THE HEIR OF THE FAIRFIELDS.
At dead of night Alice was very ill, and Tom was called up to ride
across Cressley Common for the Wykeford doctor. Worse and worse she
grew. In this unknown danger--without the support of a husband’s love
or consolation--“the pains of hell gat hold of her,” the fear of death
was upon her. Glad was she in her lonely terrors to hear the friendly
voice of Doctor Willett as he came up the stairs, with a heavy, booted
step, in hurried conversation with old Dulcibella Crane, who had gone
down to meet him on hearing the sound of his arrival.
In lower tones the doctor put his questions when he had arrived in his
patient’s room, and his manner became stern, and his measures prompt,
and it was plain that he was very much alarmed.
Alice Fairfield was in danger--in so great danger that he would have
called in the Hatherton doctor, or any other, to share his
responsibility, if the horse which Tom drove had not had as much as he
could do that night in the long trot--and partly canter--to Wykeford
and back again to the Grange.
Alice’s danger increased, and her state became so alarming that the
doctor was afraid to leave his patient, and stayed that night at the
Grange.
In the morning he sent Tom to Hatherton with a summons for his brother
physician, and now this quaint household grew thoroughly alarmed.
The lady was past the effort of speaking, almost of thinking, and lay
like a white image in her bed. Old Dulcibella happily had charge of
the money, not much, which Alice had for present use; so the doctors
had their fees, and were gone, and Doctor Willett, of Wykeford, was to
come again in the evening, leaving his patient, as he said, quieter,
but still in a very precarious state.
When the Wykeford doctor returned he found her again too ill to think
of leaving her. At midnight Tom was obliged to mount, and ride away to
Hatherton for the other doctor.
Before the Hatherton doctor had reached the Grange, however, a tiny
voice was crying there--a little spirit had come, a scion of the
Fairfield race.
Mrs. Tarnley wrote to Harry Fairfield to Wyvern to announce the event,
which she did thus:--
“Sir,
“Master Harey, it has came a sirprise. Missis is this mornin’ gev
burth to a boy and air; babe is well, but Missis Fairfield low and
dangerous.
“Your servant,
“Mildred Tarnley.”
Dulcibella, without consulting Mildred, any more than Mildred did her,
wrote also a letter, gentler and more gracious, but certainly no
better spelled. When these reached Wyvern, Harry was from home.
It was not till four days had passed that Harry Fairfield arrived in
the afternoon.
He had thrown his horse’s bridle to Tom in the stable yard, and
appeared suddenly before Mildred Tarnley in the kitchen door.
“Well, how’s the lady in the straw?” inquired Harry, looking
uncomfortable, but smiling his best. “How is Miss Alice?”
“Mrs. Fairfield’s very bad, and the doctor han’t much hopes of her.
She lies at God’s mercy, sir.”
“She’ll be better, you’ll find. She’ll be all right soon. And when was
it--you put no date to your note?”
“On Friday, I think. We’re so put about here I scarce know one day
from t’other.”
“She’ll be better. Is any one here with her?”
“A nurse from Hatherton.”
“No one else? I thought Lady Wyndale might a’ come.”
“I was goin’ to send over there, but Doctor Willett said no.”
“Did he? Why?”
“Not yet a bit; he says she’d be in his way and no use, and maybe
worrit her into a fever.”
“Very like,” said Harry; “and how’s the boy--isn’t it a boy?”
“Boy--yes, sir, a fine thumpin’ baby--and like to do well, and will
prove, belike, a true, open-handed Fairfield, and a brave Squire o’
Wyvern.”
“Well, that’s as it may be. I’ll not trouble him. I have more than
enough to my share as it is--and there’s some things that’s better
never than late, and I’ll live and die a bachelor. I’ve more years
than my teeth shows.”
And Harry smiled and showed his fine teeth.
“There’s Fairfields has took a wife later than you,” said she, eyeing
him darkly.
“Too wise, old girl. You’ll not catch me at that work. Wives is like
Flanders’ mares, as the Squire says, fairest afar off.”
“Hey?” snarled old Mildred, with a prolonged note.
“No, lass, I don’t want, nohow, to be Squire o’ Wyvern--there’s more
pains than gains in it; always one thing or t’other wrong--one begs
and t’other robs, and ten cusses to one blessin’. I don’t want folks
to say o’ me as they does of some--Harry’s a hog, and does no good
till he dies.”
“Folk do like an estate, though,” said Mildred, with another shrewd
look.
“Ay, if all’s straight and clear, but I don’t like debts and bother,
and I a’ seen how the old boy’s worried that way till he’s fit to
drown himself in the pond. I can do something, buyin’ or sellin’; and
little and often, you know, fills the purse.”
Mildred was silent.
“They do say--I mean, I knows it for certain, there is a screw
loose--and you know where, I think--but how can I help that? The
Dutchwoman, I know, can prove her marriage to poor Charlie, but never
you blab--no more will I. There was no child o’ that marriage--neither
chick nor child, so, bein’ as she is, ’tis little to her how that
sow’s handled. ’Twould be a pity poor Charlie’s son should lose his
own; and ye may tell Alice I’m glad there’s a boy, and that she’ll ha’
no trouble from me, but all the help I can, and that’s a fact, and
that’s God’s truth.”
