if it does
not altogether exorcise, them; some have other less creditable means
of seeking oblivion. But the poor women, shut in in their little
houses, with their anxieties and sorrow staring them in the face--God
help them! So narrow are their lives, so few their experiences, that
their thoughts must run perpetually in the same groove; everything
which surrounds them, their "sticks" of furniture, their little
household gods, are reminders of lost joys and present grief.

"Eh, I can scarce 'bide to see my mother's cheer," said a poor
crippled girl to me. "Her 'an me was allus sat one aside o' t'other,
an' now hoo's gone. Eh, I know I shouldn't complain, an' hoo's in a
better place; but hoo's gone, ye see, an' I'm awful lonely. I keep
settin' here all day, an' thinkin' of her, and fancyin' I hear her
moanin'. Eh dear, yes, it's a shame for me, an' I know I ought to be
glad hoo isn't sufferin' no longer. Eh, at th' last, ye know, Mrs.
Francis, it were summat awful what hoo suffered. Oh yes, I _know_.
But, ye see, when I'm sat here all day by mysel', an' when I see th'
empty cheer, an' o' neets when I dream hoo's layin' aside o' me, an'
then wakken up an' stretch out my arms--eh, dear o' me!"

Some of the neighbours thought this poor girl's grief excessive. Nancy
indeed, who buried her own exceedingly ancient parent comparatively
recently, bade her remember that she was not the only one who knew
what it is to lose a mother. It is not, as a rule, considered quite
decent to speak in other than cheerful tones of a bereavement which
has occurred more than a year ago,--unless, of course, you are taking
a general survey of your troubles, in which case it is allowable to
include it as a proof the more that you have "supped sorrow." But Mary
set etiquette at defiance. Out of the fulness of her heart her mouth
spake. To all corners she must needs tell her loneliness and her
sorrow.

One day, however, she received me with a bright face and a certain air
of mysterious joy.

"Mrs. Francis, I scarce know how to tell ye, but it seems as if th'
Lord Hissel sent me a bit o' comfort. Ye see, nobry had no feelin' for
me here in village; they all towd me to resign mysel', an' that, an'
it were wicked o' me to be ill-satisfied wi' th' A'mighty's will. But,
ye see, I wouldn't seem able to give ower frettin'--I raly couldn't.
Well but, last neet--I haven't towd nobry, because I didn't want to
have 'em laughin', ye know, and, o' course, I dunnot set mich store by
dreams; but still, it seemed to comfort me."

She looked at me appealingly, and, being assured of my sympathy,
continued--

"Well, last neet I were very lonesome when I geet into bed, an' I
began o' thinkin' o' my mother, an' wonderin' where hoo was. An' 'Eh,
mother,' I says out loud, 'wheer _are_ ye, an' are ye thinkin' o' me,
an' are ye in heaven?' An' I geet agate o' cryin' an' axin' mysel wheer
was heaven, an' was hoo raly theer. Well, at last I dozed off, an' I
had a dream. I thought I saw my mother, in her cap an' apron, an' wi'
her sleeves rolled up--just same as hoo used to look when hoo was busy
about th' house. An' I thought hoo coom along, lookin' fro' one side
to t'other, as if hoo were seechin' soombry; an' I said, 'Here I am,
mother.' An' hoo stood a moment, an' smiled. An' then"--sinking her
voice and speaking hurriedly and excitedly--"I looked up at sky (we
was out o' doors i' my dream), an' then I saw it all full o' light,
and rays coomin', goldy rays, same as--same as ye see sometimes on a
Christmas card; an' they coom down, an' gathered all about my mother,
an' lapped her round. An' then I see her goin' up, up--reet into th'
leet; an' then I wakkened. Eh, Mrs. Francis, dunnot ye think--dunnot
ye raly think--as th' Lord sent me that dream to comfort me? Eh, I
feel sure hoo's in heaven now, an' hoo's thinkin' o' me. I cannot tell
ye how 'appy it mak's me."

"Eye hath not seen," says St. Paul, "ear hath not heard." Very
different was poor Mary's vision. Think of it: the little old woman in
her working dress, with the sleeves rolled up on her skinny arms--the
"goldy rays, same as ye see on Christmas cards." But, nevertheless,
even in her attic room she has had a glimpse of Paradise.




THE ROMANCE OF BROTHER JOHN


Mrs. Cross was gardening; it was an occupation in which she took great
pleasure, not merely on account of her affection for the little plot
of ground which she miraculously contrived to render bright at all
seasons, but because it afforded her ample opportunities for
supervising her neighbours' affairs. While she watered her stocks, or
tied up her carnations, she was enabled to throw an occasional keen
glance in at the open doorway on either side of her; she knew
precisely what Mrs. Barnes had for dinner, and how large was Mrs.
Frizzel's wash. Squatting back on her heels in the intervals of her
labours, and negligently scratching her elbows or retwisting her
untidy coil of hair, she would even hearken discreetly to such scraps
of conversation as enlivened meal or toil. She knew all about Mrs.
Frizzel's last letter from her daughter Susan, and could give the
precise details of young Barnes' encounter with the stalwart yeoman
who had supplanted him in the affections of his sweetheart. She would
also hail from over the hedge the driver of any passing tradesman's
cart, and was thus enabled to possess herself of the latest news from
"town" a mile away. By craning her neck a little to the right she
could catch a glimpse of the walls and roofs of this centre of
activity, and by extending it in the other direction she had a peep of
the high road, where sometimes as many as a dozen vehicles passed of
an afternoon.

Her eyes were strained towards this favourite point of view on one
particularly sultry August evening; her own hedge, even, was sprinkled
with dust, while the double row which guarded the glaring stretch
yonder was absolutely white.

