VI

"And the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son and the Holy

Ghost, be amongst you and remain with you always!"

So prayed John Walden, truly and tenderly, stretching out his hands

in benediction over the bent heads of his little congregation, which

responded with a fervent 'Amen.'

Service was over, and the good folks of St. Rest wended their

gradual way out of church to the full sweet sound of an organ

voluntary, played by Miss Janet Eden, who, as all the village said

of her, 'was a rare 'and at doin' the music proper.' Each man and

woman wore their Sunday best,--each girl had some extra bit of

finery on, and each lad sported either a smart necktie or wore a

flower in his buttonhole, as a testimony to the general festal

feeling inspired by a day when ordinary work is set aside for the

mingled pleasures of prayer, meditation and promiscuous love-making.

The iconoclasts who would do away with the appointed seventh day of

respite from the hard labours of every-day life, deserve hanging

without the mercy of trial. A due observance of Sunday, and

especially the English country observance of Sunday, is one of the

saving graces of our national constitution. In the large towns, a

growing laxity concerning the 'keeping of the seventh day holy,' is

plainly noticeable, the pernicious example of London 'smart' society

doing much to lessen the old feeling of respect for the day and its

sacredness; but in small greenwood places, where it is still judged

decent and obedient to the laws of God, to attend Divine worship at

least once a day,--when rough manual toil is set aside, and the

weary and soiled labourer takes a pleasure in being clean, orderly

and cheerfully respectful to his superiors, Sunday is a blessing and

an educational force that can hardly be over-estimated.

In such a peaceful corner as St. Rest it was a very day of days.

Tourists seldom disturbed its tranquillity, the 'Mother Huff'

public-house affording but sorry entertainment to such parties; the

motor-bicycle, with its detestable noise, insufferable odour and

dirty, oil-stained rider in goggled spectacles, was scarcely ever

seen,--and motor-cars always turned another way on leaving the

county town of Riversford, in order to avoid the sharp ascent from

the town, as well as the still sharper and highly dangerous descent

into the valley again, where the little mediaeval village lay

nestled. Thus it was enabled to gather to itself a strangely

beautiful halcyon calm on the Lord's Day,--and in fair Spring

weather like the present, dozed complacently under the quiet smile

of serene blue skies, soothed to sleep by the rippling flow of its

ribbon-like river, and receiving from hour to hour a fluttering halo

of doves' wings, as these traditional messengers of peace flew over

the quaint old houses, or rested on the gabled roofs, spreading out

their snowy tails like fans to the warmth of the sun. The churchyard

was the recognised meeting-place for all the gossips of the village

after the sermon was over and the blessing pronounced,--and the

brighter and warmer the weather, the longer and more desultory the

conversation.

On this special Sunday, the worthy farmers and their wives, with

their various cronies and confidants, gathered together in larger

groups than usual, and lingered about more than was even their

ordinary habit. Their curiosity was excited,--so were their

faculties of criticism. The new servants from the Manor had attended

church, sitting all together in a smart orderly row, and suggesting

in their neat spick-and-span attire an unwonted note of novelty, of

fashion, of change, nay, even of secret and suppressed society

wickedness. Their looks, their attitudes, their whisperings, their

movements, furnished plenty of matter to talk about,--particularly

as Mrs. Spruce had apparently 'given herself airs' and marshalled

them in and marshalled them out again, without stopping to talk to

her village friends as usual,--which was indeed a veritable marvel,-

-or to vouchsafe any information respecting the expected return of

her new mistress, an impending event which was now well known

throughout the whole neighbourhood. Oliver Leach, the land agent,

had arrived at the church-door in an open dog-cart, and had sat

through the service looking as black as thunder, or as Bainton

elegantly expressed it: 'as cheerful as a green apple with a worm in

it.' Afterwards, he had driven off at a rattling pace, exchanging no

word with anyone. Such conduct, so the village worthies opined, was

bound to be included among the various signs and tokens which were

ominous of a coming revolution in the moral and domestic atmosphere

of St. Rest.

