The young Sennacherib, swaggering gayly from his unnatural parent's
door, was aware of something as nearly approaching a flutter as not
often disturbed the picturesque dulness of the village main street. By
some unusual chance there were half a dozen people in the road, and not
only did these turn to stare at him, but at least half a dozen others
peered at him from behind the curtains of cottage interiors, or boldly
flattened their noses against the bulbous little panes of glass in the
diamonded windows.
“Theer's a look of summat stirrin' i' the place, gaffer,” said Snac to
one ancient of the village.
“Why, yis, Mr. Eld, theer is that sort of a air about the pläas to-day,”
the old fellow answered, with a fine unconsciousness. “But then theer
mostly _is_ a bit of a crowd round our town pump.”
The crowd about the town pump consisted of one slatternly small girl and
a puppy.
“Can't a chap call on his feyther 'ithout the Midland counties turnin'
out to look at him?” Snac asked, smilingly.
“Yis,” returned the ancient, who was conveniently deaf on a sudden.
“Theer's been no such fine ripenin' weather for the wheat sence I wur a
lad.”
Snac gave the riding-whip he carried a burlesque threatening flourish,
and the old boy grinned humorously.
“Sin Joseph Beaker this mornin', Mr. Eld?” he asked.
“No,” said Snac. “What about him?”
“His lordship's gi'en him a set o' togs,” said the old rustic, “an'
he's drunker wi' the joy on 'em than iver I was with ode ale at
harvest-time.”
“Aha!” cried Snac, scenting a jest. “Wheer is he?”
“Why, theer he is!” said the rustic, and turning, Snac beheld Joseph
Beaker at that moment shambling round the corner of the graveyard wall,
followed closely by the youth of the village. The Earl of Barfield had
kept his promise, and had bestowed upon Joseph a laced waistcoat--a
waistcoat which had not been worn since the first decade of the century,
and was old-fashioned even then. It was of a fine crimson cloth, and
had a tarnished line of lace about the edge and around the flaps of the
pockets. Over this glorious garment Joseph wore a sky-bine swallow-tail
coat of forgotten fashion, and below it a pair of knee-breeches which,
being much too long for him, were adjusted midway about his shrunken
calves. A pair of hob-nailed bluchers and a battered straw hat gave a
somewhat feeble finish to these magnificences. As the poor Joseph aired
the splendors of his attire there was a faint and far-away imitation of
the Earl of Barfield in his gait, and he paused at times after a fashion
his lordship had, and perked his head from side to side as if in casual
observation of the general well-being.
“Good-morning, Lord Barfield,” cried Snac, as Joseph drew near. “It's a
sight for sore eyes to see your lordship a-lookin' so young and lusty.”
Joseph beamed at this public crowning of his loftiest hopes, and would
have gone by with a mere nod of lordly recognition but the triumph was
too much for him and he laughed aloud for joy. “Well, bless my soul!”
said Snac, in feigned astonishment, “it's Mister Beaker. Send I may
live if I didn't tek him for the Right Honorable th' Earl o' Barfield!
Thee'st shake hands with an old friend, Mr. Beaker? That's right.
Theer's nothin' I admire so much as to see a man as refuses to be
carried away with pride.” Joseph shook hands almost with enthusiasm.
“Theer's nothin' o' that sort about me, Mr. Eld,” he replied.
“That I'm sure on,” said Snac, with conviction. “But how gay we be
to-day, Mr. Beaker.”
“It was my lord as gi'en me these,” said Joseph, retiring a pace or two
to display his raiment, and gravely turning round in the presence of the
little crowd that surrounded him so that each might see the fulness of
its beauty.
At this moment Reuben Gold came swinging along the road with a green
baize bag under his arm. He was on his way to his uncle's house, and,
unobserved of Snac, took a place on the causeway to see what might be
the reason of this unusual gathering.
“Now,” said Snac, “I never thought as Lord Barfield 'ud be so mean as
to do things in that half-an'-half manner. I should ha' fancied, if
Lord Barfield had took it into his head to set up an extra gentleman in
livery, he'd ha' done it thorough.”
Joseph's countenance fell, and he surveyed his own arms and legs with
an air of criticism. Then he took hold of the gold-laced flaps of the
crimson waistcoat and laughed with a swift and intense approval.
“Ain't this been done thorough?” he demanded.
“As far as it goes, Joseph,” replied the jocular Snac, “it's noble, to
be sure.” Joseph became critical again, but again at the sight of the
gold-laced waistcoat his doubts vanished. “But surely, surely, Joseph,
he should ha' gi'en you a pair o' them high collars as he wears, and a
cravat, to go along with a get out like that.”
