packed up," replied Mary Standish.
"His working clothes!" cried Grizzel.
"A going to take 'em to the tailor's, maybe, to get 'em done up. And not
afore they wanted it."
"Why, it's spending money for nothing," was Grizzel's comment. "I could
ha' done up them clothes."
"Well, it's what Mother Dodd thought," concluded Mary Standish.
We said good night, and went racing home, leaving the two women at the
door, Grizzel lodging the heavy blackberry pie on the old grindstone.
* * * * *
It was a glorious day for Grizzel's wedding. The hour fixed by the clerk
(old Bumford) was ten o'clock, so that it might be got well over before
the bell rang out for service. We reached the church early. Amongst the
few spectators already there was cross-grained Molly, pocketing her
ill-temper and for once meaning to be gracious to Grizzel.
Ten o'clock struck, and the big old clock went ticking on. Clerk Bumford
(a pompous man when free from gout) began abusing the wedding-party for
not keeping its time. The quarter past was striking when Grizzel came
up, with Mary Standish and a young girl. She looked white and nervous,
and not at all at ease in her bridal attire--a green gown of some kind
of stuff, and no end of pink ribbons: the choice of colours being
Grizzel's own.
"Is Roper here yet?" whispered Mary Standish.
"Not yet."
"It's too bad of him!" she continued. "Never to send a body word whether
he meant to call for us, or not: and us a waiting there till now,
expecting of him."
But where was George Roper? And (as old Bumford asked) what did he mean
by it? The clergyman in his surplice and hood looked out at the vestry
twice, as if questioning what the delay meant. We stood just inside the
porch, and Grizzel grew whiter and whiter.
"Just a few minutes more o' this delay, and there won't be no wedding
at all this blessed morning," announced Clerk Bumford for the public
benefit. "George Roper wants a good blowing up, he do."
Ere the words were well spoken, a young man named Dicker, who was a
fellow-lodger of Roper's and was to have accompanied him to church, made
his appearance alone. That something had gone wrong was plainly to be
seen: but, what with the publicity of his present position, and what
with the stern clerk pouncing down upon him in wrath, the young man
could hardly get his news out.
In the first place, Roper had never been home all night; never been
seen, in short, since he had left Mrs. Dodd's with the bundle,
as related by Mary Standish. That morning, while Dicker in his
consternation knew not what to be at--whether to be off to church
alone, or to wait still, in the hope that Roper would come--two notes
were delivered at Mrs. Dodd's by a strange boy: the one addressed to
himself, John Dicker, the other to "Miss Clay," meaning Grizzel. They
bore ill news; George Roper had given up his marriage, and gone away
for good.
At this extraordinary crisis, pompous Clerk Bumford was so taken aback,
that he could only open his mouth and stare. It gave Dicker the
opportunity to put in a few words.
"What we thought at Mother Dodd's was, that Roper had took a drop too
much somewhere last evening, and couldn't get home. He's as sober a man
as can be--but whatever else was we to think? And when this writed note
come this morning, and we found he had gone off to Ameriky o' purpose
to avoid being married, we was downright floundered. This is yours,
Grizzel," added the young man in as gently considerate a tone as any
gentleman could have used.
Grizzel's hand shook as she took the letter he held out. She was biting
her pale lips hard to keep down emotion. "Take it and read it," she
whispered to Mary Standish--for in truth she herself could not, with all
that sea of curious eyes upon her.
But Mary Standish laboured under the slight disadvantage of not being
able to read writing: conscious of this difficulty, she would not touch
the letter. Mr. Bumford, his senses and his tongue returning together,
snatched it without ceremony out of Grizzel's hand.
"I'll read it," said he. And he did so. And I, Johnny Ludlow, give you
the copy verbatim.
"Der Grisl, saterdy evenin, this comes hoppin you be wel as it leves
me at presint, Which this is to declar to you der grisl that our
marage is at an end, it hav ben to much for me and praid on my
sperits, I cant stand it no longer nohow and hav took my leve of you
for ivir, Der Grisl I maks my best way this night to Livirpol to tak
ship for Ameriky, and my last hops for you hearby xprest is as you
may be hapy with annother, I were nivir worthey of you der grisl and
thats a fac, but I kep it from you til now when I cant kep it no
longer cause of my conshunse, once youv red this hear letter dont
you nivir think no mor on me agen, which I shant on you, Adew for
ivir,
"your unfortnit friend George Roper.