Then again, the 'Passon's' sermon that morning had been something of

a failure. Walden himself, all the time he was engaged in preaching

it, had known that it was a lame, halting and perfunctory discourse,

and he had felt fully conscious that a patient tolerance of him on

the part of his parishioners had taken the place of the respectful

interest and attention they usually displayed. He was indeed sadly

at a loss concerning 'the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.' He

had desired to recommend the cultivation of such a grace in the most

forcible manner, yet he found himself wondering why fashionable

women wore pink shoes much smaller than the natural size of the

human foot? To be 'meek and quiet' was surely an excellent thing,

but then it was impossible for any man with blood in his veins to

feel otherwise than honestly indignant at the extravagance displayed

by certain modern ladies in the selection of their gowns! Flashing

sparks of pearl and crystal sewn on cloud-like tissues and chiffons,

danced before his eyes, as he ponderously weighed out the spiritual

advantages of being meek and quiet; and his metaphors became as hazy

as the deductions he drew from his text were vague and difficult to

follow. He was uncomfortably conscious of a slight flush rising to

his face, as he met the bland enquiring stare of Sir Morton

Pippitt's former butler--now on 'temp'ry' service at the Manor,--he

became aware that there was also a new and rather pretty housemaid

beside the said butler, who whispered when she ought to have been

silent,--and he saw blankness on the fat face of Mrs. Spruce, a face

which was tied up like a round red damaged sort of fruit in a black

basket-like bonnet, fastened with very broad violet strings. Now

Mrs. Spruce always paid the most pious attention to his sermons, and

jogged her husband at regular intervals to prevent that worthy man

from dozing, though she knew he could not hear a word of anything

that was said, and that, therefore, he might as well have been

allowed to sleep,--but on this occasion John was sure that even he

failed to be interested in his observations on that 'ornament,'

which she called 'hornament,' of the meek and quiet spirit,

pronounced to be of such 'great price.' He realised that if any

'great price' was at all in question with her that morning, it was

the possible monetary value of her new lady's wardrobe. So that on

the whole he was very glad when he came to the end of his ramble

among strained similes, and was able to retire altogether from the

gaze of the different pairs of eyes, cow-like, sheep-like, bird-

like, dog-like, and human, which in their faithful watching of his

face as he preached, often moved him to a certain embarrassment,

though seldom as much as on this occasion. With his disappearance

from the pulpit, and his subsequent retreat round by the back of the

churchyard into the privacy of his own garden, the tongues of the

gossips, restrained as long as their minister was likely to be

within earshot, broke loose and began to wag with glib rapidity.

"Look 'ee 'ere, Tummas," said one short, thick-set man, addressing

Bainton; "Look 'ee 'ere--thy measter baint oop to mark this marnin'!

Seemed as if he couldn't find the ways nor the meanin's o' the Lord

nohow!"

Bainton slowly removed his cap from his head and looked thoughtfully

into the lining, as though seeking for inspiration there, before

replying. The short, thick-set man was an important personage,--no

less than the proprietor of the 'Mother Huff' public-house; and not

only was he proprietor of the said public-house, but brewer of all

the ale he sold there. Roger Buggins was a man to be reckoned with,

and he expected to be treated with almost as much consideration as

the 'Passon' himself. Buggins wore a very ill-fitting black suit on

Sundays, which made him look like a cross between a waiter and an

undertaker; and he also supported on his cranium a very tall top-hat

with an extra wide brim, suggesting in its antediluvian shape a

former close acquaintance with cast-off clothing stores.

"He baint himself,"--reiterated Buggins emphatically; "He was fair

mazed and dazed with his argifyin'. 'Meek and quiet sperrit'! Who

wants the like o' that in this 'ere mortal wurrld, where we all

commences to fight from the moment we lays in our cradles till the

last kick we gives 'fore we goes to our graves? Meek and quiet goes

to prison more often than rough and ready!"