“Well, well, that _is_ queer!--I never heard man speak as you speak.”
There was a cynical incredulity in Mildred Tarnley’s tone.
“Listen, now--here we be alone, eh?” said he, looking round.
“Ye may say so,” she said, with a discontented emphasis.
“I’d tell you a thing in a minute, old Tarnley, only they say old
vessels must leak. Will you be staunch? Will ye hold your tongue on’t
if I tell you a thing?”
“Ay,” said Mildred.
“Because one barking dog sets all the street a-barking, ye know,” he
added.
“Ye know me well, Master Harry. I could hold my tongue always when
there was need.”
“And that’s the reason I’m going to talk to you,” said Harry, “and no
one knows it, mind, but yourself, and if it gets out I’ll know who to
blame.”
“’Twon’t get out for me,” said Mildred, looking hard at him.
“One devil drubs another, they say, and if the young Squire upstairs
has a foot in the mud I’ve one in the mire,” said Harry. “If his hat
has a hole, my shoe has another. And ’tis a bad bargain where both are
losers.”
“Well, I can’t see it nohow. I don’t know what you’re drivin’ at; but
I think you’re no fool, Master Harry; ye never was that, and it’s a
cunning part, I’ve heered, to play the fool well.”
And Harry did look very cunning as she cited this saw, and for a
moment also a little put out. But he quickly resumed, and staring in
her face surlily, said he--
“Well, I _am_ cunnin’; I hope I am; and you’re a little bit that way
yourself, old Mildred; no fool, anyhow, that ever I could see.”
“Crafty I may be, I ha’ lived years and seen folk enough to make me,
but my heart weren’t set never on pelf.
‘A thousand pounds and a bottle of hay
Is all one at doom’s-day.’”
“So it is,” said he, “but there’s a good many days ’twixt this and
doom’s-day yet, and money ’ll do more than my lord’s letter, any
place, and I’ll not deny I’d like Wyvern well enough if my hand was
free to lay on it. But I a’ thought it well over, and it wouldn’t fit
me nohow. I can’t.”
“Ye’re the first Fairfield I ever heered say that Wyvern wouldn’t fit
him,” said she.
“Is that beer in the jug?” he asked, nodding toward a brown jug that
stood on the dresser.
“Yes, sir. Would ye like a drink?”
“Ay, if it baint stale.”
“Fresh drew, just as you was coming in, sir,” said she, setting it
down on the table. “I’ll fetch ye a glass.”
“Never mind a glass, a rantin’ dog like me can drink out of a
well-bucket, much less a brown jug,” and clutching it carelessly by
the handle he quaffed as long and deep a draught as his ancestor and
namesake might after his exhausting flight from Worcester a couple of
hundred years before.
“You are puzzled, old girl, and don’t know whether I be in jest or
earnest. But, good or bad, wives must be had--you know, and you never
heard of a Fairfield yet that was lucky in a wife, or hadn’t a screw
loose sometime about they sort o’ cattle; and ye’re an old servant,
Mildred, and though you be a bit testy, you’re true, and I may tell ye
things I wouldn’t tell no one, not the Governor, not my little finger;
I’d burn my shirt if it knew; and ye won’t tell no one, upon your
soul, and as ye hope to be saved?”
“I can keep counsel, I’m good at that,” said Mildred.
“Well, I need not say no more than this: there’s them that’s quiet
enough now, and will be, that if they thought I was Squire o’ Wyvern
I’d make the world too hot to hold me. I’d rather be Harry Fairfield
at fair and market than archbishop of hell, I can tell ye, havin’ no
likin’ for fine titles and honour, and glory, wi’ a tethered leg and a
sore heart; better to go your own gait, and eat your mouthful where ye
find it, than go in gold wi’ a broken back, that’s all, and that’s
truth. If ’twas otherwise I’d be down in the mouth, I can tell you,
about the young genman upstairs, and I’d a’ liked his birthday no
better than a shepherd loves a bright Candlemas; but as it is--no
matter, ’tis better to me than a pot o’ gold, and I drink the little
chap’s health, and I wish she had a sieve full o’ them, and that’s
God’s truth, as I stand here,” and Harry backed the declaration with
an oath.
“Well, I believe you, Harry,” said Mildred.
“And I’m glad o’t,” she added after a pause.
“I’m very glad--there has been ill blood o’er much in the family,” she
resumed; “it’s time there should be peace and brotherhood, God
knows--and--I’m glad to hear you speak like that, sir.”
And, so saying, she extended her dark, hard palm to him, and he took
it, and laughed.
“Every man knows where his own shoe pinches,” said he; “’tis a
shrewish world, old girl, and there’s warts and chilblains where no
one guesses, but things won’t be for ever; ’tis a long lane, ye know,
that has no turning, and the burr won’t stick always.”
