GRANDMAMMA.
Mrs. Sandford got up very early next morning, some time before it was
daylight. She had scarcely slept all night. As quiet as a little ghost,
not to wake her husband, she had stolen upstairs after dismissing John
to bed: and she stole out of her room as softly in the morning, her
heart rent with trouble and fear. It was her habit to go out early in
the summer mornings to look after the garden, to collect the eggs from
the poultry-yard, to gather her posies with the dew upon them, which was
an old-fashioned way she had. But in winter the old lady was not so
brave, and feared the cold as the least courageous will do.
Notwithstanding, it was still dark when she stole out, unseen as she
fondly hoped, by Sarah in the kitchen. The darkness of the night was
just beginning to yield to the grey unwilling daylight. The milkman was
going his rounds. Some late people, not the labourers, who were off to
their work long ago in the darkness, were coming out very cold to their
occupations: the shop had still a smoky paraffin-lamp lighted, and there
was one of the same description shining through the open door of the
‘Green Man.’ Except for these points of light, all was grim and grey in
the village. The sky widened and cleared minute by minute. It did not
grow bright, but slowly cleared. Mrs. Sandford had a thick veil over her
face, but everybody knew her. To attempt to hide herself was vain. She
had taken a basket in her hand to give herself a countenance. It was a
basket which was well known. It carried many a little comfort to sick
people and those who were very poor. The sight of the little slim old
lady with her fair, fresh face and white hair, her trim black-silk gown,
and warm wadded cloak, and the basket in her hand, was very familiar to
the people in Edgeley. But she was seldom out so early, and her steps
were a little uncertain, not quick and light as usual. You could
generally see, to look at her, that she was very sure where she was
going and knew every step of the way. This morning she went up past the
‘Green Man,’ so that the milkman, who was a great gossip, said to
himself,
‘I know! She’s going to that tramp as was took bad last night in Feather
Lane.’
But when he had gone on his round a little further and saw her coming
back again, his confidence was shaken.
‘It must be old Molly Pidgeon she’s looking for--and most like don’t
know as she’s moved.’
But, when Mrs. Sandford crossed the street, this observer was altogether
at fault.
‘There’s nobody as is ill that a-way,’ he said to the customer whom he
was serving. ‘Whatever is Mrs. Sandford doing out with her basket at
this time in the morning, and no sickness to speak of about?’
The woman standing at her door with the jug in her hand for the milk
leaned out too, and stared.
‘There’s a deal of children with colds, and old folks,’ she said.
And they both stopped to look at the uncertain movements of the little
figure. Even curiosity in the country is slow in its operations. They
stood half turned away from the milk-pails, which were their real point
of meeting, and stared slowly, while the unwonted passenger in still
more unwonted uncertainty flickered along. In the meantime there had
been a little commotion at the ‘Green Man,’ such as was very unusual
too: for in the morning all was decorous and quiet there, if not always
so at night. There was a loud sound of voices, which, though beyond the
range of the milkman and his customer, attracted the attention of other
people who were about their morning’s business. The postman paused while
feeling for his letters, and turned his head that way, and the people in
the shop came running out to the door.
‘It’ll be him as made the row last night,’ they said, in fond
expectation of a second chapter. Their hopes were so far realized that
at this moment the folding swinging-doors flew open, and a man burst out
more quickly than is the usual custom of retiring guests. And he stopped
to shake his fist at the door, where Johnson appeared after him
watching his departure.
‘I promise you I’ll keep an eye on you,’ Johnson cried after him, and
the stranger sent back a volley of curses fortunately too hoarse to be
very articulate.
Mrs. Sandford crossed the road again just at that moment, and she heard
better than the observers far off. A look of horror came over her face.
‘Oh! my good man,’ she cried, lifting up her hand, ‘I am sure you don’t
wish all those horrible things. What good can it do you to swear!’