"Mebbe Passon Walden was thinkin' of Oliver Leach," suggested

Bainton with a slight twinkle in his eye; "And 'ow m'appen we'd best

be all of us meek and quiet when he's by. It might be so, Mr.

Buggins,--Passon's a rare one to guess as 'ow the wind blows nor'-

nor'-east sometimes in the village, for all that it's a warm day and

the peas comin' on beautiful. Eh, now, Mr. Buggins?" This with a

conciliatory air, for Bainton had a little reckoning at the 'Mother

Huff' and desired to be all that was agreeable to its proprietor.

Buggins snorted a defiant snort.

"Oliver Leach indeed!" he ejaculated. "Meek an' quiet suits him down

to the ground, it do! There's a man wot's likely to have a kindly

note of warnin' from my best fist, if he comes larrupin' round my

place too often. 'Ave ye 'eard as 'ow he's chalked the Five

Sisters?"

"Now don't go for to say that!" expostulated Bainton gently. "'E

runs as near the wind as he can, but 'e'd never be stark starin' mad

enough to chalk the Five Sisters!"

"Chalk 'em 'e HAS!" returned Buggins, putting quite a strong

aspirate where he generally left it out,--"And down they're comin'

on Wednesday marnin'. Which I sez yeste'day to Adam Frost 'ere: if

the Five Sisters is to lay low, what next?"

"Ay! ay!" chorussed several other villagers who had been, listening

eagerly to the conversation; "You say true, Mr. Buggins--you say

gospel true. If the Five Sisters lay low, what next!"

And dismal shakings of the head and rollings of the eyes from all

parties followed this proposition.

"What next," echoed the sexton, Adam Frost, who on hearing his name

brought into the argument, showed himself at once ready to respond

to it. "Why next we'll not have a tree of any size anywhere near the

village, for if timber's to be sold, sold it will be, and the only

person we'll be able to rely on for a bit of green shade or shelter

will be Passon Walden, who wouldn't have a tree cut down anywhere on

his land, no, not if he was starving. Ah! If the old Squire were

alive he'd sooner have had his own 'ead chopped off than the Five

Sisters laid low!"

By this time a considerable number of the villagers had gathered

round Roger Buggins as the centre of the discussion,--some out of

curiosity, and others out of a vague and entirely erroneous idea

that perhaps if they took the proper side of the argument

'refreshers' in the way of draughts of home-brewed ale at the

'Mother Huff' between church hours might be offered as an amicable

end to the conversation.

"Someone should tell Miss Vancourt about it; she's coming home to

the Manor on Tuesday," suggested the barmaid of the 'Mother Huff,' a

smart-looking young woman, who was however looked upon with grave

suspicion by her feminine neighbours, because she dressed 'beyond

her station'; "P'raps she'd do something?"

"Not she!" said Frost, cynically; "She's a fine lady,--been livin'

with 'Mericans what will eat banknotes for breakfast in order to

write about it to the papers arterwards. Them sort of women takes no

'count o' trees, except to make money out of 'em."

Here there was a slight stir among the group, as they saw a familiar

figure slowly approaching them,--that of a very old man, wearing a

particularly clean smock-frock and a large straw hat, who came out

from under the church porch like a quaint, moving, mediaeval Dutch

picture. Shuffling along, one halting step at a time, and supporting

himself on a stout ash stick, this venerable personage made his way,

with a singular doggedness and determination of movement, up to the

group of gossips. Arriving among them he took off his straw hat, and

producing a blue spotted handkerchief from its interior wiped the

top of his bald head vigorously.

"Now, what are ye at?" he said slowly; "What are ye at? All

clickettin' together like grasshoppers in a load of hay! What's the

mischief? Whose character are ye bitin' bits out of, like mice in an

old cheese? Eh? Lord! Lord! Eighty-nine years o' livin' wi' ye,

summer in and summer out, don't improve ye,--talk to ye as I will

and as I may, ye're all as mis'able sinners as ever ye was, and

never a saint among ye 'cept the one in the Sarky Fagus."

