DOROTHY'S NEW FRIENDS.
It was noon when Dorothy entered the gate that opened upon the
grass-grown avenue, that led up to the farm-house. It was flanked on
either side by a row of lofty elms, from which the rooks were cawing
lustily, as they tended their sable offspring, in the huge unsightly
nests that swung on every bough.
The people were just returning from the hay-field to their dinner, and
it seemed so natural to Dorothy to hear them calling to the horses, as
the load of hay, fresh and fragrant, swept past on its way to the rick.
The farm-servant, who walked beside the load, with his fork over his
shoulder, stared at her, and plucked the front lock of his hair, by way
of salutation.
Dorothy went up to him, and asked, "if his old mistress was at home?"
"Ya'as. She be to whome, an' young meastress too. A' be seek wi
sha'aking ague. I'm thinkin' she'll be right glad to see you, Dorothy
Cha'ance." And the team moved on, and poor Dolly, more ashamed of her
errand than ever, went into the house.
She found that the younger Mrs. Barford was not in from the field, but
an old crone, who was rocking the cradle, told her "to go straight up to
the old woman's chamber," and Dorothy, glad to escape from the farmer
and his men, went up accordingly.
She found the sick woman wrapped up in a warm dressing-gown, reclining
languidly in a large easy chair. She was a fine looking woman of sixty,
but the disagreeable disease under which she was labouring, rendered
her sallow and hollow-eyed, and added a ghastly lengthiness to her
straight features.
She received Dorothy with much kindness; bade her sit down and tell her
the news; and how they all were at Heath Farm; and why she (Dorothy) had
taken such a long walk in the heat of the day, and at such a busy time;
adding, with great self-complacency, "that she supposed her old friend,
Mary Rushmere, had heard she was ill, and had sent Dorothy to learn how
she was."
Dorothy was obliged to undeceive her on that point, though she expressed
great concern to find her unable to leave her chamber, and, encouraged
by the friendly countenance of the invalid, she explained the cause of
her visit, and offered her services gratis, in return for the protection
of a home.
Mrs. Barford, who knew the value of those services to her former
employers, not only accepted them with great satisfaction, but promised
to remunerate them as they deserved.
"Take off your things, Dorothy, and make yourself contented. It's an ill
wind that blows nobody any good. Letty has just had another baby, and
her dairy-maid got married and left at this busy time, and I'm sick and
good for naught. I look upon your coming as a special providence, for
every body knows what a good industrious girl you be."
"I will try my very best to serve you," said Dorothy. "I am a good
nurse, and it will give me much pleasure to wait upon you. I never had
the ague, but I am sure it must be a weary thing."
"The fit has just left me, Dorothy. I feel better now. You must tell me
that story again. So Rushmere did not wish his son to marry you?"
"I don't wonder at that," said Dolly, sadly; "but dear mother wished
it."
"And well she might. A clever industrious woman, let her rank be what it
may, is a treasure to a farmer. Gilbert showed his good sense in
wishing to secure such a wife. Larry was always proud and uppish, and
carried his head a foot higher than his neighbours. I was sorry when
Mary Horton married him. He has made her a better husband than I thought
he would. He need not blame Gilbert for marrying for love, it was the
very thing he did himself. Mary had no fortune but her pretty face."
"She is the best woman in the world," said Dolly, energetically. "I feel
as if I never could love her enough, or repay her for all she has done
for me. Father was very good and kind, too, till Gilbert took this
unfortunate fancy for me."
"You have no fancy for him, then?" and the old lady pinched the velvet
cheek of the earnest girl.
"Of course, I have," answered Dorothy, with amusing simplicity. "If I
did not care for him, I should have no cause to be here."
Mrs. Barford laughed.
"Now tell me, child, what were Lawrence Rushmere's principal objections
to such a suitable match for his son?"
In spite of the character bestowed upon her by her old friend, Mrs.