"Ide av carred acros that ther blakbured pi but shoud have ben to
late, my good hops is youl injoy the pi with another better nor you
ivir could along with me, best furwel wishes to Mary Standish.
G R."
What with the penmanship and what with the spelling, it took old
Bumford's spectacles some time to get through. A thunderbolt could
hardly have made more stir than this news. No one spoke, however; and
Mr. Bumford folded the letter in silence.
"I always knowed what that there Roper was worth," broke forth Molly.
"He pipe-clayed my best black cloak on the sly one day when I ordered
him off the premises. You be better without him, Grizzel, girl--and
here's my hand and wishing you better luck in token of it."
"Mrs. Dodd was right--them was a change a' clothes he was a taking with
him to Ameriky," added Mary Standish.
"Roper's a jail-bird, I should say," put in old Bumford. "A nice un
too."
"But what can it be that's went wrong--what is it that have took him
off?" wondered the young man, Dicker.
The parson in his surplice had come down the aisle and was standing to
listen. Grizzel, in the extremity of mental bitterness and confusion,
but striving to put a face of indifference on the matter before the
public, gazed around helplessly.
"I'm better without him, as Molly says--and what do I care?" she cried
recklessly, her lips quivering. The parson put his hand gravely on her
arm.
"My good young woman, I think you are in truth better without him. Such
a man as that is not worthy of a regret."
"No, sir, and I don't and won't regret him," was her rapid answer, the
voice rising hysterically.
As she turned, intending to leave the church, she came face to face with
Sandy Lett. I had seen him standing there, drinking in the words of the
note with all his ears and taking covert looks at Grizzel.
"Don't pass me by, Grizzel," said he. "I feel hearty sorry for all this,
and I hope that villain'll come to be drowned on his way to Ameriky. Let
me be your friend. I'll make you a good one."
"Thank you," she answered. "Please let me go by."
"Look here, Grizzel," he rejoined with a start, as if some thought had
at that moment occurred to him. "Why shouldn't you and me make it up
together? Now. If the one bridegroom's been a wicked runagate, and left
you all forsaken, you see another here ready to put on his shoes. Do,
Grizzel, do!"
"Do what?" she asked, not taking his meaning.
"Let's be married, Grizzel. You and me. There's the parson and Mr.
Bumford all ready, and we can get it over afore church begins. It's a
good home I've got to take you to. Don't say nay, my girl."
Now what should Grizzel do? Like the lone lorn widow in "David
Copperfield," who, when a ship's carpenter offered her marriage,
"instead of saying, 'Thank you, sir, I'd rather not,' up with a bucket
of water and dashed it over him," Grizzel "up" with her hand and dealt
Mr. Sandy a sounding smack on his left cheek. Smarting under the
infliction, Sandy Lett gave vent to a word or two of passion, out of
place in a church, and the parson administered a reprimand.
Grizzel had not waited. Before the sound of her hand had died away, she
was outside the door, quickly traversing the lonely churchyard. A fine
end to poor Grizzel's wedding!
The following day, Monday, Mrs. Todhetley went over to the cottage.
Grizzel, sitting with her hands before her, started up, and made believe
to be desperately busy with some tea-cups. We were all sorry for her.
"Mr. Todhetley has been making inquiry into this business, Grizzel,"
said the Mater, "and it certainly seems more mysterious than ever, for
he cannot hear a word against Roper. His late master says Roper was the
best servant he ever had; he is as sorry to lose him as can be."
"Oh, ma'am, but he's not worth troubling about--my thanks and duty to
the master all the same."
"Would you mind letting me see Roper's note?"
Grizzel took it out of the tea-caddy I had given her--which caddy was to
have been kept for show. Mrs. Todhetley, mastering the contents, and
biting her lips to suppress an occasional smile, sat in thought.
"I suppose this is Roper's own handwriting, Grizzel?"
"Oh, ma'am, it's his, safe enough. Not that I ever saw him write. He
talks about the blackberry pie, you see; one might know it is his by
that."
"Then, judging by what he says here, he must have got into some bad
conduct, or trouble, I think, which he has been clever enough to keep
from you and the world."
"Oh yes, that's it," said Grizzel. "Poor mother used to say one might
be deceived in a saint."
"Well, it's a pity but he had given some clue to its nature: it would
have been a sort of satisfaction. But now--I chiefly came over to ask
you, Grizzel, what you purpose to do?"
