THE wayside hedgerow, gay with its autumn tints, stretched its undulating
length beside the rather stony lane that wound upwards from the high
road, and lost itself amid a multiplicity of sheep-tracks on the down.
It was one of those mild days that here in the south country cheat the
fancy with their likeness, not merely to spring, but to summer. The sky
was blue and cloudless; the birds were singing; the banks were still
starred with many flowers: crane’s-bill, mallow and scabious. Here and
there the gorse was blooming afresh, and new blossoms of guelder-rose
surmounted, incongruously enough, twigs with claret-coloured leaves that
dropped at a touch. Here, indeed, the finger of autumn had left its
trace, and all along the hedge were tokens of its magic. Such miracles
of colour as the conjurer had wrought this year are rarely to be seen:
such goldens and ambers, such scarlets and crimsons; stretching away
beyond the hedge were fields still silvery with night-dews, and woods
shining with the incomparable burnish of the season.
Sol Bowditch, the hedger, had no eyes for any of these beauties, however;
under the strokes of that uncompromising bill-hook of his the glories of
the hedge were shorn. Bending his vigorous young body backwards, he
threw all his strength into the task, and with each rhythmical swing of
his sturdy arm a fresh victim fell. Now a branch of maple that seemed to
shower stars as it dropped; now a jagged wild-rose, heavily laden with
ruby provender which later on might have made many a starving bird happy;
now a hazel-twig with a few belated nuts still clinging to their
shrivelled wrappings; now, with quick sharp strokes, making short work of
hawthorn and privet; again tearing, rather than cutting with his hook,
long-tufted tendrils of jewelled bryony or hoary traveller’s-joy.
Thus was beauty laid low and nature’s kindly forethought set at nought.
Farmer House cared little for the poetical aspect of things, and still
less for the wants of the singing-birds; being apt, indeed, to speak of
all wild creatures in a lump as “dratted varmint.” It was Sol Bowditch’s
duty to please Farmer House, and so between them the birds’ winter store
was trampled under foot or scattered to the winds.
Sol Bowditch was a stranger, having recently tramped hither all the way
from Bridport in search of work; but though he had travelled on foot and
carried his worldly goods in a small bundle, he was unquestionably an
honest and respectable young fellow. No one who looked at his brown face
and clear eyes could doubt that fact, and as for the manner in which he
wielded his bill-hook it was, as the farmer said, a treat to see him.
It wanted yet an hour or two of dinner-time when Sol, having paused a
moment to finish tearing away an obstinate tangle of bryony, was startled
by the approaching sound of wheels; and, looking up, saw the rim of the
green hood of a carrier’s cart slowly rounding the corner of the lane
from the point where it descended from the down. The horse was
apparently very old, for it proceeded slowly; and the vehicle creaked and
jolted as if it too were ancient. As it jogged nearer Sol saw that it
contained but a single occupant, that of the girl-driver, and when it
came nearer yet he observed that she was young and pretty; her face, with
its clear, yet delicate colouring, framed in curling brown hair, standing
out against the background of the old green “shed” like a picture, as he
said to himself. The girl’s eyes rested on him for a moment as she
jogged past, and he jerked his head at her sideways in a manner which
implied as plainly as words: “Good day.” She nodded back at him
brightly, yet modestly, and the vehicle, which was, as Sol observed,
filled with packages of various sizes, went rattling on its downward way,
the horse stumbling and sliding every now and then, and being admonished
in a high, clear treble.
Dinner-time came, and rest, and then work again, and finally, with a
suddenness proper to the time of year, dusk. Sol was just in the act of
putting on his coat preparatory to leaving the scene of his labours, when
he caught sight, in the far distance, of a wavering light, and presently
heard the creaking and rattling of an ancient vehicle which he inwardly
decided to be the carrier’s cart returning.
It was indeed the only cart of any kind which had passed his way that
day. As he picked up his bill-hook and walked slowly to meet it, for his
homeward path must perforce take him past it, he could see the outline of
the girl’s figure, and observe that it was bent forward; her voice at the
same time was uplifted as if in anxiety or distress.
“Dear, to be sure! Whatever must I do now? Come up, Di’mond, you’re
shammin’. No, he bain’t, poor beast.”
