“Where be goin’, William?”
“Oh, I be jest steppin’ up to the Pure Drop.”
And William Faithfull brought back his abstracted gaze from the
horizon, where it habitually rested when it was not required for
practical purposes in the exercise of his profession, and fixed itself
somewhat shamefacedly on his interlocutor.
He was a tall, loose-limbed man, of about forty, with an expression
of countenance chronically dismal, except at such times when he was
employed in some particularly genial task, such as making a coffin,
or repairing the church trestles, when his neighbours averred that he
became quite lively, and even whistled as he worked.
His crony now returned his glance with a jocular one, and slapped his
thigh ecstatically.
“Well, I never seed such a chap! Faithfull by name and faithful by
natur’--ah, sure you are. Why, ’tis nigh upon twelve year, bain’t it,
since ye started coortin’ Martha Jesty?”
“Somewhere about that,” replied William; and his countenance, already
ruddy in the sunset glow, assumed a still deeper tint.
“Well, I never!” returned the other with a shout of laughter. “She be
gettin’ on pretty well, now--I d’ ’low she’ll be a staid woman by the
time you wed her.”
William shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
“Well,” he said, after a pause, “I d’ ’low she be worth waitin’ for.
She be wonderful clever, Martha be--an’ that sprack! No, I don’t regret
it--not at all I don’t.”
“Bain’t the wold man anyways comin’ round?” inquired his friend with
his head on one side.
“No,” returned Faithfull gloomily. “Not at all. But he be so terr’ble
punished, poor wold chap, one can’t expect rayson off he.”
“’Tis the rheumatics, bain’t it?” was the next query in a commiserating
tone.
“’Tis the sky-attics,” replied the carpenter, not without a certain
pride in his pseudo-father-in-law’s distinguished ailment. “There, he
be so scraggled as anything--all doubled up by times. Martha do say he
goes twisty-like same as a eel, when it do take en real bad.”
“Lard, now!” ejaculated the other.
“’E-es,” said William, shaking his head--“that’s how it do take en.
So, as Martha do say, ye can’t expect the onpossible. ‘If my father,’
says she, ‘be so scram-like in his out’ard man, how can ye look for en
to act straight-forrard? He’ve a-set his mind again’ the notion of us
gettin’ wed, so we must just wait till he be underground. And then,’
says she, ‘I’ll not keep ’ee waitin’ a minute longer.’”
“Well, that’s handsome,” agreed the friend, “but I’m afeard, William,
that there complaint bain’t like to carry en off very soon--no, not so
very soon. Nay, I’ve a-knowed folks keep on a-livin’ in a way that ’ud
surprise ye, as was fair bent in two wi’ pains in all their j’ints. I
reckon you’ll very like go first yerself, William.”
After a pause of deep depression the carpenter’s face lighted up.
“The sky-attics, d’ye see, Tom,” he explained condescendingly--“the
sky-attics is a new-fayshioned ailment, an’ a deal dangerouser nor the
wold rheumatiz an’ newralgy and sich. Why, when I did mention to Parson
t’other day about wold Jesty’s sky-attics he did laugh. ‘Sky-attics,’
says he. ‘Then he’ll be like to go up’ards afore very long,’ says he.
Well, so long, Tom; I must be steppin’ up-along now.”
“Ye’ll find the wold fellow a bit tilty,” remarked Tom; “whether
them there ’attics was troublin’ en or not I can’t say, but he was
a-shoutin’ an’ a bally-raggin’ o’ that poor faymale while I was
drinkin’ my drap o’ beer jist now, till I wonder she wasn’t dathered.”
William’s recent elation disappeared; he vouchsafed no comment on the
unwelcome news, however, but with a sidelong nod at his crony, shambled
away, swinging his long limbs as though every joint of them was loose.