"There's only one thing for me now, ma'am," returned poor crestfallen
Grizzel, after a pause: "I must get another place."
"Will you come back to the Manor?"
A hesitation--a struggle--and then she flung her apron up to her face
and burst into tears. Dairy-maids have their feelings as well as their
betters, and Grizzel's "lines" were very bitter just then. She had been
so proud of this poor cottage home; she had grown to love it so in only
those few days, and to look forward to years of happiness within it in
their humble way: and now to find that she must give it up and go to
service again!
"The Squire says he will consider it as though you and Roper had not
taken the cottage; and he thinks he can find some one to rent it who
will buy the furniture of you--that is, if you prefer to sell it," she
resumed very kindly. "And I think you had better come back to us,
Grizzel. The new maid in your place does not suit at all."
Grizzel took down her apron and rubbed her eyes. "It's very good of you,
ma'am--and of the master--and I'd like to come back only for one thing.
I'm afraid Molly would let me have no peace in my life: she'd get
tanking at me about Roper before the others. Perhaps I'd hardly be able
to stand it."
"I will talk to her," said Mrs. Todhetley, rising to leave. "Where is
Mary Standish to-day?"
"Gone over to Alcester, ma'am. She had a errand there she said. But I
think it was only to tell her folks the tale of my trouble."
Molly had her "talking to" at once. It put her out a little; for she was
really feeling some pity for Grizzel, and did not at all intend to "get
tanking" at her. Molly had once experienced a similar disappointment
herself; and her heart was opening to Grizzel. After her dinner was
served that evening, she ran over to the cottage, in her coarse cooking
apron and without a bonnet.
"Look here," she said, bursting in upon Grizzel, sitting alone in the
dusk. "You come back to your place if you like--the missis says she has
given you the option--and don't you be afeard of me. 'Tisn't me as'll
ever give back to you a word about Roper; and, mind, when I says a thing
I mean it."
"Thank you, Molly," humbly replied poor Grizzel, catching her breath.
"The sooner you come back the better," continued Molly, fiercely. "For
it's not me and that wench we've got now as is going to stop together. I
had to call the missis into the dairy this blessed morning, and show her
the state it was in. So you'll come back, Grizzel--and we'll be glad to
see you."
Grizzel nodded her head: her heart was too full to speak.
"And as to that false villain of a Roper, as could serve a woman such a
pitiful trick, I only wish I had the doctoring of him! He should get
a--a--a----" Molly's voice, pitched in a high tone, died gradually away.
What on earth was it, stepping in upon them? Some most extraordinary
object, who opened the door softly, and came in with a pitch. Molly
peered at it in the darkness with open mouth.
A cry from Grizzel. A cry half of terror, half of pain. For she had
recognized the object to be a man, and George Roper. George Roper with
his hair and handsome whiskers cut off, and white sleeves in his brown
coat--so that he looked like a Merry Andrew.
He seemed three parts stupefied: not at all like a traveller in
condition to set off to America. Sinking into the nearest wooden chair,
he stared at Grizzel in a dazed way, and spoke in a slow, questioning,
wondering voice.
"I can't think what it is that's the matter with me."
"Where be your whiskers--and your hair?" burst forth Molly.
The man gazed at her for a minute or two, taking in the question
gradually; he then raised his trembling hand to either side his
face--feeling for the whiskers that were no longer there.
"A nice pot o' mischief _you_'ve been a getting into!" cried sharp
Molly. "Is that your own coat? What's gone of the sleeves?"
For, now that the coat could be seen closely, it turned out that
its sleeves had been cut out, leaving the bare white shirt-sleeves
underneath. Roper looked first at one arm, then at the other.
"What part of Ameriky be you bound for, and when do the ship sail?"
pursued sarcastic Molly.
The man opened his mouth and closed it again; like a born natural, as
Molly put it. Grizzel suddenly clung to him with a sobbing cry.
"He is ill, Molly; he's ill. He has had some trick played on him.
George, what be it?" But still George Roper only gazed about him as if
too stupid to understand.
In short, the man _was_ stupid. That is, he had been stupefied, and as
yet was only partially recovering its effects. He remembered going into
the barber's shop on Saturday night to have his hair cut, after leaving
his bundle of clothes at the tailor's. Some ale was served round at the
barber's, and he, Roper, took a glass. After that he remembered nothing:
all was blank, until he woke up an hour ago in the unused shed at the
back of the blacksmith's shop.