Mrs. Cross's little garden was, however, a pleasant spot, even on this
glowing, breathless afternoon. She had been watering her borders, and
a delicious smell of damp earth mingled with the fragrance of the
old-fashioned flowers beneath the mellow old walls of her cottage. A
fine array of sweet-williams and larkspurs and hollyhocks stood in a
row before them; jessamine and honeysuckle clung to the old brick and
festooned themselves over the rickety porch. Between the green
tendrils one got a glimpse of the picture within--the dresser with its
wealth of shining crockery, the log-fire leaping merrily on the
hearth, a little brown teapot winking in the glow, the table spread
with a clean white cloth and set out for two. It made a pretty
picture, yet, as has been said, Mrs. Cross perpetually turned her eyes
towards the patch of high road which climbed painfully up between the
dusty hedges. At last she was constrained to rise from her knees and
take her stand by her little gate, where, with knitted brows and
pursed-up lips, she remained on the watch, until at last her patience
was rewarded by the sight of a woman's figure, clad in deep black,
suddenly rounding the corner. She immediately smoothed her brow and
composed her features to a becoming melancholy. Mrs. Cross was ever as
ready to sympathise with her neighbours' misfortunes to their faces as
she was to declare behind their backs that they were well-deserved.
To-day, however, her countenance wore an expression of tempered woe,
and her voice was only moderately dolorous, for the trouble which she
was about to lament was a vicarious one.

"I've a-been on the look-out for you ever since tea-time, Mrs. Domeny,
my dear. Thinks I constant, 'I wonder how Mrs. Domeny be a-gettin' on,
and I wonder how the poor widow-man be a-bearin' up.' Come in an' sit
ye down, do; ye must be mortal hot and tired, walkin' so far in your
deep."

Mrs. Domeny, a chubby, buxom little woman, who found it hard to
eliminate from her rosy face all trace of a cheerfulness which,
however habitual, would have been unbecoming on the occasion of a
sister-in-law's funeral, checked the smile with which she had been
about to respond to her friend's invitation, and heaved a sigh
instead.

"Well, jist for a minute, Mrs. Cross. There, to tell 'ee the truth,
I'm fair wore out, what with a body's feelin's and a-walkin' so far i'
the sun, and the dust a-gettin' down one's throat wi' every sob, so to
speak. 'Ees, my dear, I'm terrible dry, an' I would like a cup o' tea,
jist about! They hadn't nothin' but ham," she added, "yonder at
Brother John's. 'Twas a bit salt. I always told poor Sarah as I did
think she salted her hams too much; but, there! she be gone, poor
soul, and it wouldn't become me to speak ill of her ham now."

"Ah, my dear," groaned Mrs. Cross, pouring out a cupful of the
inky-looking fluid that had been stewing on the hob for the last hour
and a-half. "Ah, my dear, all flesh is grass, as we do know. She was a
dried-up-looking poor body, your sister-in-law; I al'ays did say so,
ye mid remember. An' how did ye leave poor John?"

"He was in floods," responded Mrs. Domeny, her eyes filling with
sympathetic tears. "In floods, I do assure 'ee. I did feel for en, I
can tell 'ee. 'Twas through me as they did first get to know each
other. 'Twas a very romantic marriage theirs was, Mrs. Cross; a real
romance me an' Robert al'ays did call it."

"Ah!" commented her neighbour, half sympathetically, half
interrogatively. She kicked the logs together with her flat shoe, drew
a chair close to her visitor's, filled her own cup, and sat down with
an expectant expression.

"'Ees, my dear, quite a romance, as you'll say when I've a-told 'ee.
When my sister Susannah was laid up wi' her ninth, which was a twin,
my dear, an' her husband out of work, and the other eight scarce able
to do a hand's turn for themselves, she wrote to me an' axed me to
come an' look after things a bit till she got about again. Well, I
couldn't say no, ye can understand, so Robert got Janie Domeny,
brother Tom's oldest girl, to come of a marnin' to see to en, an' I
did go to poor Susannah. Well, 'twas at Susannah's, if you'll believe
me," said Mrs. Domeny, with a solemnity which would have befitted the
announcement of an event of national importance, "as I first came
across poor Sarah."

"Well!" ejaculated Mrs. Cross, pausing with a large bite of bread and
butter distending her cheek, and uplifting her hands. "Well, to think
of it!"

"'Ees, as I often did say," resumed Mrs. Domeny, "it did seem from the
very beginnin' as though 'twas meant to be. She was a-livin' next door
to Susannah--hadn't long come, d'ye see, and didn't know any of the
neighbours to speak on. But she an' me took to each other fro' the
beginnin'. She were a staid women then, an' not over an' above
well-lookin'--nay, I can't say as she was. But she was dressed very
fayshionable an' nice, an' she was very pleasant to speak to, an' as
for me, you know I'm of a very affectionate disposition; 'tis my
natur' to cling, d'ye see. 'Ees, as I often do say to my 'usband, I am
as clingin' as--as a worm. So, as I tell ye, we did take to each other
fro' the first. Well, when Susannah was a-gettin' about, after the
ninth day, ye know, I went home along, and Sarah did say to I, 'I'll
come and see you, Mrs. Domeny, if I mid make so bold,' she says in her
lady-like way.

"'To be sure, Mrs. Maidment,' says I--"

"Oh, she was a widow then?" interrupted Mrs. Cross. "There now, what
notions folks do get in their heads. I al'ays made sure and certain as
your sister-in-law was a single woman afore she was your
sister-in-law."

"No, my dear," said Mrs. Domeny impressively. "She was a widow, Mrs.
Cross, that's what she was. She'd a-buried her first poor husband--an'
a very fine man he was by all accounts--nigh upon six year afore ever
she took up wi' brother John."

"Indeed!" ejaculated Mrs. Cross, in a tone which signified that the
fact redounded greatly to the credit of the late Mrs. John Domeny.