Barford dearly loved a bit of gossip. She had been confined to the house
a month, and there had been, as a natural consequence, a great dearth of
news.
"He wanted Gilly to marry Miss Watling. She has money and land. I have
none."
"Marry Nancy Watling!" cried the invalid, rubbing her hands together, in
a sort of ecstacy. "Ugly, ill-tempered old Nance--well, that's a capital
joke. Lawrence must be in his dotage. Does he think that he can force a
handsome jolly young bachelor, like his son Gilbert, to marry the like
o' her? Why the woman is old enough, Dolly, to be your mother--and what
said Nance?"
"I think she wished it very much."
"No doubt she did."
"She offered her place to him to farm on shares, and said that she
wanted a smart young man to take charge of her affairs. It was his
refusal that made all the trouble."
For a sick woman, to be sure, the ague fit had left its victim for that
day, and she was feeling better. Mrs. Barford laughed very uproariously.
Just then, her son came in to hear how she was, and what he should send
up for her dinner. His good-natured wide mouth expanded into a broad
grin, as he stood with a clownish air at the door, staring at Dorothy,
without advancing a step.
"Why, mother, you be in a mighty foony humour. I 'spected to find ye's
croonin an groaning in fit this morning. What did lass say, to make ye's
laugh out so loud?"
"Shut the door, Joe, and come here," said his mother, still laughing.
"What do you think. Nance Watling has been turning everything upside
down at the Heath Farm. She made proposals to Gilbert for a sleeping
partner."
"Oh, no, ma'am. Not quite so bad as that," put in Dorothy, thinking that
her new friend was not adhering strictly to the truth. "He was to go
shares with her in the farm."
"Pshaw! child. I can see through her tricks. It all comes to the same
thing. Why she made an offer to Joe here before he married."
"Yes, that a' did," simpered Joe, "I dare say she'd deny it now. She
wanted to ha' me, whether a' wud or no. And what said old man?"
"He wanted Gilly to close with her offer."
"O coorse--he thought o' her big fortin. Old Larry is fond o' the
money."
"Gilbert kicked up, it seems," continued Mrs. Barford, "and would have
none of the old maid. He wanted to take this lass. Lawrence flew into a
rage, and turned the poor girl out of the house. The wife, who knows her
value, sent her straight to me. She will be of rare service during these
busy times to Letty and me."
"That a' wull," responded Joe. "Coome along, Dolly, an' speak to my
missus. The dinner will be 'a waiting, an' times money here. Mother
can't ye's drink a pint o' yell an pick a bit o' bacon?"
The sick woman shook her head, with an air of disgust.
"Dolly will bring me a glass of cowslip wine and a bit of dry toast. I
don't feel like eating yet."
"Dang yer cowslip wine," quoth Joe, "it's poor trash, the yell would do
a' more good."
"It's bad for the bile, Joe. This ague makes a body very squeamish. But
go to your dinner, children, and don't keep the men waiting. Dorothy,
you can attend to me by and by."
Dorothy smoothed her black locks, which the wind and her quick walking
had scattered over her face, and followed her jolly conductor down to
the kitchen.
The homely but substantial dinner was smoking on the table, and Joe's
wife was already in her place at the head of the board.
A short stout matron of thirty, with yellow hair, blue eyes, and a very
rosy face; her features were coarse, and their expression everything but
pleasing; her whole appearance decidedly common and vulgar. Four young
boys ranging from five to thirteen years of age, were seated on either
side their mother, and formed very respectable olive branches; healthy
merry looking fellows, with eyes brimful of fun and mischief. A wicker
cradle, in which the youngest scion of the house was sleeping, stood
beside Mrs. Barford, number two; so that if baby stirred during the
repast his mother could keep him quiet, by moving the cradle with her
foot, while attending to the wants of her household.