Here, pausing for breath, the ancient speaker wiped his head again,

carefully flattening down with the action a few stray wisps of thin

white hair, while a smile of tranquil and superior wisdom spread

itself among the countless wrinkles of his sun-browned face, like a

ray of winter sunshine awakening rippling reflections on a half-

frozen pool.

"We ain't doin' nothin', Josey!" said Buggins, almost timidly.

"Nor we ain't sayin' nothin'," added Bainton.

"We be as harmless as doves," put in Adam Frost with a sly chuckle;

"and we ain't no match for sarpints!"

"Ain't you looking well, Mr. Letherbarrow!" ejaculated the smartly

dressed barmaid; "Just wonderful for your time of life!"

"My time o' life?" And Josey Letherbarrow surveyed the young woman

with an inimitable expression of disdain; "Well, it's a time o' life

YOU'LL never reach, sane or sound, my gel, take my word for't! Fine

feathers makes fine birds, but the life is more'n the meat and the

body more'n raiment. And as for 'armless as doves and no match for

sarpints, ye may be all that and more, which is no sort of argyment

and when I sez 'what mischief are ye all up to' I sez it, and

expecks a harnser, and a harnser I'll 'ave, or I'll reckon to know

the reason why!"

The men and women glanced at each other. It was unnecessary, and it

would certainly be inhuman, to irritate old Josey Letherbarrow,

considering Ms great age and various infirmities.

"We was jest a-sayin' a word or two about the Five Sisters--" began

Adam Frost.

"Ay! ay!" said Josey; "That ye may do and no 'arm come of it; I

knows 'em well! Five of the finest beech-trees in all England! Ay!

ay! th' owld Squire was main proud of 'em---"

"They be comin' down," said Buggins; "Oliver Leach's chalk mark's on

'em for Wednesday marnin'."

"Comin' down!" echoed Josey--"Comin' down? Gar'n with ye all for a

parcel o' silly idgits wi' neither rhyme nor reason nor backbone!

Comin' down! Why ye might as well tell me the Manor House was bein'

turned into a cow-shed! Comin' down! Gar'n!"

"It's true, Josey," said Adam Frost, beginning to make his way

towards the gate of the churchyard, for he had just spied one of his

numerous 'olive-branches,' frantically beckoning him home to dinner,

and he knew by stern experience what it meant if Mrs. Frost and the

family were kept waiting for the Sunday's meal. "It's true, and

you'll find it so. And whether it'll be any good speakin' to the new

lady who's comin' home on Tuesday, or whether the Five Sisters won't

be all corpses afore she comes, there's no knowin'. The Lord He gave

the trees, but whether the Lord He gave Oliver Leach to take 'em

away again after a matter of three or four hundred year is mighty

doubtful!"

Old Josey looked stupefied.

"The Five Sisters comin' down!" he repeated dully; "May you never

live to do my buryin', Adam Frost, if it's true!--and that's the

worst wish I can give ye!"

But Adam Frost here obeyed the call of his domestic belongings, and

hurried away without response.

Josey leaned on his stick thoughtfully for a minute, and then

resumed his slow shuffling way. Any one of the men or women near him

would have willingly given him a hand to assist his steps, but they

all knew that he would be highly incensed if they dared to show that

they considered him in any way feeble or in need of support. So they

contented themselves with accompanying him at his own snail's pace,

and at such a distance as to be within hearing of any remarks he

might let fall, without intruding too closely on the special area in

which he chose to stump along homewards.

"The Five Sisters comin' down, and the old Squire's daughter comin'

'ome!" he muttered; "They two things is like ile and water,--nothin'

'ull make 'em mix. The Squire's daughter--ay--ay! It seems but only

yeste'day the Squire died! And she was a fine mare that threw him,

too,--Firefly was her name. Ay--ay! It seems but yeste'day--but

yeste'day!"