The Pure Drop was situated a stone’s throw from the village, and stood
at the junction of four cross-roads; a most excellent position, which
enabled it to waylay, as it were, not only the inhabitants of the
hamlet as they set forth for or returned from their day’s vocations,
but to capture most of the travellers who journeyed that way--cyclists
galore, wagoners, dusty pedestrians. It must be owned that the aspect
of the little place was inviting enough to tempt even a teetotaller;
the low red-brick house overgrown with creepers, the mullioned windows
winking brightly in the sun in summer, and in winter letting streams of
ruddy firelight flow forth. It was so clean and airy, so cosy and trim,
that those who went thither for the first time vowed they would return
again, and old customers nodded knowingly, and declared that the place
had not its like in the country. The liquor was good, while prudent
folk who called for tea might have it, and a crusty home-baked loaf
into the bargain, and a roll of fresh butter of Martha’s making.
Then Martha herself--though she was no longer in the first bloom of
youth, she was a tidy, clean-skinned, pleasant-looking little body;
and if her eye was sharp and her tongue ready, she was none the less
popular on these accounts; every one got hauled over the coals from
time to time, and when it was not your turn it was pleasant enough to
see other folks made to look foolish.
Miss Jesty was standing in the open doorway when her lover came up, and
immediately made a warning sign to him.
“Ye mustn’t come in to-night, William. Father--there! he’s something
awful this evenin’, an’ he’ve a-been on the look-out for ye, so to
speak, ever since dinner-time. Whenever the door do go, ‘There,’ he’ll
cry, ‘is that that good-for-nothin’ William Faithfull?’ Or if there’s a
knock, ‘’Tis that sammy o’ thine, for sure,’ he’ll say.”
“Oh, an’ does he?” returned poor William, with a deeper expression of
melancholy.
Martha nodded portentously.
“Ye mustn’t come in to-day,” she said with decision; “no, not even
for a minute. Father, he did say to I jist now, as whatever happened
he wouldn’t have no cwortin’ here. ‘If ye can have the heart to think
about cwortin’ when I’m so bad as I be,’ says he, ‘I’ll take an’ alter
my will.’ So there’s nothin’ for it but for you to turn about an’ go
home again.”
“I weren’t so much thinkin’ o’ cwortin’ this evenin’, Martha,” said the
swain very meekly. “I wer’ lookin’ for a drap o’ beer--I be terr’ble
dry.”
Martha hesitated for a moment, and in this interval a kind of bellow
sounded from the interior of the house.
“That’s him,” she cried in terror. “No, William, ye can’t have no beer
to-night. I dursen’t stay another minute. Go home-along, do, an’ if ye
be so thirsty as that comes to, can’t ye get a bottle o’ ‘pop’ off Mrs.
Andrews?”
William gazed at her blankly, but before he could protest his charmer
had disappeared within the house, and he was forced very dolefully to
retrace his steps. He did indeed purchase the bottle of “pop,” but
found it by no means exhilarating; in fact, as he laid his head on the
pillow that night he was tempted to think he might pay too high a price
even for the hope of becoming one day Martha’s husband.
When on the following Sunday evening, however, he walked in the shady
lane hand-in-hand with his sweetheart, he forgot how irksome was this
time of trial, and listened with the melancholy satisfaction which
was his nearest approach to cheerfulness (on ordinary occasions) to
the glowing picture with which she depicted the reward earned by his
constancy.
“I do r’alely think as poor father be a-breakin’ up,” she remarked
consolingly. “When winter comes I reckon he’ll not be able to hold
out. Well,” she added piously, “’tis what comes to us all, soon or
late, an’ I’m sure he be well prepared, for I don’t think he’ve a-had
a day’s health this twenty year. ’Twill be a mercy when he do go, poor
wold man. An’ the winter ’ud be a very nice time for us to get married,
William; ’twould suit us very well, wouldn’t it?”
“Ah, sure,” said William, with a slow smile.
“We shouldn’t be so busy then, d’ye see,” resumed Martha. “The
harvestin’ ’ud be done an’ the potato-gettin’; an’ there wouldn’t be so
many by-cyclists--there’s not so much goin’ backwards an’ forrards in
winter-time. We shouldn’t be at much loss if we was to take a holiday.”
“Ah,” said William, with mournful rapture, “you was thinkin’ of us
takin’ a holiday, was ye, Martha?”