That the ale had been badly drugged, was evident. The question
arose--who had played the trick? In a day or two, when Roper had
recovered, an inquiry was set on foot: but nothing came of it. The
barber testified that Roper seemed sleepy after the ale, and a joke went
round that he must have been drinking some previously. He went out of
the shop without having his hair cut, with several more men--and that
was all the barber knew. Of course Sandy Lett was suspected. People said
he had done it in hope to get himself substituted as bridegroom. Lett,
however, vowed through thick and thin that he was innocent; and nothing
was traced home to him. Neither was the handwriting of the note.
They were married on the Thursday. Grizzel was too glad to get him back
unharmed to make bones about the shorn whiskers. No difficulty was made
about opening the church on a week-day. Clerk Bumford grumbled at it,
but the parson put him down. And the blackberry pie served still for the
wedding-dinner.
XVII.
BREAKING DOWN.
"Have him here a bit."
"Oh! But would you like it?"
"Like it?" retorted the Squire. "I know this: if I were a hard-worked
London clerk, ill for want of change and rest, and I had friends living
in a nice part of the country, I should feel it uncommonly hard if they
did not invite me."
"I'm sure it is very kind of you to think of it," said Mrs. Todhetley.
"Write at once and ask him," said the Squire.
They were speaking of a Mr. Marks. He was a relation of Mrs.
Todhetley's; a second or third cousin. She had not seen him since she
was a girl, when he used sometimes to come and stay at her father's. He
seemed not to have got on very well in life; was only a clerk on a small
salary, was married and had some children. A letter now and then passed
between them and Mrs. Todhetley, but no other acquaintanceship had been
kept up. About a month before this, Mrs. Todhetley had written to ask
how they were going on; and the wife in answering--for it was she who
wrote--said her husband was killing himself with work, and she quite
believed he would break down for good unless he had a rest.
We heard more about it later. James Marks was clerk in the great
financial house of Brown and Co. Not particularly great as to
reputation, for they made no noise in the world, but great as to
their transactions. They did a little banking in a small way, and had
mysterious money dealings with no end of foreign places: but if you
had gone into their counting-house in London you'd have seen nothing
to show for it, except Mr. Brown seated at a table-desk in a small
room, and half-a-dozen clerks, or so, writing hard, or bending over
columns of figures, in a larger one. Mr. Brown was an elderly little
gentleman in a chestnut wig, and the "Co." existed only in name.
James Marks had been thrown on the world when he was seventeen, with a
good education, good principles, and a great anxiety to get on in life.
He had to do it; for he had only himself to look to--and, mind you, I
have lived long enough to learn that that's not at all the worst thing a
young man can have. When some friends of his late father's got him into
Brown and Co.'s house, James Marks thought his fortune was made. That
is, he thought he was placed in a position to work up to one. But no.
Here he was, getting on for forty years of age, and with no more
prospect of fortune, or competency either, than he had had at the
beginning.
How many clerks, and especially bankers' clerks, are there in that
City of London now who could say the same! Who went into their house
(whatsoever it may be) in the hey-day of youth, exulting in their good
luck in having obtained the admission for which so many others were
striving. They saw not the long years of toil before them, the weary
days of close work, with no rest or intermission, except Sunday;
they saw not the struggle to live and pay; they saw not themselves
middle-aged men, with a wife and family, hardly able to keep the wolf
from the door. It was James Marks's case. He had married. And what with
having to keep up the appearance of gentlepeople (at least to make a
pretence at it) and to live in a decent-looking dwelling, and to buy
clothes, and to pay doctors' bills and children's schooling, I'll leave
you to guess how much he had left for luxuries out of his two hundred a
year.
When expenses were coming upon him thick and fast, Marks sought out some
night employment. A tradesman in the neighbourhood--Pimlico--a butterman
doing a flourishing business, advertised for a book-keeper to attend two
or three hours in the evening. James Marks presented himself and was
engaged. It had to be done in secrecy, lest offence should be taken at
head-quarters. Had the little man in the chestnut wig heard of it, he
might have objected to his clerk keeping any books but his own. Shut up
in the butterman's small back-closet that he called his counting-house,
Mr. Marks could be as private as need be. So there he was! After coming
home from his day's toil, instead of taking recreation, the home-sitting
with his wife, or the stroll in the summer weather, in place of throwing
work to the winds and giving his brain rest, James Marks, after
snatching a meal, tea and supper combined, went forth to work again, to
weary his eyes with more figures and his head with casting them up. He
generally managed to get home by eleven except on Saturday; but the
day's work was too much for any man. Better for him (could he have
pocketed pride, and gained over Brown and Co.) that he had hired himself
to stand behind the evening counter and serve out the butter and
cheese to the customers. It would at least have been a relief from the
accounts. And so the years had gone on.
