“Well, I don’t rightly know, my dear,” she replied after a pause.
“There’s times when I mid fancy it, and there’s other times when I do
truly think I do go out to show father the pens. Last week ’twas—’twas
father’s week ye know—I did get my shoes quite wet, an’ I did have a bit
of a cold for a day or two. I think it must have come along o’ takin’
father out to see the pens.”
Mrs Caines gazed resolutely at her mother, the colour once more
overspreading her already sufficiently rosy face.
“It’s time there was an end o’ this,” she announced firmly. “You’ll be
tumblin’ down the well some night, or else maybe go wanderin’ off the
Lard knows where. No, Mother, there’s no use talkin’, the time’s come
for ’ee to shift. Lady Day’s very near, an’ ’twill be so good a time as
any other. I’ll speak to Squire about it. He’ll send a waggon to move
as many o’ your things as be worth takin’, an’ you can come an’ bide
along o’ us. The children ’ull be better company for ’ee nor they crazy
notions o’ yours, an’ if ye do want to do a bit o’ mendin’ of a evenin’
ye can darn Caines’ socks.”
“Nay, now, nay Phoebe, nay indeed,” cried the old woman in a shaking
voice, her eyes becoming round with alarm, and her lips quivering. “I
couldn’t shift, my dear, I couldn’t bide nowhere but in the wold place
where I was barn, an’ where I do look to die. The only shiftin’ I’ll do
’ull be then. I’ll shift to the New House, Phoebe, my dear, whenever it
be the Lard’s will to take I, but not before.”
“I’ll speak to Squire about it,” persisted Phoebe. “Summat awful ’ull be
happenin’ if you do go on this way. ’Tis time that he should see to it.
“No, don’t ’ee go for to speak to Squire,” pleaded Lizzie. “What be the
good o’ carryin’ tales to Squire? I be so happy as anything here. I
don’t want for nothin’, an’ I do never feel lwonesome. If you do go
puttin’ notions in Squire’s head—but you wouldn’t be so unkind, would ye,
my dear?”
Phoebe made no answer; the kettle boiled at this juncture, and gave an
excuse for rising and rescuing it from the fire. She insisted on making
tea for her mother, and, instead of reverting to the vexed topic, chatted
throughout the meal so incessantly, and on such a variety of topics, that
Lizzie became a trifle bewildered; and, imagining from her daughter’s
altered demeanour that the latter had come round to her views, smiled
pleasantly, and put in a word now and then whenever she could catch the
drift of the conversation. For, if truth be told, her wits had become
duller than of yore, and remarks and smiles alike were a trifle vague.
Mrs Caines rose at last to take her departure, straightened her bonnet,
donned her shawl, and kissed her mother affectionately.
Lizzie had already washed up and put away the tea-things, and after
returning her daughter’s embrace, pulled down her cuffs and shook out her
apron with a pre-occupied air. Almost before Phoebe had left the room
she had installed herself on the settle, and was gazing expectantly at
the door.
“Now don’t go out to-night, whatever happens,” urged Phoebe. “There’s a
good soul! I can see ye’ve got a bit of a cold hangin’ about ye still.”
“Nay, my dear,” responded Lizzie, with a small secret smile. “’Tis
Bartlett’s night, ye know. I do never ha’ time to think o’ chicken an’
sich when Bartlett be here.”
Phoebe stared; then, taking her umbrella, left the house. She heard
Lizzie bolt the door behind her, and walked away, shaking her head and
pursing up her lips. After proceeding fifty yards or so she paused, and
presently turning retraced her steps as noiselessly as possible. The
kitchen window was already shuttered, but Phoebe knew there was a wide
chink beneath the hinge, and making her way towards it, peered into the
fire-lit room.
Old Lizzie was still seated on the settle, in the far corner, so as to
leave plenty of room for the other imaginary occupant. She was smiling,
and glancing now up, now down, with that revived coyness of her youth.
Now she stretched out her trembling old hand with a curious little
gesture, as though stroking something—the crisp brown locks perhaps which
had been so long hidden away in the grave; now she was laughing.
“I never did hear any chap carry on like that,” she said. “Why we be old
married folks now—six month wed come Tuesday.”
Phoebe turned away from the window and stepped forth briskly through the
twilight. Her mind was irrevocably made up.
A wilful woman must have her way, we are told, and Mrs Caines’ way
appeared so very reasonable that even the Squire fell in with it, though
reluctantly. That he himself should take active measures to turn old
Lizzie out of her cherished little house was certainly a most
disagreeable necessity; nevertheless he appeared to have no choice. The
old woman’s actual plight was undeniably dangerous, and she would no
doubt be more cheerful as well as better looked after amid her daughter’s
family.
Somehow or other, Lizzie never quite realised how, it was made clear to
her that the Squire wanted her cottage for some important purpose, and
moreover wanted possession of it so soon that she must turn out at once.
Event succeeded event with such rapidity that she found herself uprooted
almost before she had time to grasp the full extent of her misfortune,
and was installed by Mrs Caines’ hearth and surrounded by Mrs Caines’
noisy little flock while still pleading and protesting.
“Now here you be, mother,” announced Phoebe, whisking off her parent’s
bonnet and shawl, and firmly tying on her black net cap, “here you be so
right as anything. Here be your own chair, d’ye see, for ye to sit in,
and yonder’s the dresser—how well it do look in the carner, don’t it?
Us’ll unpack the china by and by, and wash it and set it out—that’s
summat to do, bain’t it? An’ there’s father’s chair opposite yours, same
as usual.”
“Ah,” murmured Lizzie vaguely, “this be Sweet-apple’s week. ’Ees,
sure—’ees, there be his chair. Where be—”
Her eyes wandered round the unfamiliar room. “Where be,” she was
beginning again, when Phoebe adroitly interrupted her.
“This be father’s chair, as you do say, mother, an’ this be his week to
be sure. There you can talk to en so comfortable as can be.”
Lizzie glanced round again with a deep sigh.
John Caines, Phoebe’s husband, worked in the Branston brewery, and they
lived in consequence in the town. Theirs was a six-roomed semi-detached
house with a dusty little yard in the rear, and a tiny grass-plot in
front, on which Phoebe sometimes spread out linen to dry. It was
situated near the station, and many vehicles passed that way, creating
much dust, and making a considerable amount of noise.
Phoebe presently commented on this fact to her bewildered mother.
“’Tis nice an’ cheerful to be so near the road, bain’t it?” she remarked
pleasantly, tilting up as she spoke a corner of the muslin blind. “Ye
can look out, look-see. That’s the ’bus from the Crown, an’ there’s
Sibley’s cart, and look, look—there’s a motor.”
The children all rushed to the window to investigate this wonder, Isaac
pausing midway to whoop violently. Lizzie bent a vacant gaze upon the
window, and then drew back into her corner.
“’Tis awful lwonesome here,” she said, “terr’ble lwonesome—there, that
noise an’ the dust an’ all; it do fair make my head go round.”