The man looked at her for a moment. Her little dainty figure, her
careful dress, her spotless looks made such a contrast to this big
ruffian, all disordered, squalid, and foul, with every appearance of
having lain among the straw all night, and the traces of last night’s
debauch still hanging about him, as no words could express. He stood a
moment taken aback by her address; probably he would have shrunk even
from appealing to the charity of a being so entirely different and out
of his sphere; but to have her stop there and speak to him took away
his breath. His hand stole up to his cap involuntarily.
‘It do a man a deal of good, lady,’ he said; ‘it relieves your mind; but
I didn’t ought to,’ he added, beginning to calculate, ‘I know.’
‘You should not, indeed,’ she said; and then added, ‘You seem a
stranger. Are you looking for work? or have you any friends about here?’
The postman, the woman at the shop, and everybody within sight admired
and wondered to see Mrs. Sandford talking to ‘the man.’ This was the
name he had already acquired in Edgeley. They wondered if she could know
that he was a man out of prison. But she was known to be very kind.
‘I shouldn’t wonder if that was just why she’s doing of it, because
nobody else would touch him with a pair of tongs,’ an acute person said.
He seemed, it must be added, much surprised himself; but he was a man
who had been used to prison chaplains and other charitable persons, and
he thought he knew how to get over every authority of the kind.
‘Lady,’ he said, ‘that’s just what I want. It’s work, to earn an honest
living; but, ’cause I’m a poor fellow as has been in trouble, nobody
won’t have me or hear speak of me; but to have been in trouble oncet,
that’s not to say ye don’t want to do no better. It’s only when ye gets
there as ye know how bad it is.’
‘That may be very true,’ said Mrs. Sandford; ‘but a little village like
this is not the place to get work, I’m afraid; for there is nothing to
do here.’
‘No, lady,’ said the man; ‘and it wasn’t so much work I was looking for
this morning, as to do a good turn to a mate o’ mine, as was with me, I
needn’t say where. Maybe ye may know, lady, as it can be seen you’re a
charitable lady. Maybe you can tell where I’ll find a Missis May----’
Mrs. Sandford’s little outline quivered for a moment, but her face did
not change. She shook her head.
‘There is nobody,’ she said, ‘of that name in this village. I know all
the people, as you say. I think there was a woman called May about here
a number of years ago, but she has removed, and where she has gone I
can’t say.’
‘Ah, that’s like enough,’ said the man; ‘it’s a long time, and maybe
she might not want the folks belonging to her to know.’
‘Was it news you were bringing her?’ Mrs. Sandford said. ‘That was very
kind of you--but perhaps she would rather you didn’t tell her affairs to
everybody, and that her husband was----’
‘I didn’t say nothing about her ’usband,’ said the man, quickly.
‘Oh! was it her son then, poor creature? for that is still worse,’ the
old lady said.
He looked at her keenly with the instinct of one who, deceiving himself,
has a constant fear of being deceived; but to see the little Lady
Bountiful of the village standing there with her basket, her fresh face
as fresh as a child’s, her limpid eyes looking at him with an air of
pity yet disapproval, and to imagine that she was taking him in was
impossible even to a soul accustomed to consider falsehood the
common-place of existence.
‘It was her ’usband,’ he said, sullenly, ‘and I don’t care much if she
liked it or not. She oughter like it if she didn’t, for it was news of
him I was bringing, and I could tell her all about him--being mates for
a matter of seven years, him and me.’
‘Poor woman!’ Mrs. Sandford said. ‘But I can’t tell you where she has
gone, only that she’s not here.’
‘You wouldn’t deceive a poor fellow, lady? I’ve ’ad a long tramp, and
that beggar there, though it’s nothing but a public he keeps,----
him----’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs. Sandford, ‘don’t swear! What good can that do you?
Indeed, I am not deceiving you. I’m very sorry for you. I will give you
something to pay your fare to the town. You will be better off there
than here.’
‘It’s not much of a town as far as I’ve heard,’ he said, ‘and I ain’t
’ad no breakfast. And my ’eart’s set on doing my duty by my mate. I’ll
go from door to door but I’ll find that woman, blast her. She’s a proud
’un, I know, and thinks herself a lady. I’ll have it out with her, I
will, afore I go.’