"'Ees, indeed," repeated the narrator triumphantly. "But where was I?
'To be sure, Mrs. Maidment,' says I, 'I'll be main glad to see you
whenever ye can anyway make it convenient to come.' Well, one Sunday
she did drap in just as my husband and myself was a-sitting down to
our tea. So of course I did make her so welcome as I could, and did
get out the best cups an' heat up a bit o' toast, and we was all as
comfortable an' friendly as could be. But I noticed, Mrs. Cross, as
how Mrs. Maidment's eyes was a-fixed constant on my husband; there, I
couldn't choose but notice it, it seemed as if she had to look at him,
d'ye understand. I thought at first maybe he had a spot on his face or
some sich thing, but, no, it weren't that; and she did speak to en so
respectful, and hearken so interested-like when he did say a word,
which warn't often, ye mid be sure, for Robert bain't no talker."

"Dear to be sure, how strange," put in Mrs. Cross, again pausing in
the act of mastication, and preparing to listen to further details
with heightened interest.

"Strange!" echoed the other. "Wait till ye hear the rest, then ye'll
think it strange. By-and-by Robert pushed away his cup, 'I think I'll
step out for a bit of a pipe, Mary,' says he to I. 'I wish ye good
day, ma'am,' says he, noddin' his head at Mrs. Maidment. The door had
no sooner shut behind en," she continued, leaning forward and speaking
slowly and with great unction, "than Sarah she looks me full in the
face, and says she, 'Mrs. Domeny,' she says, 'I do admire your
husband. I think,' she says, 'he be a beautiful man.'"

"T'ch, t'ch, t'ch," commented the listener, clicking her tongue, for
her astonishment at the sudden development was too great to find vent
in mere words.

"'I do admire your husband,'" repeated Mrs. Domeny impressively. "That
was what she said, 'he be a beautiful man.' 'Well,' said I, 'I'll not
say nay to that, Mrs. Maidment. Him an' me have been married now goin'
on fifteen year, an' all I can say about en is as if I were free to
choose again, I'd choose the same.'

"'Ah,' says she, giving a kind of sigh, this way, ye know" (here Mrs.
Domeny sighed noisily). "'Ah, I knowed he was good by the very looks
of him. I am sure,' says she, 'he must come of a very respectable
family.' So of course I did tell her as the Domenys was well known and
respected in all the country round, and was real good old Darset
stock. 'There never was a Domeny yet,' says I, 'as wasn't a credit to
the country.' 'Ah,' says she, sighin' again, 'and I d' 'low, ma'am,
they do make very good husbands.'

"'Ye mid be sure they do,' says I; 'I can speak up for my own man, and
I think Mrs. Tom and Mrs. Ned can do the same for theirs.'

"'Be they all married?' axes she, very quick.

"Well, I looked at her--it did seem a particular kind of question, so
to speak, an' she took a fit of coughin'" (here Mrs. Domeny simulated
a genteel and hesitating attack of the infirmity in question), "an' at
last, says she, very earnest, 'Bain't there one of them at all as
hasn't got a wife?'

"'There is Brother John,' says I; 'his missus died two years ago, come
Michaelmas. He's a very quiet man,' says I, 'very quiet.'

"'Has he got a nice place?' says she.

"'Dear, to be sure,' says I, 'Brother John be very comfortable. He's
got a good-sized house wi' a big garden, an' he do bring up a sight o'
pigs an' chicken.'

"'That 'ud do me very well,' says Sarah. 'I've got a bank-book what is
worth lookin' at!' And then she stood up. 'I should like to meet your
brother John,' she did say; 'perhaps ye'll think it over, Mrs.
Domeny?'

"'Oh, 'e--es, I'll do that,' said I. She did bid me good-bye then, an'
so soon as ever she was gone I called Robert in and telled en the
whole tale."

"I d' 'low he were pleased," put in Mrs. Cross, "about her admirin' of
en, ye know."

"Well, he be a very modest man, Robert be; he didn't take much notice.
'Fancy that!' says he, when I did tell en."

"Fancy that!" had also been Mrs. Cross's inward comment, on first
hearing of the effect produced by Mr. Robert Domeny on the
impressionable Mrs. Maidment; for if truth be told he was anything but
an Adonis. But she wisely kept her surprise to herself, and now once
more clicked her tongue in token of appreciation.

"'Now, Robert,' says I," continued Mrs. Domeny, resuming her narrative
tone, "'how would it be if we was to write to Brother John?'

"'What 'ud ye tell en?' says he; 'he'd mayhap not quite fancy the
notion o' takin' up wi' a woman he did never set eyes on.' 'You just
leave it to I,' says I; 'I bain't a-goin' to say nothin' at all about
wedlock. I'll jist ax en to come to tea next Sunday, and I'll tell en
as a very nice body what we've lately got acquainted wi' be a'
a-comin' to tea, too; an' I'll jist set down, careless-like, as she
have got a bank-book what is worth seein'. Jist no more nor that.'

"'Ah, that 'ud maybe do very well,' says Domeny, and we did put our
heads together, and between us the letter was wrote. Brother John sent
us word by the carrier as he was a-comin', and I did send off Janie
that same day to let Mrs. Maidment know, and Janie said her face did
fair flush up wi' j'y. She kissed the maid so affectionate, an' says
she, 'You be another Domeny, my dear. You must favour your Pa, I'm
sure, for you be a very vitty maid.'

"Well, Sunday did come, an' I did have a beautiful tea ready; muffins
and a bit o' cold ham--not so salt as poor Sarah's--and a pot o'
blackberry-an'-apple jam. Brother John were the first to come. He fair
give me a start, for I didn't expect en so early; he did put his head
in at the door, an' beckon this way, so secret-like." (Here there was
the usual accompaniment of appropriate gesture.)

"'Mary,' he whispered, 'Mary, be she come?'

"'Not yet, John,' says I.

"He did squeeze hisself very cautious round the door, lookin' to right
an' left, this way" (further pantomime). "'Mary,' says he, right in my
ear, 'have 'ee seen the bank-book?'

"'Nay, John,' says I; 'nay; 'twasn't to be expected, but I did hear,
John,' says I, 'as it were worth lookin' at.'