“Ay, ay, Master Harry, as I’ve heard the old folks say, ‘Be the day
never so long, at last cometh even-song.’”
“And how is the lady herself?” said he.
“As bad as can be, a’most,” answered Mildred.
“Who says so?” he asked.
“The doctor; he has no opinion of her, I’m afeared, poor little
thing.”
“The doctor--does he?--but is he any good?”
“It’s Doctor Willett, of Wykeford. He’s thought a deal of by most folk
down here. I don’t know, I’m sure, but he seems very nice about her, I
think, and kind, and looks after the baby too.”
“That’s right; I’m glad o’ that. I’d pay something myself rather than
it should be neglected; and what does he say o’ the boy?”
“Doin’ very well--nothin’ against him; but, you know, ’tis only a few
days, and o’er soon to judge yet a bit.”
“I wonder could she see me for a minute?”
“Hoot, man! How came that in your head? Why, the room’s dark, and she
never speaks above a whisper, and not five words then, and only,
maybe, thrice in a day. Ye don’t know what way she is; ’tis just the
turn o’ a halfpenny whether she’ll live till mornin’.”
“That’s bad. I didn’t think she could be that bad,” said he.
“She is, then.”
“’Twould do her no harm to know that there’s some rent--about thirty
pounds--due from Riddleswake. I’ll give Tom a bit of a note to Farmer
Wycraft, and he’ll pay it. It’s settled to her for her life--I know
that--and she’ll be wantin’ money; and see you that the child wants
nothing. I have lots o’ reasons why that child should do well. This
ain’t bad beer, I can tell you. Another mug of it wouldn’t hurt me,
and if you can make me out a mouthful of anything; I’m beastly
hungry.”
A bit of cold corned beef, some cheese, and a loaf Mildred Tarnley
produced, and Harry made a hearty meal in the kitchen, not disturbing
that engrossing business by conversation, while old Mildred went to
and fro, into the scullery and back again, and busied herself about
her saucepans and dishes.
“Now get me a pen and ink and a bit o’ paper. There’s no one in the
house will be the worse of a little money, and I’ll write that note.”
And so he did, and handed it to Mildred with the air of a prince who
was bestowing a gift.
“_There!_ That will make the mare go for a while longer; and, look ye,
where’s old Dulcibella Crane? I’d like to shake hands wi’ her before I
go.”
“Upstairs, wi’ her mistress.”
“Tell her to come down and see me for a minute; and mind, old Tarnley,
ye must write to me often--to-morrow and next day--and--where’s my
hat?--on my head, by Jove--and so on; for if anything should
happen--if little Alice should founder, you know--there should be some
one, when she’s off the hooks, to look after things a bit; and the
Governor won’t do nothing--put that out o’ yer head--and ’twill all
fall on my shoulders; and send her down to me--old Dulcibella Crane, I
mean--for I’m going, and unless I’m wanted I mayn’t see ye here for
many a day.”
Thus charged, Mildred Tarnley went away, and in a few minutes old
Dulcibella appeared.
From her, after he had examined her as to the state of the lady
upstairs, and of her baby, he exacted the same promise as that which
Mildred had made him--a promise to write often to Wyvern.
He did not mind making her the same odd confidence which he had made
to Mildred. There was no need, he thought, for Dulcibella was
soft-hearted, and somewhat soft-headed, too, and by no means given to
suspicion; and as she had not the evil that attends shrewdness,
neither had she the reliability, and she was too much given to
talking, and his secret would then become more public than he cared to
make it.
“And tell the mistress I wish her joy, do you mind, and I’d like to
stand godfather to the boy whenever the christenin’ is, and to put me
to any work she thinks I’m fit for; and tell her I wrote about a
handful o’ rent that’s coming to her; and good-bye, and take care o’
yourself; and who’s nursin’ the baby?”
“We feeds it wi’ goat’s milk and sich like, by direction of the
doctor. Wouldn’t ye like to see it?”
“Not this time--I’m off--but--who’s taking charge of him?”
“Among us the poor little darling is, but mostly me.”
“Well, that’s right, and look after it well, and I’ll give ye a bit o’
money--when--when it’s on a little, and don’t forget to write; and ye
needn’t say nout to old Mildred, for she’s goin’ to write too, and
might take huff if she knew that you was writin’ also, do you see?”
“Yes, Master Harry, surely none shall know, and I’m thinkin’ ye
_would_ like to see it, and it won’t be nothin’ the worse, ye’ll find,
and it _is_ such a darlin’.”
“And so like its poor papa that’s gone, eh? But I haven’t no time,
dear, this bout, and you may give his worship my kind regards, and
tell him the more he thrives the better I’m pleased, and old chimnies
won’t stand for ever, and he won’t be long kept out of his own, and
I’ll keep them aloof that would make or meddle or mar, and good-by,
old Dulcie Crane, and mind what I said.”
And clapping her on the shoulder with his strong hand, he smiled after
his fashion, and wagged his head and strode into the yard, mounted his
horse, and was soon far away on the road from Carwell Grange.