‘In that case,’ said Mrs. Sandford, ‘I can’t give you the money which I
offered you: and I meant to give you something for your breakfast
too--and I must speak to the constable, for we cannot have you about
the village, Mr.---- I don’t know what your name is. To have you here
frightening all the poor people would never do.’
She gave him a lofty nod of her little head, and turned away: but the
man, after all, was not willing to relinquish present advantage for
problematical good. He made a stride after her, which frightened her
very much, and took away all her pretty colour, but not the courage in
her heart.
‘Lady,’ he said, ‘if you tell me on your honour that woman ain’t
here--them folks all said so, but I didn’t believe ’em: and if you’ll
give me--say ten shillin’--over and above the fare, as you promised----
’
A gleam of eagerness came into Mrs. Sandford’s eyes; but she controlled
herself.
‘I can assure you,’ she said, ‘the woman is not here.’
She had grown quite pale, and, though she smiled still, her countenance
was drawn with terror, perhaps, or some other feeling.
‘You’re frightened of me, lady,’ the man said, ‘but you hain’t got no
cause. I’m rough enough, but a lady as speaks kind and don’t try to
bully a poor fellow--or go talking about the police--and besides I
couldn’t do nothin’ to you. The men would be on me afore we could say
Jack---- And I’m pretty sure as it’s the truth, and May’s wife ain’t
here. She’s a proud one, she is. She’s maybe gone out of the country, or
changed her name, or summat. Gi’ me ten shillin’ and I’ll go away.’
‘You had better go to the clergyman,’ said Mrs. Sandford.
‘Gi’ me ten shillin’,’ said the man.
‘Oh, perhaps I am doing what is wrong; perhaps I ought to speak to the
constable. I’m not a person with any authority, and why should I
interfere?’
‘Gi’ me ten shillin’,’ he repeated, coming close to her, holding out his
hand.
‘Will you go away if I do? Perhaps you had better see the clergyman.
I’ve no right to interpose to send you away. Will you go if I do?’
He nodded, watching her trembling hands as she took out her purse and
felt in it, pressing very close to her, rubbing against her silk gown
with his rough dress; and, as it happened by ill-luck, Mrs. Sandford had
but a sovereign in her purse. When he saw it he put his hand upon hers
suddenly, and crushed the little fingers together which held the golden
coin.
‘Gi’ me that,’ he said, with his hot breath in her face, ‘gi’ me that,
or afore any o’ them can get to ye I’ll knock you down; and they can’t
do anything as bad to me.’
The little old lady stood enveloped in his big shadow, with his hairy,
villainous face close by hers. She did not shrink, nor scream, nor
faint, but stood up, deadly pale, with her limpid eyes fixed upon him.
‘I am not afraid of you,’ she said, with a little gasp. ‘Will you keep
your word and go away?’
Some sentiment, unknown and inexplainable, came into the ruffian’s
heart. He loosed his grip of the delicate little hand that felt like
nothing in his grasp, which he could have crushed to a jelly: and indeed
he had nearly done so. He said, ‘I will; I’ll keep my word,’ in a deep
growling bass voice.
It was all that Mrs. Sandford could do to unclasp the fingers he had
gripped, and to keep from crying with the pain. She dropped the
sovereign into his hand.
‘Now go,’ she said.
‘You _are_ game,’ he cried, with a sort of admiration, looking at her
rather than the sovereign, though his hand closed upon that with the
eagerness of a famished beast upon a bone. ‘I never saw one as was more
game.’
She made a gesture of dismissal with her cramped fingers.
‘Oh, go, go--and God forgive you. And oh! try to get honest work, and
live decent--and not fall into trouble again.’
‘Good-bye, lady,’ he said; then coming back a step--‘I’m sorry I hurt
you.’
She waved to him to go away. The man still lingered a moment, putting up
his hand to his cap, then turned, and, slouching, with his shoulders up
to his ears, took the way across the corner of the moor to the
railway-station, which was a mile off or more.