“He might ha' done that, to be sure,” said Joseph, tentatively.
“Might ha' done it!” cried Snac, with a voice of honest scorn. “Ah!
and would ha' done it if he'd been half a man, let alone a peer of the
realm. For that's what he is, Joseph--a peer of the realm.”
“So he is,” said the poor Joseph, who was rapidly sliding into the trap
which was set for him. “You would have expected a peer of the realm to
do it thorough, wouldn't you?”
“Look here, Joseph,” continued Snac, opening his trap wide, “you go
and tell him. 'My lord,' says you--a-speakin' like a man, Joseph, and
a-lookin' his lordship i' the face as a man in a suit of clothes like
them has got a right to do--'my lord,' you says, 'you're as mean as
you're high,' says you. 'What for?' says he. 'Why,' says you, 'for
settin' a man out i' this half-an'-half mode for the folks to laugh at.
Give me a collar and a cravat this minute, you says,' or else be ashamed
o' thyself. Be ayther a man or a mouse.' That's the way to talk to 'em,
Joseph.”
“Think so?” asked Joseph, with an air half martial and half doubtful.
“To be sure,” cried Snac; and with one exception everybody in the little
crowd echoed “To be sure!”
“I'll goo an' do it,” said Joseph, thus fortified, “this instant
minute.”
“Wait a bit Joseph,” said Reuben Gold, “I'm going that way. We'll go a
little of the road together.”
“Now, Mr. Gold,” cried Snac, in a whisper, recognizing Reuben's voice
before he turned, “don't you go an' spoil sport.”
“Snac, my lad,” responded Reuben, smiling, “it's poor sport.”
“He'd go an' tell him,” said Snac, with a delighted grin. “You can mek
him say annythin'.”
“That's why it's such poor sport,” said Reuben. “It's too easy. It's
sport to stand up for a bout with the sticks when the other man's a bit
better than you are, but it's no fun to beat a baby.”
“I like it better,” Snac replied, with candor, “when th' odds is on
t'other side. I like to be a bit better than t'other chap.”
“You like to win? That's natural. But you like to deserve a bit of
praise for winning; eh?”
Reuben walked away with the rescued Joseph at his side. Joseph was as
yet unconscious of his rescue, and was fully bent upon his message to
the earl.
“Theer's no denyin' that chap nothin,” said Snac, looking after Reuben's
retiring figure. “He's got that form an' smilin' manner as'll tek
no such thing as a no. An' lettin' that alone,” he continued, again
relapsing into candor, “he could punch my head if he wanted to, though
I'm a match for ere another man i' the parish--and he'd do it too, at
anny given minute, for all so mild as he is.”
“He's the spit of what his uncle was,” said the aged rustic. “When he
was a lad he was the best cudgel-player, the best man of his hands, and
the prettiest man of his feet from here to Castle Barfield.”
“He's fell off of late 'ears, then,” said Snac.
“Ah!” quavered the old fellow, “it's time as is too many for the best
on us, Mr. Eld. Who'd think as I'd iver stood again all comers for miles
and miles around for the ten-score yards? I did though!”
“Didst?” cried Snac. “Then tek a shillin' and get a drop o' good stuff
wi' it, an' warm up that old gizzard o' thine wi' thinkin' o' thy
younger days.”
And away he swaggered, carrying his shilling's worth with him in the
commendations of the rustic circle. He was a young man who liked to be
well thought of, and to that end did most of his benefactions in the
open air.
In the mean time Reuben had disappeared with Joseph, and was already
engaged in spoiling the village sport. Joseph was so resolved upon the
collars and the cravat, and his imagination was so fired by the prospect
of those splendid additions to his toilet, that Reuben was compelled
to promise them from his own stores. Joseph became at once amenable to
reason, and promised to overlook his lordship's meanness.
“Are you going to do anything for his lordship to-day, Joseph?” his
protector asked him.
“No,” said Joseph. “He's gi'en me a holiday. I tode him as 'twarn't
natural to think as a man 'ud want to go to work i' togs like thesen.
The fust day's wear, and all!”
“Well, if you _should_ care to earn a shilling--”
“I couldn't undertek a grimy job,” said Joseph. “Not to-day. A message
now.”
“A message? Could you take the message in a wheelbarrow, Joseph?”
“A barrer?” Joseph surveyed his arms and legs, and then took a grip of
the laced waistcoat with both hands.
“A message in a wheelbarrow for a shilling, and a pair of collars and a
black satin cravat to come I home in, Joseph.”