"He did sit him down then, an' did begin to whistle to hisself, an' to
rub his knees up and down. He had his best clothes on, an' the big
tall hat as he'd a-bought for the first poor Mrs. John's funeral. He
took it off after a while, and did keep turnin' it round and round in
his hands. 'Where's Robert?' says he, all to once.

"'Cleaning up a bit i' the bedroom,' says I.

"'I think I'll go to en,' says he.

"'Not you,' says I, determined-like. 'Sit you there, that's a good
man. She'll be here in a minute.'

"But Robert come down first, an' we was gettin' a bit anxious when
Mrs. Maidment did tap at the door. She was lookin' real well an'
genteel, in a black silk dress, and wi' one o' them little black bags
as they did use to call ridicules in her hand. Poor Brother John could
scarce take his eyes off it, for he made sure, d'ye see, as she'd
a-brought the bank-book inside. Well, the tea did pass off so pleasant
as could be, and so soon as it was over I did make a sign to Robert.

"'I've summat to show 'ee' says I, an' so soon as I did get en
outside, I did sauce en for bein' so stupid.

"'How be they ever to get things settled wi' us two a-lookin' at 'em?'
says I.

"We did stay outside a-kickin' of our heels for above half-an-hour,
an' then we did come in--an' there they was a-settin' one on each side
of the fire so comfortable as you could wish. Sarah looked up when I
opened the door, an' she says straight out, 'We've pretty nigh settled
things, but I shan't give my promise until I've had a look round Mr.
Domeny's place. I'd like to make sure as it 'ud suit me,' says she.

"'To be sure,' says John, who was lookin' a bit puzzled, but very
pleasant. 'To be sure. Next Thursday--now what 'ud ye say to makin' up
a party next Thursday, all on ye, an' drivin' over in the arternoon?
I'd have kettle bilin',' says he, 'an' all set out so well as a poor
lone man can do it, an' maybe one o' you ladies 'ud make tea?'"

Mrs. Cross sucked in her breath in token of intensifying enjoyment,
and turned her head yet a little more on one side.

"And so?" prompted she, as Mrs. Domeny paused.

"And so, Thursday come, an' we did get a trap off Mr. Sharpe, an' we
set off. Brother John was a-standin' on the doorstep on the look-out
for us, and he did lead Mrs. Maidment in and sit her down at the head
of the table.

"'Let's hope,' says he, 'it may be your nat'ral place afore long.'

"She jist smiled back wi'out speakin'; an' all the time we was havin'
our tea, I could see her eyes a-rovin' round the room, here an' there
an' everywhere. The teapot had a chip out of the spout, an' she did
jist pass her finger along it.

"'T'ud be easy to get a new un,' says Brother John, for he knowed what
she meant. An' then she looks down at the table-cloth--'It wants
darnin',' says she. "Tis easy seen as a woman's hands be needed here.'

"'They are, truly,' says he, lookin' at her so wistful-like.

"'Well, we'll see,' says she, noddin' at him very kind."

"An' did she really look over everything Mrs. Domeny, my dear?"
interrupted Mrs. Cross eagerly. "She must ha' been a wonderful
sensible woman!"

"You'd ha' said so if you could ha' seen her. There! there wasn't so
much as a pan as she didn't look into. Behind the doors, and under the
bed; she turned over the very blankets, I do assure 'ee. Upstairs an'
down she went, an' roun' the yard, an' down the garden, an' into the
shed. Poor Brother John kep' a-trottin' after her, an' at last she
come back to the kitchen again."

[Illustration: THE ROMANCE OF BROTHER JOHN
"Poor Brother John kep a trottin' after her"]

"'Well, Mr. Domeny,' says she, 'if ye'll go to the expense of a few
buckets of whitewash, an' give a lick o' paint to the door here, I
think it 'ull do very well.' So they settled the day an' everythin'
there an' then."

"Well, to be sure!" ejaculated Mrs. Cross. "It do sound jist like a
book; an' talkin' o' that, I suppose she did show en the bank-book?"

"She never gave en so much as a sight o' it, Mrs. Cross, if you
believe me. Kep' it locked up, she did, and never let him throw his
eye over it till the day of her death. I went up to see en so soon as
I heard as all were over, an' found en cryin' fit to break his heart.

"'Come, Brother John,' says I, ''tis a sad loss, as we do all know,
but you must bear up.'

"''Tisn't only the loss o' poor Sarah,' says he, ''tis--'tis,' an' his
'eart were that full he couldn't say no more, but jist held out the
bank-book to me. My dear, there weren't above three pound in it!"

"Dear heart alive!" ejaculated Mrs. Cross, clapping her hands
together, "I never heerd o' such a thing i' my life. Why," she added
energetically, "it 'ud scarce pay for the whitewash! An' yet he gave
her a nice funeral, ye tell me?"

"'E--es, my dear. Ye see, 'tis this way. Brother John be a very just
man, an' so soon as he did get over his first disappointment, he did
say to I, m'urnful like, but very patient--

"'Mary,' he says, 'it weren't what I did look for, an' it weren't what
I were led to expect, but takin' one thing wi' another,' says he, 'I
don't regret it. Poor Sarah was a wonderful hand at managin' pigs,'
says he, 'an I never see'd her equal for bringin' up chicken. No!' he
says, 'I don't regret it.'"

"Well, he couldn't say no fairer than that," commented Mrs. Cross
admiringly. "Yes," she added, drawing a long breath, "'tis just what
you do say, Mrs. Domeny--it be a reg'lar romance."




GILES IN LUCK


Giles Maine sat in the middle of the ward, his hands crossed on his
new umbrella, while his fellow-inmates gathered together in knots and
stared at him, some curiously, some enviously, some a little
regretfully, though all were ready to wish him God-speed when the
moment of parting came.

By a strange turn of Fortune's wheel, Giles Maine, the oldest inmate
of Branston Union, who had in truth for twenty years known no other
home, now found himself, at the age of seventy-eight, a comparatively
wealthy man. A distant relative, a relative so distant indeed that
Giles had been unaware of his existence, had recently died intestate,
and Giles proved to be his next-of-kin.