Just as Sol was a pace or two away she threw the reins on the horse’s
back and leaped to the ground, the animal immediately halting.
“What be the matter here?” enquired Sol, as she lifted the lantern from
its place and ran round to the other side.
“Oh, I don’t know. He mid ha’ picked up a stone or summat, or he mid
only be lazy—you never can tell wi’ he. Hold up, Diamond. That’s all
right; hold up again.”
“There’s a stone,” cried Sol eagerly, “and wedged so tight as anything.
’Tis so big as a happle—I wonder it didn’t throw en.”
“Stand!” cried the girl, still in an exasperated tone, as she deposited
the lantern on the ground, and hunted about for a larger stone wherewith
to dislodge the pebble which was indeed jammed in Diamond’s hind hoof.
“Here, let me,” said Sol. “Keep your fingers out o’ the way else I’ll be
a-hammerin’ o’ they.”
The rays of the lantern, striking upwards, revealed a flashing smile
which belied the seeming gruffness of tone and words.
The girl straightened herself and stood back:—“Don’t be long about it,
that’s all!” said she. “I’m late as it is—and tired just about!”
“Why, what be you a-doin’ travellin’ the roads so late?” enquired Sol, as
he struck at the recalcitrant pebble.
“I do travel the road every day,” returned she. “I do get my livin’ by
it. I’m a tranter.”
Sol was so much astonished by the announcement that he was obliged to
look up, whereupon Diamond immediately jerked away his hoof.
“I never did hear of a maid bein’ a tranter afore!” remarked the hedger
with a grin.
“An’ what ’ud ye say to a old ’ooman of seventy-five bein’ a tranter
then?” returned she triumphantly. “My grammer have only just left off
a-drivin’ o’ this ’ere cart, an’ now I do do it. E-es, we’ve done all
the trantin’ in our place for nigh upon fifty year, I mid say.”
“There! well now,” commented Sol, as he recaptured the hoof, and resumed
his labours.
“E-es, my granfer begun it, an’ then when he died my father kept it on,
an’ when he died my grammer took it up, an’ now I do do it. Can’t ye
shift that stone?”
“He be coming,” returned Sol. “’Tis queer work for a maid, an’ lwonesome
too.”
“’Tis a bit lwonesome just about here,” she agreed. “I do generally have
company part of the time, but nobody comes our ways much, an’ this ’ere
bit o’ lane an’ the track over the down is lwonesome, once it do get so
dark.”
“There he goes!” exclaimed Sol, as the stone, yielding to an especially
vigorous tap, dropped into the road. “I’ll walk a bit alongside of ’ee
in case the harse should go lame or anything.”
“Oh, no need to come so far out of your road,” returned she. “I’ll not
trouble you.”
Sol, without heeding this protest, picked up the lantern, and restored it
to its place, and then extended a hand to assist the girl to mount. She
accepted his help, seated herself, and gathered up the reins once more.
“Good night, and thank ye,” said she.
“I’m comin’ part o’ the road wi’ ye,” said Sol, exactly as if he had made
no such suggestion before.
She chirruped to the horse and it plodded on, Sol’s tall figure keeping
pace with it. Presently he rested one hand upon the shaft, the
lantern-light revealing how strong it was, and brown.
“My name’s Solomon Bowditch,” he remarked.
“Oh, an’ be it?” she returned faintly.
“E-es. What be yours?”
“Sally Roberts.”
“Tranter Sally,” remarked Sol with a laugh.
“They call me that sometimes,” she conceded. “Here we be at the top of
the hill, Mr Bowditch. I be goin’ to make en trot now.”
“I can trot too,” said Sol, and indeed his long legs carried him along at
a pace that shamed the shambling efforts of poor Diamond.
Sally protested, scolded, and finally laughed: Sol took no notice of any
of these modes of procedure, his tall figure jogged along at the same
steady pace, just a little in front of the hood, so that the light fell
full on his honest good-humoured face, and broad-shouldered frame. The
cart went bumping and jolting over the uneven down track, now threading
its way between patches of firs, now rounding a copse of stunted trees.
At last a few twinkling lights came in view, shining fitfully from a not
far distant hollow.
“That’s our place,” said Sally, pointing with her whip.
