Said Miss Susan Angel this evening, as I leant over the counter of her
little dark shop, studying the rows of sweetstuff bottles beyond: ‘Th’
chillern here, ’tis real astonishin’ how changeable they be. One time
’tis all lickrich wi ’em, an’ next ’tis all sherbet-suckers, an’ then
maybe ’tis nought but toffee-balls for weeks on end. But you!’—she
turned me a glance full of smiling, proud approbation—‘You!—come winter
or summer, come rain or shine, I allers knaws ’twill be nobbut
black-fours!’
She reached down the ancient glass jar, and stabbed at its contents
ruminatively with an iron fork.
‘Black-fours—ah!’ she mused, as the shining magpie lumps rattled into the
brass scale-pan. ‘An’ I never smells ’em but I thinks o’ my ould missus
as— Lorey me! how many long year ago! Fond on ’em, wur she? Ah! an’
scrunch ’em up, ’a could, quicker ’n e’er wan wi’ a nateral jaw!’
‘What kind of jaw, then, had she, Susan?’
‘Ah! I believe ye! My dear! th’ money as ut costed! All gold, an’ ivory
like, an’ red stuff! An’ when ’a died— Did never I show ’em to ye?’
She disappeared into the little kitchen behind the shop. I heard a
drawer unlocked; there was a sound of rummaging, accompanied by asthmatic
interjections; Miss Susan Angel came forth again bearing a bulky parcel.
This, as she removed various coverings, became smaller and smaller until,
from a final wrapping of tissue-paper, there appeared a beautiful double
set of false teeth. Miss Angel held them up to my gaze admiringly.
‘Left ’em to me, ’a did! ’Twur all writ in her will—“To my faithful
servant an’ friend, Susan Angel, I give an’ bequeath”—an’ all th’ rest on
’t. Ah! bless her an’ rest her sowl!’
It seemed rather an appropriate legacy, for Miss Angel had possessed not
a single tooth of her own in all the years I had known her. But the
display of the treasure provoked a very natural commentary.
‘How long have you had these put by, Susan?’
‘Nigh upon thirty year, my dear.’
‘And never used them yourself all that time, although you—’
‘What!’ The old lady drew herself up, the youthful blue eyes in her
wrinkled face flashing indignation. ‘What d’ ye say!—me use ’em? _Me_?
Th’ very same as my dear ould missus chawed wi’? Shame on ye! Not if
there was nought to eat but cracking-nuts left i’ th’ wureld fer us all!’
I took the rebuke in penitent silence. When she had restored the revered
relics to their locker in the back room, she resumed her knitting in the
great wicker chair behind the counter. In a minute or two she had alike
forgiven me and forgotten the cause of her displeasure, as I knew from
her tone.
‘How the evenin’s do draw in, to be sure!’ she observed, laying down her
work. ‘A’most dark, ut be, though ’tis no more ’n six o’clock.’
The ancient timepiece in the corner promptly droned out eleven. Miss
Angel clapped her hands.
‘What did I tell ye?’ she said triumphantly. ‘Wunnerful good time ’a
keeps, when I recollects to putt un back reg’lar.’
She rose and reversed the hands for a circle or two.
‘That’ll do till mornin’,’ said she placidly. ‘Ye warnts to be a little
particler i’ country places: ut bean’t like i’ towns where—Gipsies! I do
believe! An’ this time o’ night, to be sure!’
I followed her sudden glance to the doorway. A heavy grinding of wheels
had sounded outside, and across our field of view, silhouetted against
the deep turquoise blue of the night, there passed what looked like a
gipsies’ caravan. A bony horse toiled in the shafts, and a long lean man
walked in front, dragging at the animal’s bridle with almost as much
apparent effort. Lights shone from the windows of the vehicle, and its
chimney smoked voluminously against the stars. As it went by, we could
see another man sitting upon the steps in its rear, his squat bulky form
entirely blocking the open door-place. The caravan pulled up about
midway over the green.