It had taken him some time to grasp the situation, and to understand
that he was now free to live where he would, in a position of comfort,
not to say affluence. Everybody had taken him in hand, however; the
master had ordered a brand-new suit of clothes for him; the matron had
engaged rooms in the village, and had put him under the charge of his
future landlady, who was a motherly sort of woman, and could be
trusted to look after him; the clergyman had given him much kind
advice, and many friendly warnings; and at length the old man found
himself ready to depart. He was now, in fact, only waiting to say
good-bye to the matron before turning his back for ever on the bare
room where he had spent so many monotonous hours.

The prospect ought surely to have elated him, yet his face wore a very
blank expression as he sat awaiting the expected summons; his new
clothes felt strange and stiff, the high collar of his fine white
shirt hurt his neck, his shiny new boots pinched his feet, the knobby
handle of his massive umbrella was not so comfortable to grasp as the
familiar crook of his battered old stick.

"First turn at the end of the lane, then third house on the right, and
ax for Mrs. Tapper," he repeated to himself from time to time. "First
turn, and third house--'e-es I can mind it right enough--third house
and ax for Mrs. Tapper."

"'Tis a pity," said some one for the fortieth time that day, "'tis a
pity, Mr. Maine, as you ain't got no folks o' your own. Ah, 'tis a
pity, sure. 'Twould ha' been more cheerful like if you'd ha' been
going home."

"'E-es," agreed Giles, also for the fortieth time, "'e-es I d' 'low it
would, but I ain't had no folk--there! I can scarce mind when I had
any. I never so much as heerd the name o' this 'ere chap what has left
me his fortun'. Never heerd his name--never so much as knowed he were
born."

"Dear to be sure! It seems strange, don't it? And him to leave ye his
money and all. I wonder where ye'll go, Mr. Maine. P'r'aps ye'll go to
Lunnon?"

"To Lunnon?" gasped Giles, his jaw dropping. "What should I go to
Lunnon for?"

"Oh, I don't know--ye can go where ye like, d'ye see. I reckon I'd go
to Lunnon if I was in your shoes."

"Would 'ee?" queried Giles, interested, but still aghast. "Nay now, ye
see, I never was one for travellin'--I've never been so far as
Darchester, not once all the time I were"--he jerked his thumb over
his shoulder--"outside."

"Well, your lodgin' be only took on trial, so to speak, to see how ye
do like it," said another man. "Ye can change it so soon as ye please,
and move here and there just as ye fancy. A fine life--I'd give summat
to be you."

"I never was one for movin' much," said the old man, uneasily. "Nay,
movin' weren't in my line. I did use to work for the same master
pretty near all my life, till I were took bad wi' the rheumatiz.
'E-es, he were a good master to I. I could be fain to see en again,
but he's dead, they tell me, and the family ha' shifted. There bain't
nobody out yonder as I ever had acquaintance wi' in the wold times.
Nay, all 'ull be new, and a bit strange."

"A pleasant change, I should think," a gruff man was beginning--an
unattractive person this, with a week-old beard and a frowning brow,
when an old fellow, who had been sitting disconsolately in the corner
of the room, suddenly struck in:

"I d' 'low, Giles, ye'll be like to miss we when ye're all among
strangers, I d' 'low ye will. 'E-es, ye'll be like to miss we just so
much as us'll miss you."

Giles rolled his eyes towards him with a startled expression, but said
nothing for a moment or two; then he remarked, in a somewhat dolorous
tone:

"I d' 'low I'll miss you, Jim; you and me has sat side by side this
fifteen year--'tis fifteen year, bain't it, since ye come?"

"Ah! fifteen year," agreed Jim. "I'll be the woldest inmate in th'
Union when you do leave."

"'E-es, Jim, thee 'ull be gettin' all the buns and all the baccy now,"
cried one of the others, laughing. "He'll have to stand up and say
'Good marnin'' to the gentry when they comes round, and tell his age,
and how long he've a-been here, and all. I d' 'low he'll do it just so
well as you."

Giles gazed at the speaker frowningly; he did not seem to like the
idea, but if he meditated a retort he was prevented from uttering it
by the advent of a messenger from the matron, which was the signal for
his own departure. He stood up, and went shuffling from one to the
other of his former cronies, shaking hands with them all, but without
speaking. He gripped Jim's hand the hardest, and pumped it up and down
for so long a time that the messenger grew impatient; and then he went
stumbling along the passage, and down the stone stairs to the door,
where the master and matron both stood awaiting him. He received the
money which had been placed in the master's hands for his actual
needs, and scraped his rickety old foot, and pulled his forelock,
after a forgotten fashion, as he listened to their kindly words. Then
they, too, shook hands with him, and accompanied him to the gate,
looking after the feeble old figure until it disappeared.

"I do hope Mrs. Tapper will look after him," said the matron. "He's no
more fit to take care of himself than a baby."

Giles tottered on down the hill, his eyes roaming vaguely over the
landscape, which was looking its fairest on this mellow June
afternoon. Yonder rolled the downs, all golden green in the light of
the sinking sun, nearer at hand lay the meadows, very sheets of
buttercup gold; every leaf and twig of the hedgerow was a-glitter,
too--all Nature, it seemed, had arrayed itself in splendour to
correspond with the old pauper's sudden access of wealth. Not that any
such fancy crossed his dazed mind. As he shuffled along he thought of
how he had walked this way last year, with Jim at his side, on one of
their rare outings. They had, in fact, been on their way to the
parsonage, and Jim, who had been a farm labourer in a previous state
of existence, had called his attention to the "for'ardness" of the
potatoes which were growing where the hay grew now.

Giles paused mechanically, and gazed at the billowing grass; and then
he went on a little, and stopped again at the next gap in the hedge,
where Jim had pointed out the splendid view of Branston.

"I could wish," he muttered, as he turned away, "we was goin' to tea
at the rectory now."