"D'ye mind the Squire's daughter, Josey?" asked one of the village

women sauntering a little nearer to him.

"Mind her?" And Josey Letherbarrow halted abruptly. "Do I mind my

own childer? It seems but yeste'day, I tell ye, that the Squire

died, but mebbe it's a matter of six-an'-twenty 'ear agone since 'e

came to me where I was a-workin' in 'is fields, and he pinted out to

me the nurse wot was walkin' up and down near the edge of the

pasture carryin' his baby all in long clothes. 'See that, Josey!' he

sez, an' 'is eyes were all wild-like an' 'is lips was a' tremblin';

'That little white thing is all I've got left of the wife I was

bringin' 'ome to be the sunshine of the old Manor. I felt like

killin' that child, Josey, when it was born, because its comin' into

this wurrld killed its mother. That was an unnat'ral thing, Josey,'

sez he--'There was no God in it, only a devil!' and 'is lips

trembled more'n ever--'no woman ought to die in givin' birth to a

child--it's jes' wicked an' cruel! I would say that to God Himself,

if I knew Him!' An' he clenched 'is fist 'ard, an' then 'e went on--

'But though I wanted to kill the little creature, I couldn't do it,

Josey, I couldn't! It's eyes were like those of my Dearest. So I let

it live; an' I'll do my best by it, Josey,'--yes, them's the words

'e said--'I'll do my best by it!'"

Here Josey broke off in his narrative, and resumed his crawling

pace.

"You ain't finished, 'ave ye, Josey?" said Roger Buggins

propitiatingly, drawing closer to the old man. "It's powerful

interestin', all this 'ere!"

Josey halted again.

"Powerful interestin'? O' course it is! There ain't nobody's story

wot ain't interestin', if ye onny knows it. An' it's all six-an'-

twenty year agone now; but I can see th' owld Squire still, an' the

nurse walkin' slow up an' down by the border of the field, hushin'

the baby to sleep. And 'twas a good sound baby, too, an' thrived

fine; an' 'fore we knew where we was, instid of a baby there was a

little gel runnin' wild all over the place, climbin' trees, swannin'

up hay-stacks an' up to all sorts of mischief--Lord, Lord!" And

Josey began to chuckle with a kind of inward merriment; "I'll never

forget the day that child sat down on a wopses' nest an' got all 'er

little legs stung;--she was about five 'ear old then, an' she never

cried--not she!--the little proud spitfire that she was, she jes'

stamped 'er mite of a foot an' she sez, sez she: 'Did God make the

wopses?' An' 'er nurse sez to 'er: 'Yes, o' course, lovey, God made

'em.' 'Then I don't think much of Him!' sez she. Lord, Lord! We

larfed nigh to split ourselves that arternoon;--we was all makin'

'ay an' th' owld Squire was workin' wi' us for fun-like. 'I don't

think much o' God, father!'--sez Miss Maryllia, runnin' up to 'im,

an' liftin' up all 'er petticuts an' shewin' the purtiest little

legs ye ever seed; 'Nurse sez He made the wopses!' He-ee-ee-hor-hor-

hor!"

A slow smile was reflected on the faces of the persons who heard

this story,--a smile that implied lurking doubt as to whether it was

quite the correct or respectful thing to find entertainment in an

anecdote which included a description of 'the purtiest little legs'

of the lady of the Manor whose return to her native home was so soon

expected,--but Josey Letherbarrow was a privileged personage, and he

might say what others dared not. As philosopher, general moralist

and purveyor of copy-book maxims, he was looked upon in the village

as the Nestor of the community, and in all discussions or

disputations was referred to as final arbitrator and judge. Born in

St. Rest, he had never been out of it, except on an occasional jaunt

to Riversford in the carrier's cart. He had married a lass of the

village, who had been his playmate in childhood, and who, after

giving him four children, had died when she was forty,--the four

children had grown up and in their turn had married and died; but

he, like a hardy old tree, had still lived on, with firm roots well

fixed in the soil that had bred him. Life had now become a series of

dream pictures with him, representing every episode of his

experience. His mind was clear, and his perception keen; he seldom

failed to recollect every detail of a circumstance when once the

clue was given, and the right little cell in his brain was stirred.