“You’re safe now, then,” returned Sol. “They’d hear ye if ye was to
holler. Good night.”
And with that he turned, and disappeared into the dusk, before she had
time to thank him.
On the following day, at the same time, Tranter Sally jogged past Hedger
Sol, and Sol looked up with a friendly word, and Sally smiled down rather
shyly. When dusk came and the van was jogging home again, a tall, dark
figure suddenly loomed beside it.
“I be a-goin’ to keep ye company along the lwonely bit,” remarked Sol.
“’Tis too much trouble, I’m sure,” returned Sally, but she made no
further protest.
The next day the same order of procedure held good, but on the following
morning no Sol appeared in the lane, for the hedge which bordered it was
shorn as close as a stubble-field. Sally looked about her eagerly, but
detecting no signs of life, continued her journey with somewhat depressed
spirits.
Nevertheless, in the evening, as the van slowly mounted the hill, she
heard the sound of hasty steps behind her, and was presently overtaken by
Sol.
“Did ye think I wasn’t comin’?” he enquired.
“I didn’t think anything about you,” returned Sally, mendaciously.
“Well, I’ve come, an’ what’s more I be a-goin’ to go on comin’ so long as
it be so dark. It bain’t fit for a maid to go travellin’ alone so late.”
“I can take care o’ myself, thank ye,” returned Sally.
“No, no,” cried Sol with conviction, “no maid can do that. They was
meant to be took care on, an’ I be a-goin’ to take care o’ you.”
Sally tossed her head.
“Perhaps I’ve other folks to take care o’ me if I choose to call ’em,”
she remarked.
Indeed it would not have been in girlish nature to submit to the
masterful manner in which Sol took possession of her.
“Be you a-keepin’ company wi’ somebody?” enquired Sol with some anxiety.
“Because there’s no use my comin’ so far out o’ my road if ye be. I be
workin’ over t’other side o’ the farm now that this ’ere job’s finished,
an’ I’ve gone into a new lodgin’-there’s no use my wastin’ my time, my
maid, if—”
“Oh, I’m sure I don’t want ye to waste no time on my account!” cried
Sally.
Her voice was unsteady, and she blinked hard to keep back the tears. No
maid, she said to herself, would like to be courted after such a fashion.
Sol sighed impatiently. As a practical man he was anxious to ascertain
his position.
“Be there?” he enquired, with a self-restraint that was palpable and
exasperating, “Be there another chap a-lookin’ arter ye, or bain’t
there?”
As a matter of fact there was not, but Sally was not the girl to admit
it. She remained, therefore, obstinately mute.
“Now look ’ee here, my maid,” resumed Sol, after a full minute’s pause.
“I must have a answer to this ’ere question afore things get any
forrarder. I’ll give ’ee till to-morrow to think it over, and then it
must be ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ If ye’ve got a young man of your own then ye may
cry ‘hands off,’ an’ I’ll let ’ee alone. If ye haven’t—there bain’t no
reason in life why you an’ me shouldn’t start keepin’ company reg’lar.
So think it over, maidie.”
Having now reached the top of the slope, Sally whipped up Diamond, and
the horse proceeded at its usual trot, Sol jogging beside it according to
his custom. When Sally’s home came in sight he disappeared into the
darkness with a cheery good night, leaving Sally disconcerted, angry, and
sorely perplexed.
She already liked Sol very much; she would probably like him more when
she had time and opportunity to study his character, but to be pressed
thus to come to a definite decision at so short a notice—it was unfair—it
was cruel! Above all to be forced to own straight out that she had no
other lover—how could she bring herself to make such a humiliating
confession?
Very little did Sally sleep that night, and when she looked up in the
morning from her untasted breakfast and announced that she had a
headache, she was sufficiently pale to alarm her grandmother.
“I don’t think I can ever go joggin’ off in that wold cart to-day,”
continued Sally, dismally. “Couldn’t you go, grammer, for once? ’Tis a
lovely day, look see, an’ there bain’t so much doin’ of a Tuesday.”
“Well, to be sure,” grumbled the old woman, “’tis a pretty notion.
What’s to become o’ the wash if I’m to go a-traipsin’ round the country
wi’ the cart?”