Joe fronted his better half at the foot of the table, in his shirt
sleeves; tall, bony and hard featured, his honest jovial face tanned to
a swarthy red; he presented a fair specimen of a common tiller of the
soil; his three working hands, who sat near him, were far more civilized
in their appearance than the master of the house.
As they came trooping in, and tumbled into their seats, Letty Barford
called out, in a shrill voice.
"Don't make such a clatter there, or yo'll waken up the babby. Joe, I
wonders at ye, keepen the dinner waiting so long. The old woman upstairs
shu'd ha' more sense. An' who is this gall ye ha' brought with you?"
scowling at Dorothy. "I'm thinken I've seen her face afore."
"It's Miss Chance, from Heath Farm," said Joe, in a very subdued voice,
his large grey eye quailing beneath the fierce inquiring gaze of his
wife.
"Miss.--We have no misses here," she muttered, in an audible aside. "Sit
down, Dorothy Chance, Ye'r welcome to what we ha'; not 'specting company
you'll find no junkets at table."
Dorothy, who neither liked the looks of the speaker, nor her harsh
voice, mechanically obeyed; and the great business of dinner commenced.
Such a clatter of knives and forks, such an earnest addressing of each
individual to the important task of satisfying his hunger, that few
words were spoken during the meal.
Beans and bacon, cabbage and brown hard dumplings, formed the bill of
fare, which the men washed down with plenty of table beer.
Dorothy had been used to such homely diet, and, in spite of her grief,
ate a tolerably hearty meal, not having tasted food since she had dined
on the previous day.
"That's right, lass! doan't fret aboot sweetheart, but get a good
dinner. There's plenty o' men left in the country," said the yeoman,
drinking off his glass of foaming ale, and nodding to Dorothy. "There's
my Dick, an' he wor only ten year older, I'd gi him to yer, wi a right
good wull--that a' wud."
Dorothy blushed scarlet, the men burst into a loud haw, haw; and Master
Dick, glancing at the strange girl, said, with a saucy air--
"When I wants a maid, I'll please mysel," a declaration which all
present seemed to consider very witty.
The dinner was at last concluded, and men and boys went off to the
hay-field, leaving Dorothy alone with Mrs. Joe and the baby.
With great reluctance she communicated to the coarse common-minded
woman, the unfortunate circumstances that had brought her to the house,
taking care to give the relation in the most matter-of-fact language.
Mrs. Joe listened to the tale with an air of stolid indifference, though
secretly glad of the chance that had brought such an excellent
work-woman into the house. She was a poor manager, and possessed no
capacity for anything beyond keeping her husband and children remarkably
clean. Her butter and cheese had no repute at market, and she generally
had to dispose of these important articles of farm produce for an
inferior price.
"Well," she said, with a most provoking air of distrust, "yours do seem
a strange story. I hope it may be all true. How'dsomever, that be no
consarn o' mine. I be right glad you be come. Maybe, you'll teach me
your method o' makin' cheese an' butter. Yours wor allers the crack o'
the market. I ha' had that ere butter o' your'n thrown up in my face a
hunder times."
"I will take charge of the dairy, Mrs. Joseph, if you wish it?"
"Doan't call me, Mrs. Joseph. I doan't want any o' those quality names
here. I'm allers called Letty. If a' wull take care o' the cows, it will
save me a world o' trouble. The children are all lads, an it's little
help they gi' a body, they keeps un allers washing an' mending, an'
fretting un's heart out about thar mischief. Then old uman's so ugly
about the rows they make, toombling over chairs an' stools, an' yapping
when thar hurt, my heads a'most split wi' noise. I did hope that young
'un in cradle wu'd ha' proved a lass, but 'tis a man child, an' a fine
whopping boy too, amaist big enough, and strong enough, to go to
plough."
Here Letty drew the coverlet from the face of the sleeping babe, and
displayed his chubby proportions with maternal pride.
"That's some 'at like a babby--he's a credit to the farm."