To these qualities he added a stock of good sound common sense, with

a great equableness of temperament, though he could be cynical, and

even severe, when occasion demanded. Just now, however, his

venerable countenance was radiant,--his few remaining tufts of white

hair glistened in the sun like spun silver,--his figure in its

homely smock, leaning on the rough ash stick, expressed in its very

attitude benevolence and good-humour, and 'the purtiest little legs'

had evidently conjured up a vision of childish grace and innocence

before his eyes, which he was loth to let go.

"She was took away arter the old Squire was killed, worn't she?"

asked Bainton, who was drinking in all the information he could, in

order to have something to talk about to his master, when the

opportunity offered itself.

"Ay! ay! She was took away," replied Josey, his smile darkening into

a shadow of weariness; "The Squire's neck was broke with Firefly--

every man, woman and child knows that about here--an' then 'is

brother came along, 'im wot 'ad married a 'Merican wife wi'

millions, an' 'adn't got no children of their own. An' they took the

gel away with 'em--a purty little slip of about fifteen then, with

great big eyes and a lot of bright 'air;--don't none of ye remember

'er?"

Mr. Buggins shook his head.

"'Twas afore my time," he said. "I ain't had the 'Mother Huff'

more'n eight years."

"I seed 'er once," said Bainton--"but onny once--that was when I was

workin' for the Squire as extra 'and. But I disremember 'er face.''

"Then ye never looked at it," said Josey, with a chuckle; "or bein'

made man ye wouldn't 'ave forgot it. Howsomever, it's 'ears ago an'

she's a woman growed--she ain't been near the place all this time,

which shows as 'ow she don't care about it, bein' took up with 'er

'Merican aunt and the millions. An' she'd got a nice little penny of

'er own, too, for the old Squire left 'er all he 'ad, an' she was to

come into it all when she was of age. An' now she's past bein' of

age, a woman of six-an'-twenty,--an' 'er rich uncle's dead, they

say, so I suppose she an' the 'Merican aunt can't work it out

together. Eh, dear! Well, well! Changes there must be, and changes

there will be, and if the Five Sisters is a-comin' down, then

there's ill-luck brewin' for the village, an' for every man, woman

and child in it! Mark my wurrd!"

And he resumed his hobbling trudge, shaking his head dolefully.

"Don't say that, Josey!" murmured one of the women with a little

shudder; "You didn't ought to talk about ill-luck. Don't ye know

it's onlucky to talk about ill-luck?"

"No, I don't know nothin' o' the sort," replied Josey, "Luck there

is, and ill-luck,--an' ye can talk as ye like about one or t'other,

it don't make no difference. An' there's some things as comes

straight from the Lord, and there's others what comes straight from

the devil, an' ye've got to take them as they comes. 'Tain't no use

floppin' on yer knees an' cryin' on either the Lord or the devil,--

they's outside of ye an' jest amusin' theirselves as they likes.

Mussy on me! D'ye think I don't know when the Lord 'ides 'is face

behind the clouds playin' peep-bo for a bit, and lets the devil 'ave

it all 'is own way? An' don't I know 'ow, when old Nick is jes' in

the thick o' the fun 'avin' a fine time with the poor silly souls o'

men, the Lord suddenly comes out o' the cloud and sez, sez He: 'Now

'nuff o' this 'ere; get thee behind me!' An' then--an' then--," here

Josey paused and struck his staff violently into the earth,--"an'

then there's a noise as of a mighty wind rushin', an' the angels all

falls to trumpetin' an' cries; 'Alleluia! Lift up your 'eads ye

everlasting gates that the King of Glory may come in'!"