Farther down the road was a bench where it was the old paupers' custom
to sit awhile on their return journey, before beginning the steep
ascent of the hill; Giles sat stiffly down now, and once more stared
about him. By-and-by the town clock struck seven and he instinctively
rose to his feet, and began hurriedly to retrace his steps, but pulled
himself up of a sudden.

"Seven o'clock! It 'ud seem more nat'ral to be goin' up-along. I was
nigh forgettin' I be comed away! Mrs. Tapper 'ull think I bain't
a-comin' if I don't hurry up."

This time he made up his mind to continue his journey without further
interruptions, and very soon arrived at the end of the lane, and even
at the third house on the right, where he was duly received by Mrs.
Tapper. She was most civil, not to say respectful; called him "Sir"
and "Mr. Maine," hustled her children out of his way, installed him in
the elbow-chair in the corner, and waited upon him at tea-time as
though he had been a gentleman born.

At first Giles rather enjoyed it, but presently the feeling of
loneliness and strangeness, against which he had been struggling all
day, returned with redoubled force; and when he was finally ushered
into his clean tidy little room, and Mrs. Tapper, after calling his
attention to the various preparations she had made for his comfort,
left him to himself, he sat down on the side of the bed and groaned
aloud.

[Illustration: GILES IN LUCK
"Waited upon him at tea time as though he had been a gentleman born"]

They would just be about "turnin' in" at the Union, and Jim, laying
himself down on the pallet next to his, would be making the
time-honoured joke about the absence of spring-mattresses and
feather-beds, with which he was usually wont to regale the other
inmates at this hour. As Giles turned down the spotless
lavender-scented sheets he thought longingly of the workhouse twill.

A week later Giles was permitted to visit his former friends, laden
with such a store of buns and baccy as would have ensured his welcome,
even had not most of his cronies been genuinely glad to see him.

"Dear heart alive!" cried Jim, receiving his modicum of twist with a
delighted chuckle, "these be new times, these be. Who'd ever ha'
thought o' Giles Maine walkin' in like a lard wi' presents for us
all?"

But Giles was looking round with a foolish wavering sort of smile.

"It'd seem real homely in here," he remarked. "Ah! it do fur sure.
There be the papers as us'al, I see--I do miss papers awful out
yonder."

"Why, to be sure," cried one of the younger men, "you can buy 'em for
yourself now. I'm blowed if I wouldn't have all the papers as comes
out if I was you."

"I did go to a shop onest," said the old man, "and I did ax, but they
didn't seem able to gi' me the right 'uns. 'I want pictur's o' the
snow and folks huntin' and that,' says I. 'Not this time o' year,'
says the young lady; 'them's in Christmas numbers.' 'That's what I've
bin used to,' says I. 'Well, we can order 'em for you,' says she, but
I couldn't mind the names. I knowed one did begin 'G--r--a--p--' so I
did ax if they had one about 'Grape--summat,' and they did give I the
_Gardener_--ah, that was what they did call it; but there weren't no
pictur's in it at all, only flowers and mowing machines, and
sich-like."

"Why, ye mean the _Graphic_" cried some one with a laugh; "no wonder
the maid couldn't make out what you was a-drivin' at."

But Giles did not heed him; he was gazing hungrily at the greasy pack
of cards which lay on the deal table.

"It d' seem a martal sight of time since I've had a game," he
exclaimed. "Light up, Jim; you and me 'ull jist have time for one
afore tea."

When the bell rang for this last-named meal Giles rose with the rest,
and was preparing to walk with them down the well-known stairs, when
he was astonished by receiving an invitation to tea with no less a
person than the matron herself.

He smoothed his hair with the palms of his hands, pulled up his
shirt-collar, and followed the messenger with an odd mixture of pride
and reluctance. It was no doubt highly gratifying to be thus honoured
before all his former mates, but he was conscious of a secret yearning
to sit down once more in the old place, and munch his allotted portion
of bread and cheese with a friend at either elbow.

The matron received him cordially.

"Come in, Mr. Maine, and sit down; I am glad to have an opportunity of
chatting with you. It would never do for you to have tea with the
others now, you know."

"No, to be sure," agreed Giles blankly.

"Well, and how are you, Mr. Maine? Most comfortable and happy, Mrs.
Tapper tells me."

"'E-es, mum," returned Giles mournfully.

"Sugar and milk, Mr. Maine?"

"Thankee, mum, I likes it best pure naked. I'd be thankful to 'ee,
mum, if ye wouldn't call me Mr. Maine; it don't seem naitral like."

"Perhaps not," agreed the matron, with a kindly laugh. "Well,
Giles--I'll say Giles, then--Giles, do you know that you are quite a
remarkable person? They have been writing about you in the papers. 'A
lucky pauper,' they call you."

"Have they now, mum?" returned Maine, staring at her over the rim of
his cup.

"Yes, indeed, and people have been writing to me to know the
particulars. 'Tis not often, you see, such a stroke of good fortune
befalls an inmate of the Union."

"I s'pose not," he agreed, between two gulps of tea.

The matron continued to speak in this congratulatory vein while the
old man ate and drank; but though he occasionally muttered a word or
two which would seem to endorse her statements, his countenance was
far from wearing the joyful self-satisfied expression which she had
anticipated.

All at once he pushed away plate and cup.

"Mum," he said, "if I mid make so bold I'd like to say summat. I've
been a-thinkin'--couldn't I come back here?"

"Here!" echoed she in astonishment. "Here! to the workhouse?"

Giles nodded.

"Why, are you not happy at Mrs. Tapper's?"

"'E--es, oh, 'e--es, I haven't got no fault to find wi' she nor
naught; but I--I'd like the Union best."

"Well, but you see, my dear Giles, the Union is meant for people who
cannot live anywhere else. You have got plenty of money now, and--"

"I'd be willin' to pay," said Giles.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed the matron.

The old man looked at her stolidly, but made no further remark.