"What a lovely child," cried Dorothy, as the sleepy little fellow,
barely a month old, lazily opened his blue eyes, and stretched himself
and yawned in the most healthy and approved fashion. "What have you
called him?"
"Hain't taken un to parson yet. A mean to call 'un Thomas, arter my own
feather. Mother do think that she ha' a right to name all the bairns,
but I mean to ha' my own way for once."
"Tommy and I are sure to be friends," said Dorothy, lifting the child
from the cradle. "I dearly love babies--it will be play nursing him."
The mother laughed.
"Ye'r dearly welcome to sich play. If you bide here, ye'll ha' lots
on't. But what of the old missus upstairs.--What'll she ha' for dinner?"
Dorothy had forgotten all about the cowslip wine and the toast, and
procuring these delicacies from Mrs. Joe, she hastened with them back to
the sick chamber.
"Out o' sight out o' mind," said the invalid, good-naturedly. "I
thought, Dolly, you never meant to come. What has kept you since
dinner?"
"I had to tell Mrs. Letty the reason why I left the farm."
"An' what did she say?" asked her companion, with an eager look.
"I think she scarcely believed me," returned Dorothy. "She almost said
as much."
"Oh, you must not mind her. She is a rude envious creature, an' as
jealous o' her husband as she can be. You must mind how you speak to
him, or you'll get scissors. I have to keep Mistress Letty in her place,
the vulgar low thing that she is, or I should have a poor time of it, if
I let her have her own way. She is actually jealous of the natural
affection Joe has for me, an' he's the best tempered fellow in the world
to put up with her nonsense. But I'm mistress here, an' she's obliged to
draw in her horns. You'll get on very well with her, if you only show
her a bold front; for, after all, she's a big coward, her bark is worse
than her bite."
While drawing this unprepossessing but true character of her
daughter-in-law, Mrs. Barford went on leisurely sipping her cowslip
wine.
"I hope we shall be friends," said Dorothy, "we all have our faults, and
so many young children are a great trial of temper; I shall be able to
relieve Mrs. Letty of the trouble of the baby, and do most of the indoor
work. It will be better than my going out into the fields with her
husband and the men."
"You are just right. Now run down and clear away the dishes. I feel
quite comfortable. Reach a pillow from the bed, Dolly. Just put it
here, to the right side of the chair. Now the house is quiet, I shall
get a nice nap."
Here Master Tommy thought fit to try the strength of his lungs, and
began squalling lustily.
"Drat the child!" cried Mrs. Barford, using her son Joe's favourite
expletive, "he allers chooses to be wide awake when I want to go to
sleep. Do try, Dolly, and keep him still. You will find plenty to do
down stairs between this and supper time." Coiling herself round in the
comfortable chair, the old lady settled herself for a nap, and Dorothy
ran down to clear away the dishes and relieve Letty from the care of the
babe.
A week passed away, Dorothy thought it as long as a month. There came no
word from the farm, and she concluded that Gilbert had returned to his
accustomed duties; and that even Mrs. Rushmere had become reconciled to
her absence.
Another week, and still no news of Gilbert.
Dorothy, by this time, was thoroughly acquainted with her new place; had
got used to the people and the cattle; and was a great favourite in the
family, from Master Dick down to little Sammy, who sat upon her lap of
an evening to hear her tell him a story before he went to bed, Mrs.
Letty forming the only exception. She could not bear to hear her
mother-in-law praise Dorothy, but she found her too useful to quarrel
with lightly, and confined her dislike to a watchful scrutiny of her
words and actions, and a curt rude manner in giving her orders.
Dorothy would have felt this want of common courtesy very keenly, had
not her mind been occupied with a deeper cause of anxiety, and she
neither resented nor took the least notice of Mrs. Joe's ill manners,
beyond setting her down in her own mind as a selfish unfeeling woman,
with whom she could never be on friendly terms, and whose company was
very disagreeable.