Mrs. Sandford turned to go back to her house. She was so pale that when
she came near the door of the shop Mrs. Box came running out to her in
alarm.
‘Oh, Mrs. Sandford, come in, ma’am; come in and rest a bit. You’ve not a
bit of colour on your cheeks--you that have such a fine complexion.
You’re just dead with fright, and I don’t wonder at it. How did he dare
to speak to you, the villain? and shook your nerves, poor dear, so that
I see you can’t speak.’
‘Oh! yes, I can speak,’ said the old lady. Her knees were knocking under
her, her whole little person in a tremble. ‘I was glad to speak to him,
poor creature. He wanted some one that used to live here by. Perhaps a
person like that, who does really wicked things, may not be worse, in
the sight of God, than many a man who makes a fair show to the world.’
She said this with many a catch of her breath and pause between the
words. She was very much overdone, as anyone could see, but she would
not sit down.
‘If you’ll give me a little milk, or some water, to revive me, I’ll be
quite right in a minute,’ she said.
‘That may be true,’ said Mrs. Box, ‘for goodness knows the best of folks
you can’t see into their heart; but a man as has been in prison ain’t
like any other man. They learn such a deal of harm, even if it’s not in
them to begin with. I’ve just made the tea for breakfast, and here’s a
nice cup--that’ll do you more good than anything else--and sit down a
moment and get your breath. I said to William, “There’s Mrs. Sandford
a-talking to that brute; you go and see that she’s all right.” But
William, he said to me, “If anyone can bring him to his senses it’s just
Mrs. Sandford will do it.” So we stood and we watched. And what did he
say to you, ma’am?--and dear, dear, how it’s taken all the nice colour
out of your cheeks.’
‘Thank you for the tea. It has done me a great deal of good,’ said the
old lady; ‘and now I must go home, for Mr. Sandford will be wondering
what has become of me. Poor man, he was very amenable, after all, when
one comes to think of it. I told him Edgeley was no place for the like
of him, and that perhaps he might get work in the town: and you see he
has gone away. Oh, poor soul! He was some poor woman’s boy once, that
perhaps has broken her heart for him, Mrs. Box, and never thought to
see him come to that, any more than you or me.’
‘Well, that’s true, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Box. ‘We don’t know what they’ll
come to, as we’re so proud of when they’re children. Hold up your head,
Willie, do! and ask Mrs. Sandford to let you carry her basket, as is
always heavy with things for the poor.’
‘Not this morning, Mrs. Box. I had but an egg or two in it,’ said Mrs.
Sandford, opening the lid to show that it was empty. There was a certain
suspicion, she thought, in this speech. ‘There is no need for troubling
Willie; but he is a fine, good-natured boy, and always willing to carry
a parcel or run an errand. Good-morning to you all; you are kind folks.’
She thought the tea had saved her as she set out again down the village
street. But her limbs still tottered, and she walked slowly, thinking
the way twice as long as usual. They all called out how pale she was
when she got in.
‘It is going out,’ she said, ‘without a cup of tea or anything, which
was all my own fault.’
‘And why did you go out so early, without saying a word,’ said her
husband. ‘Charity, my dear, is a fine thing; but you should not carry it
too far. Neither that nor anything else is good when it’s carried too
far.’
Mrs. Sandford only smiled and said it would be difficult to go too far
when there were so many poor people, and pretended to make a very good
breakfast behind the tea-urn. After breakfast she lay down a little on
the sofa, saying that it was the most ridiculous thing in the world to
be so tired for nothing, and that she must have taken something that
disagreed with her, for the stomach was at the bottom of everything when
one grew old. It was still holiday time with John, and he insisted upon
staying with her when grandfather went out for that daily walk which
nothing short of death in the house would have made him leave off. John
was unusually grave. He came and sat beside the sofa with a very
perplexed countenance.
‘Grandmamma,’ he said, ‘I feel all mixed. I am so puzzled with
remembering something. Remembering and forgetting. Wasn’t I somehow
mixed up when I was a little chap with the name of May?’