“Oh, I’ll manage the wash!” cried Sally, eagerly. “The steam ’ull do me
good, I think. ’Tis the neuralgy what be a-troublin’ of I. I’ll finish
the washin’, an’ get on wi’ the ironin’, if ye’ll let me, grammer?”
Mrs Roberts assented, after much murmuring and a good deal of sarcastic
comment on the “neshness” of the rising generation. There was never no
talk of newralgy or oldralgy neither when she was a maid, she said, an’
she was sure she didn’t know what the world was a-comin’ to.
Nevertheless she duly started off, encasing her spare figure in Sally’s
warm jacket, and covering her head with an old sailor hat which had once
belonged to the girl. Sally, indeed, had pressed these articles upon her
grandmother with an exuberance of affection which had somewhat mollified
that old lady, and stood leaning against the door-post as Diamond and the
van jogged out of sight. Her face was pink enough to denote that the
“newralgy” was not in a very acute stage, and all at once she burst into
a fit of laughter, and clapped her hands.
It was darker even than usual when Mrs Roberts, much exhausted after her
round, set forth on her return journey. She drew back as far as possible
into the shelter of the “shed,” and let the reins drop loosely over
Diamond’s back as he crawled slowly up the stony lane so often mentioned.
Presently, to her great surprise, a figure leaped out from the shelter of
the bank, and accosted her.
“I thought you was never comin’!” cried a man’s voice.
Grammer Roberts checked the exclamation which rose to her lips, and
flattened herself yet more against the side of the hood, but she made no
audible remark. To herself, however, she observed: “Ho! ho! Miss Sally.”
Diamond continued his progress as though nothing unusual had happened,
and the newcomer paced beside him.
“There’s no use your holding your tongue, my dear,” he continued, after a
pause, “because I’m going to have an answer, one way or another.”
“A answer!” commented Mrs Roberts to herself. “He’ve a-been makin’ the
maid a offer.”
“It must be ‘yes’ or ‘no,’” continued Sol firmly. “If ye don’t say
nothin’ I’ll take that for a answer. Now listen to I—”
Grammer Roberts was not very quick of hearing, but she strained her ears
to the utmost.
“I’ll give ’ee till we get to the top of the lane, an’ if by that time ye
haven’t spoke I’ll take it ye’re willin’ to keep company wi’ I. If
there’s another chap about ye, ye must make up your mind to say so.”
“There bain’t no other chap as I know on,” reflected Mrs Roberts, “but
I’d like to know a bit more about this one.”
As though in obedience to her unspoken wish, Sol, after another pause,
proceeded to set forth his circumstances.
“I bain’t much of a match for ’ee, I dare say—”
Grammer shifted uneasily on her seat: she was sorry to hear that.
“But you mid go further an’ fare worse. I’m earnin’ sixteen shillin’
a-week wi’ the promise of a rise at Lady Day.”
The battered sailor hat nodded approvingly in the shadow.
“I’ve not got no dibs save—”
“That’s bad,” commented Grammer inwardly; “a few dibs ’ud ha come in
handy.”
“In fact I tramped here from Bridport wi’ just the clothes on my back.”
“I don’t like that,” said Mrs Roberts to herself; “there were never no
tramps in our family.”
“’Twas my mother’s long sickness what cleared out all my savin’s. I
couldn’t deny the poor wold body anythin’.”
Here Mrs Roberts’ countenance assumed a benign expression: it spoke well
for the young man that he should be so considerate to the old and weak.
“I’m young, I’m strong,” summed up Sol energetically; “I’ll look after
you so kind as I can if you’re willin’ to keep company wi’ I, an’ I’ll
make ye a lovin’ husband when the time comes for us to be married. Here
we be at the top of the lane now, and as ye haven’t spoke, I d’ ’low
ye’re willin’ to take me.”
Mrs Roberts jerked at the reins, but she was not quick enough for Sol,
who in a moment leaped into the cart, and took up his position beside
her.
“Now then, my maid,” he cried jubilantly, “we’re sweethearts.”
And with that he flung his arm round her waist, and endeavoured to plight
his troth in the usual way.
But to his surprise, not to say stupefaction, a shrill cackle of laughter
fell upon his ears, and his advances were repelled by a vigorous thrust
of a hand that was certainly not Sally’s.