One day she was passing through a passage that led from the kitchen to
the dairy. Joe and his wife were in earnest conversation in the kitchen;
the door was open, they did not see Dorothy, and she could not help
overhearing what they were talking about.
"Doa'nt b'lieve a word on't. The girl's a good modest girl. She never do
trouble herself aboot men folk."
"Phew!" hissed forth the little wife.
"People are mighty good till they be found out. She's a sly one--she be.
I doa'nt swallow that story o' her'n. Depend upon it, man, it be a big
lie fro' beginning to end. She doa'nt fool me wi' the like o' that.
Farmer Rushmere wu'd not turn her out for naught."
"Dang it! Letty, I know summut o' women folk. I'd as soon suspect mother
o' the like as Dorothy Chance. A nicer, quieter girl never comed into a
house."
"O coorse, Joe, she be all perfection in yar eyes," and Mrs. Joe began
to whimper. "These still 'uns be allers the worst. Wait awhile an'
you'll find out who's right. I hate the wench, wi' her cunning black
eyes lookin a body through. She be a deep un--she be."
Here the matrimonial colloquy ended, and Dorothy hurried on to the
dairy. She put down her pails, shut the door, and began to ponder over
what she had heard.
What could Mrs. Joe mean? What had she done? Of what did she accuse her?
She felt inclined to go back and demand an explanation. Then, the old
adage rushed into her mind. "Listeners seldom hear any good of
themselves," and she was no match in a battle of words with such a woman
as Mrs. Joe; so she determined to take no notice of what she had heard,
but to seek another situation as soon as she could.
Dorothy felt very wretched, and set about churning that evening with a
heavy heart. Her faith in the goodness of human nature was very much
shaken; she had conscientiously done her duty to her employers, and this
was her reward.
Saturday was the market-day at Hadstone. Dorothy dressed the butter--it
was a prime article--and packed a panier of fresh eggs, before she went
to bed that night, thinking that her services would be required to sell
them in the morning. She wanted much to go to town, in the hope of
hearing some news about the Rushmeres, and to obtain, if possible,
another service, for she felt it was impossible to remain much longer
where she was.
Unfortunately for her, this was Letty's holiday. The only day in the
week, except Sunday, that she could learn the news of the parish.
Dorothy felt cruelly disappointed, but she said nothing, and helped
Letty, as carefully as usual, to pack the baskets into the light cart.
In her best bonnet and black silk spencer, (they wore spencers in those
days instead of jackets) her light flaxen hair disposed in round curls,
her gay chintz gown spotlessly clean; the younger Mrs. Barford looked a
comely country wife. Dorothy gave her the whip, and ran ahead to open
the gate that led into the road.
"Mrs. Barford," she said, in a hesitating voice, "do not forget to make
inquiries about the old folks at the farm, and whether Gilbert has
returned. I do so wish to know. I should feel more happy and settled
like."
"Never fear lass. I'm dying wi' curiosity to larn all I can aboot them."
She smiled significantly and glanced furtively at Dorothy.
"Old Mrs. Larks wull tell me every thing. She allers picks up all the
news. Mayhap, you may hear more than wull please you."
Dorothy felt mad with herself for asking her to inquire about her old
friends, and Mrs. Letty commenced giving her instructions about the
household during her absence.
"Now mind, Dolly, an' take care o' the babe, an' put no sugar in a's
milk. An' see that the men ha' their dinner in right time; an' doant put
tew many plooms inter thar doomplins, for 'tis carting day, 'an they
'spect plooms. An' keep the old woman from scolding the lads. She'll be
sure to be peeking an' perking inter every thing the moment my back's
turned. I shan't be whome afore 'tis time to milk cows. An' mind an' be
here to open the gate when I coomes back."
Crack went the whip and away floundered the old horse through the gate.
Dolly, after watching his progress for a few minutes down the hill, with
a heavy sigh and a boding anticipation of evil tidings, returned slowly
to the house.