Of all the domestics turned adrift from Llangorren one alone interests
us--Joseph Preece--"Old Joe," as his young mistress used familiarly to
call him.
As Jack Wingate has made his mother aware, Joe has moved into the house
formerly inhabited by Coracle Dick; so far changing places with the
poacher, who now occupies the lodge in which the old man ere while lived
as one of the retainers of the Wynn family.
Beyond this the exchange has not extended. Richard Dempsey, under the
new _regime_ at Llangorren, has been promoted to higher office than was
ever held by Joseph Preece; who, on the other hand, has neither turned
poacher, nor intends doing so. Instead, the versatile Joseph, as if to
keep up his character for versatility, has taken to a new calling
altogether--that of basket-making, with the construction of bird-cages
and other kinds of wicker-work. Rather is it the resumption of an old
business to which he had been brought up, but abandoned long years agone
on entering the service of Squire Wynn. Having considerable skill in
this textile trade, he hopes in his old age to make it maintain him.
Only in part; for, thanks to the generosity of his former master, and
more still that of his late mistress, Joe has laid by a little
_pecunium_, nearly enough for his needs; so that, in truth, he has taken
to the wicker-working less from necessity than for the sake of having
something to do. The old man of many _metiers_ has never led an idle
life, and dislikes leading it.
Is is not by any accident he has drifted into the domicile late in the
occupation of Dick Dempsey, though Dick had nothing to do with it. The
poacher himself was but a week-to-week tenant, and of course cleared out
soon as obtaining his promotion. Then, the place being to let, at a low
rent, the ex-Charon saw it would suit him; all the better because of a
"withey bed" belonging to the same landlord, which was to let at the
same time. This last being at the mouth of the dingle in which the
solitary dwelling stands--and promising a convenient supply of the raw
material for his projected manufacture--he has taken a lease of it along
with the house.
Under his predecessor the premises having fallen into dilapidation--
almost ruin--the old boatman had a bargain of them, on condition of his
doing the repairs. He has done them; made the roof water-tight; given
the walls a coat of plaster and whitewash; laid a new floor--in short,
rendered the house habitable, and fairly comfortable.
Among other improvements he has partitioned off a second sleeping
apartment, and not only plastered but papered it. More still, neatly
and tastefully furnished it; the furniture consisting of an iron
bedstead, painted emerald green, with brass knobs; a new washstand, and
dressing table with mahogany framed glass on top, three cane chairs, a
towel horse, and other etceteras.
For himself? No; he has a bedroom besides. And this, by the style of
the plenishing, is evidently intended for one of the fair sex. Indeed,
one has already taken possession of it, as evinced by some female
apparel, suspended upon pegs against the wall; a pincushion, with a
brooch in it, on the dressing table; bracelets and a necklace besides,
with two or three scent bottles, and several other toilet trifles
scattered about in front of the framed glass. They cannot be the
belongings of "Old Joe's" wife, nor yet his daughter; for among the many
parts he has played in life, that of Benedict has not been. A bachelor
he is, and a bachelor he intends staying to the end of the chapter.
Who, then, is the owner of the brooch, bracelets, and other bijouterie?
In a word, his niece--a slip of a girl who was under-housemaid at
Llangorren; like himself, set at large, and now transformed into a
full-fledged housekeeper--his own. But before entering on parlour
duties at the Court, she had seen service in the kitchen, under the
cook; and some culinary skill, then and there acquired, now stands her
old uncle in stead. By her deft manipulation, stewed rabbit becomes as
jugged hare, so that it would be difficult to tell the difference; while
she has at her fingers' ends many other feats of the _cuisine_ that give
him gratification. The old servitor of Squire Wynn is in his way a
_gourmet_, and has a tooth for toothsome things.