“I thought we mid go to London,” cried Miss Jesty triumphantly. “I have
always longed to go to London an’ see the sights there, an’ go to the
theayters. There! Susan Inkpen as wed Miller Dewey did go up to London
for her honeymoon.”
“For her what?” interrupted Faithfull.
“For her honeymoon--her weddin’ journey--the jaunt what folks do take
when they gets wed.”
“Oh, to be sure,” said the carpenter. “An’ you an’ me be to go to
London for our honeymoon, be we?”
“’E-es,” cried Martha with a chuckle. “We’ll have a rale week’s
pleasurin’, you an’ me. If ’tis winter-time--as most like ’twill be, on
account o’ poor father’s sky-attics, you know--the pantomines ’ull be
goin’ on. Susan Dewey did go, an’ she said they was the wonderfullest
things, wi’ fairies an’ mermaids, an’ sich-like, an’ Clown an’
Pantaloon a-knockin’ of each other about. There, she an’ her husband
did fair split their sides wi’ laughin’.”
William appeared to survey this prospect stolidly, and made no comment,
and Miss Jesty continued eagerly:--
“Then there’d be the Waxworks, an’ the Zoo, where all the wild beasts
is kept; an’ we’d go an’ see the Tower o’ London, where all the king’s
jools an’ suits of armour is set out, an’ we’d go to Westminster
Abbey----”
“What’s that?” inquired Mr. Faithfull dubiously.
Martha was taken aback for a moment.
“Susan went to see it,” said she hesitatingly, “so I s’pose ’tis worth
lookin’ at. ’Tis a wold ancient church.”
“A wold church?” repeated William, shaking his head. “I d’ ’low
I shouldn’t care so much to see that. I’d sooner wait till ’twas
done-up fresh-like. I never cared at all for goin’ into our church
till the Rector had it cleaned and painted-up so good as new. I
think ’t ’ud be a foolish kind o’ thing to go trapesin’ off to
yon--what-d’-ye-call-it--Abbey till they get it repaired.”
“Maybe not,” agreed Martha cheerfully; “there’s plenty more to be seen
wi’out that. Well, I hope the Lord ’ull spare father so long as it be
good for en, poor dear man, but if he was to be took, I hope as it may
be in the winter, William.”
William, who had been trailing beside her arm-in-crook, suddenly
stopped short and faced her with a determined air.
“Whether he do go in winter or whether he do go in summer, Martha,”
said he, “you an’ me must be called home so soon as he be laid
underground, mind that.”
And having come to the turn in the lane where they usually parted,
William went his way, leaving Martha somewhat in doubt whether to be
pleased at this proof of ardour or indignant at the sudden display of
spirit.
A wilful woman is proverbially supposed to have her way, yet it
sometimes happens that, even when she proposes, Heaven disposes events
otherwise than she would have had them. Thus, though Martha Jesty had
made arrangements for her father to depart this life in the winter--a
time when business should be conveniently slack--that worthy old
gentleman was removed from this earthly sphere in the very height of
summer, when the harvest was in full swing, and more than an ordinary
number of tourists halted daily for refreshment at the Pure Drop.
Tidings of this melancholy event were imparted to William by a group
who entered his yard on the morning of the occurrence, each eager
to be the first to tell the news. That old Mr. Jesty was gone was
an incontrovertible fact, but none of the newsmongers could agree
as to the precise ailment which had carried him off. He had had a
bit of a cold for a day or two, but while some said it had turned to
“browntitus,” others were sure it was “poomonia,” and one shrill-voiced
old lady delivered it as her opinion that nothing short of an
“apple-complex” could have carried him off that sudden.
Beyond sundry “ohs” and “ahs” and grunts indicative of surprise
and sympathy, William made no remark, though when one facetious
bystander observed that it would be his turn next--a somewhat obscure
phrase, which might be interpreted in a variety of ways--he grinned
appreciatively.
No sooner had the gossips departed, however, than he went indoors and
assumed his coat, and immediately betook himself, not to the Pure Drop,
but to the Rectory.
“The Reverend,” as his parishioners frequently called him, was sitting
in his study, tranquilly reading his _Times_, when William Faithfull
was ushered in.