"I'm sure I don't know what to say," she went on, after a pause. "I
don't suppose such a thing has ever been heard of--I'm sure the
guardians would never allow it."

"I'd pay handsome," said Giles. "You ax 'em, mum."

"Well, I will if you like; but don't you think you are very foolish?
There you are, a man of property, who can hold up your head with the
best, and pay your way, and you want to come back here among a lot of
miserable paupers."

"I've a-been twenty year here," observed Giles, making the statement
in a dispassionate tone. "I know 'em all here, and I'm used to the
ways. I couldn't never get used to no other ways, and no other folks.
I'd sooner bide, mum, if ye'd ax 'em to let me. I'd not give no
trouble--no more n' I ever did, an' I'd pay for my keep."

"Well, well," said the matron, staring at him in puzzled amazement.

"Can I go up to 'em again for a bit?" queried the old man. "Me and Jim
was in the middle of a game."

"Oh, yes, you can go up to them."

He rose, scraped his leg and pulled his forelock as usual, and backed
out of the room, leaving his fine new hat on the ground beside his
chair.

Coming upon it presently, the matron decided to return it herself to
the owner; perhaps she was a little curious to see how he comported
himself among his mates.

She opened the door of the old men's ward so quietly that no one
noticed her entrance; the room was full of tobacco smoke, and the
inmates were sitting or standing about as usual. Giles sat in his old
corner, with Jim opposite to him; both had removed their coats, and
the grizzled heads were bent together over the battered cards.

"You be in luck, Jim," Giles exclaimed as the matron closed the door.
"You've turned up a Jack!"




"THE WOLD LOVE AND THE NOO"


"Have ye heard the noos?" said Betty Tuffin, thrusting in her head at
old Mrs. Haskell's open door.

"Lard, no, my dear," returned her crony, hastily dropping the crooked
iron bar with which she had been drawing together the logs upon her
hearthstone. "There, I never do seem to hear anything nowadays, my
wold man bein' so ter'ble punished wi' the lumbaguey and not able to
do a hand's turn for hisself. Why, I do assure 'ee I do scarce ever
set foot out o' door wi'out it's to pick up a bit o' scroff, or a few
logs--an' poor ones they be when I've a-got 'em. I can hardly see my
own hand for the smoke. Step in, do, Betty love, an' tell I all what's
to be told."

Betty had stepped in long before Mrs. Haskell had concluded her
harangue, and had, by this time, taken possession of a comfortable
corner of the screened settle, deposited her basket by her side,
folded her arms, and assumed that air of virtuous indignation which
denoted that she was about to relate the shortcomings of some third
party.

"Dear, to be sure! Souls alive! Lard ha' mercy me, ye could ha'
knocked I down wi' a feather when Keeper told I--"

"A-h-h-h, them bwoys o' Chaffey's has been poachin' again I d' 'low,"
interrupted Mrs. Haskell eagerly. "Never did see sich chaps as they be.
A body 'ud think they'd know better nor to act so unrespectable-like.
Why, as my wold man do say sometimes, 'ye mid as well put your hand in
Squire's pocket as go a-layin' snares for his hares an' rabbits--'tis
thievin' whichever way ye do look at it,' he do say."

"Well, I don't agree wi' he," responded Betty with some heat. She had
sons of her own who were occasionally given to strolling abroad on
moonlight nights, and usually returned with bulging pockets. "I don't
agree at all. The Lard made they little wild things for the poor so
well as for the rich--same as the water what runs through Squire's
park an' down along by the back o' my place. Who's to tell who they
belongs to. A hare 'ull lep up on one side o' the hedge, an' then
it'll be Squire's, an' it'll run across t'other side, an' then it's
Maister's, an' then it'll come an' squat down in my cabbage
garden--then I d' 'low 'tis mine if I can catch it."

Mrs. Haskell, who was too anxious to gossip to dally by the way in a
disquisition on the Game Laws, assented to her friend's argument with
somewhat disappointing promptness, and returned to the original
subject of discussion.

"I be real curious to hear that there bit o' noos."

"You'll be surprised I d' 'low," said Mrs. Tuffin. "Ye mind Abel Guppy
what went off to the war out there abroad wi' the Yeomanry? Well, they
d' say he be killed."

"Dear, now, ye don't tell I so," said the other in a dispassionate,
and if truth be told, somewhat disappointed tone. A death, though
always exciting, was not after all so very uncommon, and when a man
"'listed for a soldier," most of the older village folk looked upon
his destruction as a foregone conclusion. "Killed, poor young chap!
His aunt Susan 'ull be terrible opset."

"I d' 'low she will be opset," said Betty meaningly, "and it bain't
only along of him bein' killed, poor feller, but you'd never think,
Mrs. Haskell, how things have a-turned out. Ye mind that maid up to
Bartlett's what he was a-courtin'?"

"'E-es, to be sure I do. A great big bouncin' wench as ever I did see,
wi' her red head an' all."

"Well, it seems afore poor Abel went out he wrote a paper an' give it
to this 'ere maid, a-leavin' her everything as the poor chap had in
the world."

"Mercy on me! But she be a-walkin' out wi' somebody else they tell me;
she've a-took up wi' the noo love afore she did leave off wi' the
wold."

"She have," agreed the visitor emphatically. "That be the very thing
Susan 'ull find so cruel 'ard. She did say to I to-week afore she
knowed her nevvy were killed, 'If any harm comes to en,' says she, 'it
do fair break my heart to think as that good-for-nothing Jenny Pitcher
'ull have her pick of everything in this place. It bain't the same as
if she'd truly m'urned for en, but she've a-taken up wi' a new young
man,' says she, 'what walks out wi' her reg'lar.'--'My dear,' says I,
'if anything should happen to your nevvy, which the Lard forbid,
she'll never have the face to come to ax for his bits o' things,
seein' as she haven't been faithful to en.' 'She will though,' says
Susan, an' 'tis the talk o' the place that _she will_.'"