“Dear, to be sure!” cried a quavering voice. “Did ever anybody hear the
like? There now! well, well! Dear heart alive! I d’ ’low you don’t
know your own mind, young man.”
Still crowing with uncanny laughter, she stretched out her wrinkled hand,
detached the lantern from its hook, and held it up to her face.
“Well, I’m—I’m dalled!” exclaimed Sol, utterly dumbfounded.
“Ho! ho! ho!” cackled grammer. “Shall I speak out now, or be it too
late? I d’ ’low ’tis too late an’ we be sweethearts.”
“Here! wait! whoa!” cried Sol, distractedly. “Let me out!”
“Nay, now,” returned grammer, clutching him by the arm, “bide a bit, bide
a bit. Don’t be in sich a hurry. P’raps there’s a little mistake.”
“There’s a mistake, an’ not such a very little one,” replied Sol,
indignantly.
“You was a-lookin’ for another tranter, I reckon,” resumed grammer,
archly. “Maybe you was a-lookin’ for Tranter Sally.”
“Maybe I was,” admitted Sol, relaxing.
“She’s my granddarter,” remarked the old lady.
“Oh!” said Sol, stiffening again. “She needn’t ha’ served me sich a
trick then,” he added somewhat inconsequently. “She needn’t ha’ made a
fool o’ me! Any man mid be made a fool on that way.”
“True,” agreed Mrs Roberts soothingly, “you was made a fool on, jist
about!”
“I d’ ’low I’ll get out now,” announced Sol for the second time, with
sulky dignity.
“No, no, bide a bit. ’Tis lwonely here, an’ ye know ye did promise to
take care of I—he, he, he!”
After a moment’s struggle Sol, too, broke forth into irrepressible
laughter, and as the cart jolted over the downs the mingled sounds of
their mirth astonished the sleepy wild things.
Mrs Roberts was the first to compose herself.
“So you be a-earnin’ sixteen shillin’ a week!” she remarked, sitting up
and wiping her eyes.
“Yes, sixteen shillin’ a week and the promise of a rise.”
“We’ve a-got a nice little place down yonder,” resumed grammer; “a tidy
bit o’ ground, too, but it wants a man to see to’t.”
“Oh, do it?” said Sol, in a non-committal way.
“It do! Ye haven’t got no money saved, I think ye said?”
“Mrs Roberts,” cried Sal desperately, “will ye tell me straight out, or
will ye not? Be there another chap a-hanging round Sally?”
“Ye’d best ax her!” chuckled the old woman. “Ax her same as ye did ax
me, an’ tell her if she means ‘no’ she must say it. We be just there
now.”
The cart, indeed, now began to rattle down the path which led to the
hollow, and presently Mrs Roberts pulled up.
“Bide there,” she whispered in Sol’s ear, “bide where ye be, an’ I’ll
send her out to ye.”
“Must I unhitch Di’mond?” enquired Sally, appearing at the open door.
The firelight from within turned her fair hair to gold and outlined her
slight figure. Sol felt the last trace of resentment melt as he looked
at her.
“E-es, you can unhitch, my dear; an’ there’s a bit o’ rubbish in the cart
what ye can have if ye fancy.”
“A bit o’ rubbish!” ejaculated the girl, pausing on the threshold.
“E-es, a bit o’ rubbish what was give me, but what I haven’t got no use
for—so I make a present of en to you, my dear.”
And with that Grammer Roberts clambered down, and hurried into the house,
exploding with laughter as she went.
Though she was discreet enough to leave the young couple to their own
devices, she could not wholly conquer her curiosity as to the issue
between them, and, pausing just behind the door, listened eagerly.
A startled cry, a man’s voice talking eagerly, a peal of laughter—and
then silence.
“Sixteen shillin’ a week!” meditated grammer. “I hope they won’t forget
to unhitch the harse!”