“You’ll have heard the noos, sir,” he began abruptly; “old Abel Jesty
up to the Pure Drop, he’s gone at last.”
“Oh!” said the Rector, looking rather startled; “that’s sudden, isn’t
it?”
“’E-es,” said William, with a wooden face; “sudden but not unpre-pared.
Martha has been a-lookin’ for en to go this ten year.”
“Oh!” said the Rector again, this time a little uncertainly.
“’E-es,” resumed William; “I thought I’d call an’ tell ye, so as ye
need lose no time in settling things.”
“About the funeral, I suppose you mean?” put in the clergyman as he
paused.
“No,” said William, who was gazing not only over the Rector’s head,
but apparently through the wall at some distant sky-line; “about the
weddin’--mine an’ Martha’s. Ye mid call us over on Sunday.”
“Really, William, I think that is too sudden,” said the Rector; “why,
the poor old man won’t have been dead a week!”
“He be so dead as ever he’ll be,” returned William, still gazing
impenetrably at that far point in an imaginary horizon. “Martha an’ I
have a-made it up years ago, an’ settled as she’d not keep me waitin’
no longer after her father was took. I’ll thank ye to call us home,
sir.”
And with that he scraped a leg and pulled his forelock and withdrew,
leaving the Rector, half-scandalised, half-amused, murmuring to himself
as the door closed something about “funeral baked-meats,” which William
set down as a “bit o’ voolishness”.
He found Martha plunged in the most praiseworthy grief, thereby much
edifying the neighbours who had gathered together to condole with
her; but William, who could only see the other aspect of the affair,
immediately beckoned her on one side and informed her of the step he
had taken.
“Lard!” cried she, genuinely taken aback, “whatever made ye do that?
Why, father ’ull only be buried o’ Thursday. You shouldn’t ha’ done it
wi’out axin’ me. ’Tis too sudden. The folks ’ull say we’ve no decency.”
“Let ’em say what they like,” returned William firmly. “I’ll keep to my
’greement, an’ I expect you to do the same. ’Twas drawed out ten year
ago an’ more. I’ve stuck to my word, an’ you must stick to your’n.”
“’Twill be a very onconvenient time,” said Martha reflectively.
“Three-week come Monday--the middle of August that’ll be, jist when we
do take more money nor any other month in the year.”
William cracked his finger joints one after another with great
decision, but made no verbal reply.
“There, I’ve a-been lookin’ forward to our honeymoon all these years,”
complained Martha, fresh tears rushing to her eyes; “it’ll be a shame,
I declare, if we have to give it up! I’ve never took a holiday, no, not
since mother died. I don’t see how we can get away then, William.”
“I don’t care so much about gettin’ away,” said Faithfull resolutely.
“’Tis the weddin’ I do want. I’ll not have no shilly-shally. I’ve
a-told ye hundreds of times as I wouldn’t wait a day longer nor I could
help--an’ I won’t wait. You’d best make up your mind to it.”
“Why, whatever’s come to ye?” cried Martha, really angry. “’Tis
downright indecent to go upsettin’ me like this in the midst o’ my
trouble. ’Tisn’t for you to be namin’ the day either. Jist you keep a
civil tongue in your head, William, an’ have a bit o’ patience--maybe
about Michaelmas----”
“Michaelmas!” ejaculated the carpenter, catching up his hat and fixing
it firmly on his head. “I’ll tell you summat, Martha--I’m goin’ to get
married o’ Monday three-week, whatever you mid be. If ye can’t make
up your mind to it there’s them as will. I’ll go warrant my cousin
Sabina, over to Sturminster, ’ud have me if I was to ax her. Her an’
me was always very thick. Gully, that’s her husband, left her very
comfortable, an’ she has but the one little maid.”
Martha thereupon came round in a twinkling, and flinging herself into
his arms, promised to agree to everything he wished. A tender scene
ensued, at the end of which William suggested that he had better go
upstairs to measure the poor old man for his coffin.
When he came down again he found Martha in the midst of her cronies, to
whom she had imparted, with a kind of regretful elation, the extreme
pressure which William had brought to bear upon her with regard to
their approaching nuptials, all her hearers being much impressed and
edified by the recital.