Mrs. Haskell clapped her hands together. "Well, well! But what a sammy
the chap was. He did ought to ha' made sure afore makin' sich a will.
It be a will, I suppose, my dear?"

"It be a will sure enough," said Mrs. Tuffin gloomily. "There, Susan
did tell I as that there artful hussy made sure he got it signed an'
all reg'lar. There's a few pounds too in the savings bank--I don't
know if she'd be able to get 'em out or not."

"Well, I never heerd such a tale. That maid must be a reg'lar Jezebel,
Betty, that's what she must be. That hard-hearted, unfeelin'--Lard ha'
mercy me! Well, well, well!"

Betty took up her basket again, and was proceeding leisurely towards
the door, shaking her head and uttering condemnatory groans the while,
when she suddenly gripped her friend by the arm with an eager
exclamation.

"There she be!--there's the very maid a-walkin' by so bold as brass
with her young man along of her!"

"I shouldn't wonder," said Mrs. Haskell in sepulchral tones, "I
shouldn't wonder but what she be a-goin' up to Susan's to pick out
poor Abel's things."

"Dear, do you raly think so?" gasped Betty, almost dropping her basket
in her horror. "Why the noos of him bein' killed only come this
marnin'."

"I d' 'low she be a-goin' there," repeated Mrs. Haskell emphatically.
"If I was you, Betty, I'd follow 'em, careless-like, an' jist find
out. It do really seem like a dooty for to find out. I'd go along of
you only my wold man 'ull be a-hollerin' out for his tea."

A muffled voice was indeed heard at that very moment proceeding from
the bedroom, accompanied by an imperative knocking on the wall.

"There he be," said Mrs. Haskell, not without a certain pride. "He do
know the time so reg'lar as church clock. He'll go on a-shoutin' and
a-hammerin' at wall wi' his wold boot till I do come. I do tell en he
wears out a deal more shoe-leather that way nor if he were on his
feet."

She turned to go upstairs, and Betty crossing the threshold stood a
moment irresolute. Her basket, full of purchases recently made at the
shop a mile away, was heavy enough, and her feet were weary; but
Jenny's tantalising red head gleamed like a beacon twenty yards away
from her, and curiosity silenced the pleadings of fatigue. Hitching up
her basket she proceeded in the wake of the young couple, who were
walking slowly enough, the girl's bright head a little bent, the man
slouching along by her side in apparent silence. All at once the
observer saw Jenny's hand go to her pocket, and draw thence a
handkerchief which she pressed to her eyes.

"She be a-cryin'" commented Betty, not without a certain satisfaction.
"They've a-had a bit of a miff, I d' 'low; well, if the young man have
a-got the feelin's of a man he'd be like to object to this 'ere notion
of hers--Nay, now, he do seem to be a-comfortin' of her. There! Well!"

They had left the village behind, and Betty's solitary figure was
probably unnoticed by the lovers. In any case it proved no hindrance
to the very affectionate demonstrations which now took place.
Presently Jenny straightened her hat, restored her handkerchief to her
pocket, and walked on, "arm-in-crook" with her admirer.

"They be a-goin' to Susan's, sure enough. Well, to be sure! Of all the
hard-hearted brazen-faced--!" words failed her, and she quickened her
pace as the couple disappeared round the angle of the lane. A few
minutes' brisk walking brought the pair, with Betty at their heels, to
a solitary cottage standing a little back from the lane in the shelter
of a high furze-grown bank. As the young man tapped at the door Jenny
turned and descried Betty's figure by the garden-gate.

"Is it you, Mrs. Tuffin?" she inquired. "I can scarce see who 'tis wi'
the sun shinin' in my eyes. Be you a-goin' in?"

"It's me," responded Betty tartly, in reply to the first question,
while she dismissed the second with an equally curt "I be."

The door opened and the figure of a stout elderly woman stood outlined
against the glow of firelight within. She peered out, shading her eyes
from the level rays of the sinking sun, and starting back at sight of
Jenny.

"'Tis you, be it? Well, I didn't think you'd have the face to come, so
soon."

"I did just look in to say a word o' consolation, Miss Vacher," said
the girl, drawing herself up. "I be very grieved myself about this
melancholy noos. I've a-been cryin' terrible, I have, an' says I, 'Me
an' poor Abel's dear aunt 'ull mingle our tears.'"

"Mingle fiddlesticks!" said Susan. "What be that there young spark o'
yours a-doin' here? Be he come to drop a tear too?"

"He be come along to take care of I," said the girl demurely. "'Tis
Mr. Sam Keynes. He didn't think it right for I to walk so far by
myself. Did ye, Sam?"

"Well, now ye can walk back wi' her," said Susan, addressing that
gentleman before he had time to answer. "I don't want no tears
a-mingled here. Who be that by the gate?"

"'Tis me, Betty Tuffin," returned the owner of that name. "I didn't
come wi' these 'ere young folks--don't think it, my dear. I come to
see if this 'ere noos be true an' to tell you how sorry I be."

"I'd 'low the noos bain't true, but come in all the same, Betty. I be
al'ays glad to see _you_. You'd best be marchin', Jenny Pitcher, you
and your new sweetheart, else it'll be dark afore you get home."

Jenny looked at her admirer, who nodded encouragingly and nudged her
with his elbow.

"I think as we've a-come so far," she remarked, "I must ax leave to
step in for a bit, Miss Vacher. 'Tis a little matter o' business, and
business is a thing what ought to be attended to immediate."

Miss Vacher threw open the door with such violence that the handle
banged against the wall, and stepped back with sarcastic politeness.

"Oh, come in, do. Come, and poke and pry, and see what ye can pick for
yourself."

Sarcasm had turned to fury by the time the end of the sentence was
reached, and, as Jenny, overcome by conflicting emotions, was about to
sink into the nearest chair, she darted forward and snatched it away.

"That's mine anyhow," she cried emphatically. "You shan't touch that."

Jenny almost fell against the tabl

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/12150