“LWONESOME LIZZIE”
IT was late on a bright spring afternoon when Mrs Caines betook herself
to a certain out-of-the-way wood, in the midst of which her mother’s
cottage was situated. This wood lay at a considerable distance from the
high road, and the nearest approach to it was across a number of ploughed
fields, so that Phoebe Caines was hot and somewhat exhausted when she at
last reached the longed-for friendly and familiar shade. There was a
high wind that March day, and Phoebe’s face had been blistered alike by
it and the sun as she toiled along the road proper. Even in the fields
the light soil, newly harrowed, had been caught up now and then by the
mischievous wind and dashed into eyes and hair.
But here was the wood at length, and the narrow little moss-grown path
along which she had so often tripped as a child. Phoebe had been born
and bred in that wood, as had her mother before her. The queer little
thatched cottage in which the latter dwelt had been the old keeper’s
house, and there Mrs Sweetapple had first seen the light. Her father had
been keeper in those far-away days, and both her husbands had been
keepers too. If she had been blest with a son he would doubtless have
followed the family traditions; but Phoebe was her only child, and the
grand new two-storied brick house which the Squire had built at a quarter
of a mile’s distance from the old cottage was inhabited by a stranger.
The Squire had not had the heart to turn out old Lizzie Sweetapple, who
was allowed to live on in her tumble-down abode, and to keep cocks and
hens in the empty kennels, and even to fancy herself extremely useful by
bringing up a certain number of pheasants. No hens were ever so
conveniently broody as Lizzie’s, no pens so carefully sheltered, no young
broods so well watched or tenderly nurtured.
Mrs Sweetapple—“Lwonesome Lizzie,” as her few acquaintances laughingly
called her—was quite a celebrated personage in the neighbourhood, and
though her apparently desolate plight won her much commiseration, she
herself never complained of her solitude.
But Daughter Phoebe did not approve of the existing state of things, and
frequently endeavoured to induce her mother to take up her residence with
her. The little pension allowed her by the Squire would more than pay
for her keep, and why not tend children, of whom Mrs Caines possessed “a
plenty,” as well as cocks and pheasants? It was dangerous for her,
living so entirely alone at her age, where nobody could look after her if
she were taken ill; and if there were an accident, such as setting the
house on fire or breaking her leg, nobody would be the wiser.
Though the old woman had hitherto stoutly refused to contemplate any such
possibility as illness or mischance, and resolutely announced her
intention of remaining where she was, Phoebe returned to the charge
periodically, and the present expedition was undertaken with the view of
shaking her mother’s determination.
Being a practical person, she wasted no time in looking about her now,
but pressed on with as much speed as she could muster, occasionally
repeating over to herself the arguments by means of which she hoped to
convince the old woman.
Yet indeed the scene was lovely enough to have tempted a less
business-like person to dally on her way. The young grass was springing
up beneath the budding trees on one side, while on the other the ground
was strewn with fir-needles and last year’s beech-leaves. Grass and moss
were alike emerald green, withered leaves and needles copper and gold.
These tints were repeated again on the trunks of Scotch firs, on the
boughs of the heavily-clothed spruces; while the elders and a few stray
thorns had borrowed the living green of the herbage below. The sycamores
were brave with little crimson tufts, and the larches most glorious of
all at this hour, raising as they did their delicate tracery of pendant
twigs against the luminous sky, imprisoning the light, as it were, in a
golden cage, the floating bars of which were studded here and there with
jewels—emeralds that would soon become tassels, rubies that in course of
time would turn into cones. The bank on the right was studded with wild
violets, and here and there primroses grew in profusion, their tender
young leaves flaming in the evening glow almost like the blossoms they
protected.
At the turn of the path Mrs Caines caught sight of the lichen-grown roof
of the cottage, and heaved a deep sigh of relief. Increasing her pace
she hurried on, unceremoniously bursting into the kitchen, into which the
door opened.
“’Tis you, Phoebe, love!” exclaimed old Lizzie, coming forward to meet
her, dusting her hands on her apron as she advanced. “You’m welcome, I’m
sure, my dear. I scarce looked for ’ee to come so late, though it be a
goodish long while since I see’d ye.”
“The children have a-had the whooping-cough,” responded Mrs Caines,
dropping into a chair. “Of all the tedious illnesses that be the
worst—what wi’ coaxin’ of ’em to eat, an’ a-watchin’ of ’em so as they
shouldn’t cough an’ a-make theirselves sick the minute they _have_ took
their meals, it do fair wear a body out. Little Isaac, the way he do
cough and the way he do choke, many a time I think he’ll bust hisself.