A portion of the wife's letter to Mrs. Todhetley had run as follows:
"Thank you very much for your kind inquiries after my husband, and for
your hope that he is not overworking himself. _He is._ But I suppose I
must have said something about it in my last letter (I am ashamed to
remember that it was written two years ago!) that induced you to refer
to it. That he is overworking himself I have known for a long time:
and things that he has said lately have tended to alarm me. He speaks
of sometimes getting confused in the head. In the midst of a close
calculation he will suddenly seem to lose himself--lose memory and
figures and all, and then he has to leave off for some minutes, close
his eyes, and keep perfectly still, or else leave his stool and take a
few turns up and down the room. Another thing he mentions--that the
figures dance before his eyes in bed at night, and he is adding them up
in his brain as if it were daytime and reality. It is very evident to me
that he wants change and rest."
"And what a foolish fellow he must have been not to take it before
this!" cried the Squire, commenting on parts of the letter, while Mrs.
Todhetley wrote.
"Perhaps that is what he has not been able to do, sir," I said.
"Not able! Why, what d'ye mean, Johnny?"
"It is difficult for a banker's clerk to get holiday. Their work has to
go on all the same."
"Difficult! when a man's powers are breaking down! D'ye think bankers
are made of flint and steel, not to give their clerks holiday when it is
needed? Don't you talk nonsense, Johnny Ludlow."
But I was not so far wrong, after all. There came a letter of warm
thanks from Mr. Marks himself in answer to Mrs. Todhetley's invitation.
He said how much he should have liked to accept it and what great good
it would certainly have done him; but that upon applying for leave he
found he could not be spared. So there seemed to be an end of it; and we
hoped he would get better without the rest, and rub on as other clerks
have to rub on. But in less than a month he wrote again, saying he would
come if the Squire and Mrs. Todhetley were still pleased to have him.
He had been so much worse as to be obliged to tell Mr. Brown the
truth--that he believed he _must_ have rest; and Mr. Brown had granted
it to him.
It was the Wednesday in Passion Week, and a fine spring day, when James
Marks arrived at Dyke Manor. Easter was late that year. He was rather a
tall man, with dark eyes and very thin hair; he wore spectacles, and at
first was rather shy in manner.
You should have seen his delight in the change. The walks he took, the
enjoyment of what he called the sweet country. "Oh," he said one day
to us, "yours must be the happiest lot on earth. No forced work; your
living assured; nothing to do but to revel in this health-giving air!
Forgive my freedom, Mr. Todhetley," he added a moment after: "I was
contrasting your lot with my own."
We were passing through the fields towards the Court: the Squire was
taking him to see the Sterlings, and he had said he would rather walk
than drive. The hedges were breaking into green: the fields were yellow
with buttercups and cowslips. This was on the Monday. The sun shone and
the breeze was soft. Mr. Marks sniffed the air as he went along.
"Six months of this would make a new man of me," we heard him say to
himself in a low tone.
"Take it," cried the Squire.
Mr. Marks laughed, sadly enough. "You might as well tell me, sir, to--to
take heaven," he said impulsively. "The one is no more in my power than
the other.--Hark! I do believe that's the cuckoo!"
We stood to listen. It was the cuckoo, sure enough, for the first time
that spring. It only gave out two or three notes, though, and then was
silent.
"How many years it is since I heard the cuckoo!" he exclaimed, brushing
his hand across his eyes. "More than twenty, I suppose. It seems to
bring back my youth to me. What a thing it would be for us, sir, if we
could only go to the mill that grinds people young again!"
The Squire laughed. "It is good of _you_ to talk of age, Marks; why, I
must be nearly double yours," he added--which of course was random
speaking.
"I feel old, Mr. Todhetley: perhaps older than you do. Think of the
difference in our mode of life. I, tied to a desk for more hours of
the twenty-four than I care to think of, my brain ever at work; you,
revelling in this beautiful, healthy freedom!"
"Ay, well, it is a difference, when you come to think of it," said the
Squire soberly.