‘Now, that wunt do!’ observed Miss Angel decisively. ‘We warnts nane o’
they sort traipsing about Windlecombe after dark, leastways not them as
keeps chicken. ’Tis on your road hoame: jest gie ’em a wured as you goos
by, my dear. Tell ’em as you warnts to save trouble fer th’ policeman.’
In nowise intending to disturb the gipsies, I nevertheless took the short
cut over the green, passing in the darkness close by their queer,
spindle-spanked, top-heavy dwelling. As I cut through the beam of light
that poured from the doorway, a suave voice hailed me.
‘Hi! my man! Just a moment! Now, Grewes, your difficulty is at an end.
I have intercepted one of the inhabitants, and doubtless he will— Yes:
inquire of him—very politely now—where we may obtain water.’
The long lean man had blundered into the light beside me, carrying two
pails. He was clothed in little better than rags from head to foot. A
massive gold watch-chain glittered across his buttonless waistcoat. He
turned upon me two gaunt, diffident eyes.
‘Water,’ he hesitated, holding out the pails helplessly before him.
‘Water, you know! Could you be so kind as to—’
The suave, flute-like voice sounded again from the depths of the caravan.
‘Now, Grewes! if I am to carry out the little supper scheme I explained
to you, no time must be lost. When once they are peeled, potatoes should
never—’ The owner of the voice appeared in the doorway. ‘Dear, dear!
My good fellow! there you are, still standing there; and I fully
impressed it upon you that if rabbit is permitted to bake one moment
longer than— Grewes! give me those pails!’
But the long lean man had drawn me precipitately away. As we hurried
across the green together in the direction of the well-house, he seemed
to consider himself under some necessity of explanation.
‘It is his caravan,’ he said, ‘Spelthorne’s, you know. And I am
travelling with him for a bit, because I was run down, and—and other
things. One of the best fellows breathing, he is, though you mightn’t—I
mean I so often forget what I— Of course, I really don’t wonder that
sometimes he— Why! I have forgotten to unharness the horse! Do remind
me—will you?—when we get back; but quietly, you understand? Spelthorne,
he is the best fellow breathing, but— Oh, is this the well? It is most
kind of you, I’m sure!’
He seemed in so strained and nervous a mood that I did not trust him to
handle the heavy bucket and chain, nor to return unaided to the caravan
with his burden. When we drew into the beam of light again, I could see
Spelthorne inside, stooping over the little cooking-stove in his
shirt-sleeves and a great sombrero. If anything, his clothes were even
more tattered and soiled than his companion’s. At sound of our clanking
pails he turned, stared, then swept me a low bow with the sombrero.
‘Thoughtless, very thoughtless!—indeed, most selfish of Grewes!’ he said
confidentially, for the long lean man had hurried away to attend to the
horse. ‘A good fellow, such a good fellow, you cannot think! But he has
this little failing of sometimes taking advantage of any kindness that—
But excuse me: I must get the potatoes on!’
I had hardly gone a dozen paces towards home, when I heard him pounding
after me.
‘What is—the name,’ he asked breathlessly, ‘of—of this village?’ And
when I had told him: ‘There are beautiful old cottages here, are there
not? And quaint people? And charming country round about? Such a
spot—isn’t it?—where two artists could find incessant inspiration,
and—and—’
But the question had been put to me before, and too often.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said I discouragingly. ‘The place is very quiet
and humdrum, and most inconvenient—no railway and no roads to anywhere
and—’
‘The very place!’ he broke in delightedly. ‘I shall persuade poor Grewes
to remain here with me a month.’
And when I took a last look at the night some hours after, I beheld the
faint glow, from the windows of the caravan upon the green, with dismal
foreboding. A month of that prospect! And not only that, but something
worse; for, upon the wings of the slow night wind, there drifted over to
me the mournful thrumming of a guitar.