He do turn the colour of a turkey-cock, he do!”
“That’s bad,” said the grandmother placidly. “You was never much
trouble, Phoebe, I’ll say that for ’ee. Every sickness what come you did
take so light as anything. An’ there’s some as ye did never have at all.
’Tis wi’ livin’ so much in the fresh air, I think. I’ll just mix this
bit o’ meal an’ take it outside to the little chicken, an’ you mid pop on
kettle, my dear, an’ rest yourself a bit. We’ll have tea so soon as I
get back.”
Mrs Caines unpinned her shawl, threw back her bonnet-strings, and set the
kettle on the fire. Then she heaved a sigh, partly of exasperation,
partly of fatigue, and looked about her. The room seemed just the same
as ever, the furniture a little older and a little shabbier than she
remembered it of yore. The grandfather’s clock stood in one corner, with
the hands pointing to a quarter to twelve, as they had done ever since
she could remember; the warming-pan to the right of the fireplace was not
quite as bright as usual, perhaps, and the china on the upper shelf of
the dresser was distinctly dusty.
“Poor mother, she be gettin’ past her work, I d’ ’low,” said Phoebe to
herself; and the reflection strengthened her resolution.
Continuing her survey, she presently gave a little start of surprise.
The old oak settle which ever since her childhood had stood with its back
against the wall, being but a clumsy piece of furniture and never used,
was now pushed forward in comfortable proximity to the blaze. What fancy
was this? Surely her mother could not choose to sit on that hard
uncomfortable seat, instead of in the cosy elbow-chair in which Phoebe
herself was now reposing. The fellow to it which had once been her
father’s, now, to her astonishment, was relegated to the place usually
occupied by the settle.
When Mrs Sweetapple returned, her daughter at once questioned her on the
subject, openly expressing disapproval, for to people of her turn of mind
any change in household arrangements, above all any change carried out
unauthorised, must necessarily be condemned.
“What in the name o’ goodness ha’ ye gone shiftin’ thik wold settle for?”
she exclaimed, in an aggrieved tone. “Sich a great ar’k’ard thing as it
be, too heavy for your arms I d’ ’low—an’ there’s poor father’s chair set
standin’ again’ the wall!”
Mrs Sweetapple blushed all over her wrinkled, kindly old face, and
answered confusedly:—
“It be jist a fancy o’ mine—jist a notion! Some folks take some notions,
an’ some takes others.”
“Well, but what be it _for_?” persisted Mrs Caines.
“Oh, ’tis jist a fancy I tell ’ee—a fancy o’ my own to make the time pass
of an evenin’. There, I do make poor Bartlett an’ your own father take
turn about to keep I company, an’ this be Bartlett’s week.”
“What in the world d’ye mean?” gasped Phoebe, staring harder than ever,
and flushing in her turn.
“Well, there, I’ve a-lived here all my life in this same little place as
ye know—all the time I were a maid, an’ when I wed poor Bartlett—scarce a
year wi’ he, an’ nigh upon farty wi’ Sweetapple, your father. By
daylight I’m bustlin’ about, ye know, workin’ at one thing an’ workin’ at
another, an’ I don’t seem to have no time for thinkin’, but at night,
when bolt’s drawed an’ window shut, and I do sit here by myself, I do
seem to see their shapes an’ hear their voices. It did use to bother I,
thinkin’ of ’em both, ye know, an’ sometimes one ’ud seem to be there,
an’ sometimes the other. An’ at last I hit upon the notion o’ makin’ ’em
take week about.”
She paused, drawing imaginary patterns with her forefinger on the
polished seat of the old settle.
“Mother, you’re raving!” exclaimed Phoebe aghast.
“No, my dear, no; I be in my senses right enough, an’ ’tis wonderful how
pleasant the time do pass when I’m fancyin’ I’m havin’ sich company.
When I do get the settle out, d’ye see, I do call to mind the time when
Bartlett used to come here a-coortin’. Father’d be out on his rounds
most like, and mother’d be busy wi’ one thing an’ another, an’ him an’
me’d sit here side by side on thik wold settle—there, I can call to mind
as if ’twere yesterday—the very things he used to say, an’ the way he’d
put his arm round me.”