“Gaffer,” said Joseph, “it's a bargain.”
Reuben's message was Ezra Gold's musical library, and the volumes having
been carefully built up in a roomy wheelbarrow, Joseph set out with them
at a leisurely pace towards his patron's home. Reuben on first entering
his uncle's house had laid the green baize bag upon the table. When the
books were all arranged, and Joseph had started away with them, Reuben
re-entered.
“I've brought the old lady back again, uncle,” he said.
“You've eased her down, I hope, lad,” said the old man, untying the bag
and drawing forth the violin. “That's right. As for bringing her back
again, you remember what used to be the sayin' when you was a child,
'Give a thing and take a thing, that's the devil's plaything.' I meant
thee to keep her, lad. It's a sin an' a shame as such a voice should be
silent.”
“Uncle,” said Reuben, stammering somewhat, “I scarcely like to take her.
It seems like--like trespassing on your goodness.”
“I won't demean th' old lady,” returned Ezra. “Her comes o' the right
breed to have all the virtues of her kind. Her's a Stradivarius, Reuben,
and my grandfather gi'en fifty guineas for her in the year seventeen
hundred an' sixty-one. A king might mek a present of her to a king. And
that's why in the natural selfishness of a man's heart I kep' her all
these 'ears hangin' dumb and idle on the wall here. I take some shame to
myself as I acted so, for you might ha' had her half a dozen years ago,
and ha' done her no less than as much justice as I could iver ha' done
her myself at the best days of my life. Her's yourn, my lad, and I only
mek one bargain. If you should marry and have children of your own, and
one of 'em should be a player, he can have her, but if not, I ask you
to will her to somebody as'll know her value, and handle her as her
deserves.”
Reuben was embarrassed by the gift.
“To tell the truth, uncle,” he said, “I should take her the more readily
if I'd coveted her less.”
“Bring her out into the gardin, lad,” returned his uncle. “Let's hear
the 'Last Rose' again.”
Reuben followed the old man's lead. His uncle's house-keeper carried
chairs to the grass-plot, and there the old man and the young one sat
down together in the summer air, and Reuben, drawing a little pitch-pipe
from his pocket, sounded its note, adjusted the violin, and played. Ezra
set his elbows upon his knees and chin in his hands, and sat to listen.
“Lend her to me, lad,” he said, when his nephew laid the instrument
across his knees. “I don't know--I wonder--Let's see if there is any of
the old skill left.” His face was gray and his hands shook as he held
them out. “Theer's almost a fear upon me,” he said, as he took the
fiddle and tucked it beneath his chin. “No, no, I dar' not. I doubt the
poor thing 'ud shriek at me.”
“Nonsense, uncle,” answered Reuben, with a swift and subtle movement
of the fingers of the left hand, such as only a violin-player could
accomplish. “I doubt if there is such a thing as forgetting when once
you have played. Try.”
“No,” said the old man, handing back the fiddle. “I dar' not. I haven't
the courage for it. It's a poor folly, maybe, for a man o' my years to
talk o' breakin' his heart over a toy like that, and yet, if the tone
wasn't to come after all! That 'nd be a bitter pill, Reuben. No, no.
It's a thousand to one the power's left me, but theer's just a chance it
hasn't. I feel it theer.” The gaunt left-hand fingers made just such a
strenuous swift and subtle motion as Reuben's had made a minute earlier.
“And yet it mightn't be.” Reuben reached out the violin towards him, but
he recoiled from it and arose. “No, no. I dar'n't fail,” he said, with a
gray smile. “I darn't risk it. Take her away, lad. No, lend her here. A
man as hasn't pluck enow in his inwards for a thing o' that kind--Lend
her here!”
He seized the instrument, tucked it once more beneath his chin, and
with closed eyes laid the bow upon the strings. His left foot, stretched
firmly out in advance of the right, beat noiselessly upon the turf, as
if it marked the movement of a prelude inaudible except to him. Then
the bow gripped the strings, and sounded one soft, long-drawn, melancholy
note. A little movement of the brows, a scarcely discernible nod of the
head marked his approval of the tone, and after marking anew the cadence
of that airy prelude he began to play. For a minute or more his resolve
and excitement carried him along, but suddenly a note sounded false and
he stopped.
“Ah-h-h!” he cried, shaking his head as if to banish the sound from his
ears, “take her, Reuben, take her. Give her a sweet note or two to
take the taste o' that out of her mouth. Poor thing! Strike up,
lad--anything. Strike up!”