His accomplished niece, with somewhat of his own cleverness, bears the
pretty name of Amy--Amy Preece, for she is his brother's child. And she
is pretty as her name, a bright blooming girl, rose-cheeked, with form
well-rounded, and flesh firm as a Ribston pippin. Her cheerful
countenance lights up the kitchen late shadowed by the presence and dark
scowling features of Coracle Dick--brightens it even more than the
brand-new tin-ware or the whitewash upon its walls.
Old Joe rejoices; and if he have a regret, it is that he had not long
ago taken up housekeeping for himself. But this thought suggests
another contradicting it. How could he while his young mistress lived?
She so much beloved by him, whose many beneficences have made him, as he
is, independent for the rest of his days, never more to be harassed by
care or distressed by toil, one of her latest largesses, the very last,
being to bestow upon him the pretty pleasure craft bearing her own name.
This she had actually done on the morning of that day, the twenty-first
anniversary of her birth, as it was the last of her life; thus by an act
of grand generosity commemorating two events so strangely, terribly, in
contrast! And as though some presentiment forewarned her of her own sad
fate, so soon to follow, she had secured the gift by a scrap of writing;
thus at the change in the Llangorren household enabling its old boatman
to claim the boat, and obtain it too. It is now lying just below, at
the brook's mouth by the withey bed, where Joe has made a mooring-place
for it. The handsome thing would fetch 50 pounds; and many a Wye
waterman would give his year's earnings to possess it. Indeed, more
than one has been after it, using arguments to induce its owner to
dispose of it--pointing out how idle of him to keep a craft so little
suited to his present calling!
All in vain. Old Joe would sooner sell his last shirt, or the
newly-bought furniture of his house--sooner go begging--than part with
that boat. It oft bore him beside his late mistress, so much lamented;
it will still bear him lamenting her--aye for the rest of his life. If
he has lost the lady he will cling to the souvenir, which carries her
honoured name!
But, however, faithful the old family retainer, and affectionate in his
memories, he does not let their sadness overpower him, nor always give
way to the same. Only at times when something turns up more vividly
than usual recalling Gwendoline Wynn to remembrance. On other and
ordinary occasions he is cheerful enough, this being his natural habit.
And never more than on a certain night shortly after that of his chance
encounter with Jack Wingate, when both were a shopping at Rugg's Ferry.
For there and then, in addition to the multifarious news imparted to the
young waterman, he gave the latter an invitation to visit him in his new
home; which was gladly and off-hand accepted.
"A bit o' supper and a drop o' somethin' to send it down," were the old
boatman's words specifying the entertainment.
The night has come round, and the "bit o' supper" is being prepared by
Amy, who is acting as though she was never more called upon to practise
the culinary art; and, according to her own way of thinking, she never
has been. For, to let out a little secret, the French lady's-maid was
not the only feminine at Llangorren Court who had cast admiring eyes on
the handsome boatman who came there rowing Captain Ryecroft. Raising
the curtain still higher, Amy Preece's position is exposed; she, too,
having been caught in that same net, spread for neither.
Not strange then, but altogether natural. She is now exerting herself
to cook a supper that will give gratification to the expected guest.
She would work her fingers off for Jack Wingate.
Possibly the uncle may have some suspicion of why she is moving about so
alertly, and besides looking so pleased like. If not a suspicion, he
has a wish and a hope. Nothing in life, now, would be so much to his
mind as to see his niece married to the man he has invited to visit him.
For never in all his life has old Joe met one he so greatly cottons to.
His intercourse with the young waterman, though scarce six months old,
seems as if it had been of twice as many years; so friendly and
pleasant, he not only wants it continued, but wishes it to become nearer
and dearer. If his niece be baiting a trap in the cooking of the
supper, he has himself set that trap by the "invite" he gave to the
expected guest.
A gentle tapping at the door tells him the trigger is touched; and,
responding to the signal, he calls out--
"That you, Jack Wingate? O' course it be. Come in!"
And in Jack Wingate comes.
Volume Three, Chapter XII.