She broke off, smiling to herself, her toothless mouth unconsciously
assuming something of the archness with which doubtless she had responded
of yore to Bartlett’s amorous speeches, her dim eyes looking past
Phoebe’s astonished face, and past the smoke-stained wall beyond, to that
far, far away past, when she was a maid, and her young lover sate beside
her.
“He did use to talk a deal o’ nonsense talk,” she went on. “It do all
come back to me now. I do seem to hear what he did say, an’ what I did
answer back, and sometimes I do find myself laughin’ out loud, an’
puss’ll get up from the hearth an’ walk over to I quite astonished.”
“Well, to be sure!” ejaculated Mrs Caines, then stopped short,
astonishment depriving her for the moment of the power of speech.
“E-es,” continued Lizzie reflectively, “he wer terr’ble fond o’
me—Bartlett were. Even arter we was wed, he did use to say every evenin’
so soon as he comed in from his round: ‘Now then, little ’ooman,’ he’d
say, ‘let’s have a bit o’ coortin’ same’s in wold times.’ An’ I’d hurry
up wi’ my work an’ pop on a clean apron, an’ squat down aside of en on
the wold settle—an’ then he do begin a-talkin’ nonsense talk jist so
foolish as ever.”
She drew her withered hand pensively along the back of the settle as she
spoke, and presently continued in an altered tone:—
“Thik wold settle. ’Twas here they did lay en when they carried en in
arter that there accident wi’ his gun what killed en. An’ I knelt down
as it mid be here” (pointing with her hand), “an’ he couldn’t speak nor
yet move, but he jist looked at I, an’ I looked back, an’ I took his poor
hand an’ kissed it, an’ then when I looked again he wer’ gone.”
“I’m sure ye didn’t ought to be thinkin’ o’ sich things,” burst out
Phoebe, with an irritation that was part real, part feigned, to conceal
her alarm. “What call have ’ee now to be fetchin’ ’em up arter all they
years—fifty year an’ more, I’m sure, what have gone by since. If ye must
think o’ anybody why don’t ye think o’ poor father? The best husband as
a woman need wish to be tied-to, I’m sure; him as was allus so kind an’
worked for ye so faithful—why, you was his wife for farty year very
near.”
“Farty year and ten month,” said Mrs Sweet-apple. “I do think of en, my
dear, frequent,” she continued mildly. “There, as I do tell ’ee, him an’
Bartlett takes it week about. I do push back settle to the carner, d’ye
see, where it did bide all the years him an’ me lived together. I could
never seem to have the heart to leave it in its wold place here arter
Bartlett died. So I do push it back to the carner, an’ I do pull out
Sweetapple’s chair, an’ I do set it where he did use to like it anigh the
fire, an’ I do sit in my own where you be a-sittin’ now, an’ I do fetch
out a wold sock an’ make a purtence o’ darnin’ it. An’ I do look up now
an’ again, an’ fancy to myself I do see en a-sittin’ there in his shirt
sleeves same as he did use to do, an’ a-smokin’ of his pipe. An’ I do
say to en by times: ‘Well, Sweetapple, an’ how be the young birds
a-lookin’?’
“Wonderful well,’ he d’ say, an’ then us’ll say nothin’ for a bit till by
an’ by I’ll maybe tell en about a hen what I think ’ull soon go broody,
or a clutch o’ young pheasants what I do think ’ull turn out very well.
Why, there’s times when I do actually take en out o’ door to look at the
pens. I do light lantern an’ carry it, an’ I do fancy I hear his steps
aside o’ mine so plain—”
“Mother,” exclaimed Phoebe, “do you truly mean you do go out at nights
wi’ the lantern an’ all? Why, ye’ll be gettin’ lost in the woods so sure
as anything, or maybe settin’ the whole place afire.”
Mrs Sweetapple gazed at her, smiling again and rubbing her hands.
“’Tis only a bit o’ nonsense, bain’t it?” queried her daughter anxiously,
struck by a sudden thought. “You do jist fancy you do go out-o’-door
same as you do fancy you be talkin’ wi’ my father—you don’t truly do sich
a thing, do ye?”