Reuben dashed into “The Wind that Shakes the Barley!” and Ezra, with his
gaunt hands folded behind him, walked twice or thrice the length of the
grass-plot.
“Theer's no fool like an old fool,” he said, when he paused at his
nephew's side. “Theer's nothing as is longed for like that as can niver
be got at. Good-day, lad. Tek her away and niver let anybody maul her i'
that fashion again, poor thing. I'll rest a while. Good-day, Reuben.”
Reuben thus dismissed shook hands and went his way, bearing his uncle's
gift with him. His way took him to Fuller's house, and finding Ruth
alone there he displayed his treasure and spent an hour in talk. If he
had said then and there what he wanted to say, the historic Muse must
needs have rested with him. But since, in spite of the promptings of his
own desire, the favorableness of the time, and the delightful confusions
of silence which overcame both Ruth and himself in the course of his
visit, he said no more than any enthusiast in music might have said to
any pretty girl who was disposed to listen to him, the historic Muse is
free to follow Joseph Beaker, with whom she has present business.
In the ordinary course of things Joseph would have taken the shortest
cut to his patron's house, but to-day neither the weight of the
barrow-load, which was considerable, nor Joseph's objection to labor,
which was strongly rooted, could prevent him from taking the lengthier
route, which lay along the village main street, and therefore took him
where he had most chance of being observed. He made but slow progress,
being constantly stopped by his admirers, and making a practice of
sitting down outside any house the doors of which happened to be closed,
and there waiting to be observed. Despite the lingering character of
his journey he had already passed the last house but one--Miss Blythe's
cottage--and was forecasting in the dim twilight of his mind the
impression he would make upon its inmate, when the little old maid
herself went by without a glance.
“Arternoon, mum,” said Joseph, setting down the wheelbarrow, and
spitting upon his hands to show how little he was conscious of the glory
of his own appearance.
“Good-afternoon,” said the old maid. “Ah! Joseph Beaker?” To Joseph's
great disappointment she took no notice of his attire, but her eye
happening to alight upon the books, she approached and turned one of
them over. Poor Joseph was not accustomed to read the signs of emotion,
or he might have noticed that the hand that turned the leaves trembled
curiously. “What are these?” she asked. “Where are you taking them?”
“These be Mr. Ezra Gold's music-books,” he answered. “He's gi'en 'em to
his nevew, and I'm a-wheelin' of 'em home for him. Look here--see what
his lordship's gi'en to me.”
But Miss Blythe was busily taking book after book, and was turning over
the leaves as if she sought for something. Her hands were trembling
more and more, and even Joseph thought it odd that so precise and neat
a personage should have let her parasol tumble and lie unregarded in the
dust.
“Wheel them to my house, Joseph Beaker,” she said at last, with a covert
eagerness. “I want to look at them; I should like to look at them.”
“My orders was to wheel 'em straight home,” returned Joseph. “I worn't
told to let nobody handle 'em, but it stands to rayson as they hadn't
ought to be handled.”
“Wheel them to my door,” said the little old maid, stooping for her
fallen sunshade. “I will give you sixpence.”
“That's another matter,” said Joseph, sagely. “If a lady wants to look
at 'em theer can't be nothin' again that, I _should_ think.”
The barrow was wheeled to Miss Blythe's door, and Miss Blythe in the
open air, without waiting to remove bonnet, gloves, or mantle, began to
turn over the leaves of the books, taking one systematically after the
other, and racing through them as if her life depended on the task.
Rapidly as she went to work at this singular task, it occupied an hour,
and when it was all over the prim, starched old lady actually sat down
upon her own door-step with lax hands, and crushed her best new bonnet
against the door-post in a very abandonment of lassitude and fatigue.
“Done?” said Joseph, who had been sitting on the handle of the
wheelbarrow, occasionally nodding and dozing in the pleasant sunlight.
Miss Blythe arose languidly and gave him the promised sixpence. “You'm a
wonner to read, you be, mum,” he said, as he pocketed the coin. “I niver
seed none on 'em goo at sich a pace as that. Sometimes my lord 'll look
at one side of a noospaper for a hour together. I've sin him do it.”
Receiving no reply, he spat upon his hands again, and started on the
final course of his journey. Rachel closed the gate behind him, and
walked automatically into her own sitting-room.
“There is no fool like an old fool,” she said, mournfully. Then, with
sudden fire, “I have known the man to be a villain these six-and-twenty
years. Why should I doubt it now?”
And then, her starched dignity and her anger alike deserting her, she
fell into a chair and cried so long and so heartily that at last, worn
out with her grief, she fell asleep.