The various village loafers sauntering beside their venerable

prophet, listened to this outburst with respectful awe.

"He's meanderin'," said Bainton in a low tone to the portly

proprietor of the 'Mother Huff'; "It's wonderful wot poltry there is

in 'im, when 'e gives way to it!"

'Poltry' was the general term among the frequenters of the 'Mother

Huff' for 'poetry.'

"Ay, ay!" replied Buggins, somewhat condescendingly, as one who bore

in mind that he was addressing a creditor; "I don't understan'

poltry myself, but Josey speaks fine when he has a mind to--there's

no doubt of that. Look 'ee 'ere, now; there's Ipsie Frost runnin' to

'im!"

And they all turned their eyes on a flying bundle of curls, rosy

cheeks, fat legs and clean pinafore, that came speeding towards old

Josey, with another young feminine creature scampering after it

crying:

"Ipsie! Hip-po-ly-ta! Baby! Come back to your dinner!"

But Hippolyta was a person evidently accustomed to have her own way,

and she ran straight up to Josey Letherbarrow as though he were the

one choice hero picked out of a world.

"Zozey!" she screamed, stretching out a pair of short, mottled arms;

"My own bootiful Zozey-posey! Tum and pick fowers!"

With an ecstatic shriek at nothing in particular, she caught the

edge of the old man's smock.

"My Zozey," she said purringly, "'Oo vezy old, but I loves 'oo!"

A smile and then a laugh went the round of the group. They were all

accustomed to Ipsie's enthusiasms. Josey Letherbarrow paused a

minute to allow his small admirer to take firm hold of his garments,

and patted her little head with his brown wrinkled hand.

"We'se goin' sweetheartin', ain't we, Ipsie," he said gently, the

beautiful smile that made his venerable face so fine and lovable,

again lighting up his sunken eyes. "Come along, little lass! Come

along!"

"She ain't finished her dinner!" breathlessly proclaimed a long-

legged girl of about ten, who had run after the child, being one of

her numerous sisters; "Mother said she was to come back straight."

"I s'ant go back!" declared Ipsie defiantly; "Zozey and me's

sweetheartin'!"

Old Josey chuckled.

"That's so! So we be!" he said tranquilly; "Come along little lass!

Come along!" And to the panting sister of the tiny autocrat, he

said: "You go on, my gel! I'll bring the baby, 'oldin' on jest as

she is now to my smock. She won't stir more'n a fond bird wot's

stickin' its little claws into ye for shelter. I'll bring 'er along

'ome, an' she'll finish 'er dinner fine, like a real good baby! Come

along, little lass! Come along!"

So murmuring, the old man and young child went on together, and the

group of villagers dispersed. Roger Buggins, however, paused a

moment before turning up the lane which led to the 'Mother Huff.'

"You tell Passon," he said addressing Bainton, "You tell him as 'ow

the Five Sisters be chalked for layin' low on Wednesday marnin'!"

"Never fear!" responded Bainton; "I'll tell 'im. If 'tworn't Sunday,

I'd tell 'im now, but it's onny fair he should 'ave a bit o' peace

on the seventh day like the rest of us. He'll be fair mazed like

when he knows it,--ay! and I shouldn't wonder if he gave Oliver

Leach a bit of 'is mind. For all that he's so quiet, there's a real

devil in 'im wot the sperrit o' God keeps down,--but it's there,

lurkin' low in 'is mind, an' when 'is eyes flashes blue like

lightnin' afore a storm, the devil looks straight out of 'im, it do

reely now!"

"Well, well!" said Buggins, tolerantly, with the dignified air of

one closing the discussion; "Devil or no devil, you tell 'im as 'ow

the Five Sisters be chalked for layin' low on Wednesday marnin'.

Good day t'ye!"

"Good day!" responded Bainton, and the two worthies panted, each to

go on their several ways, Buggins to the 'Mother Huff' from whose

opened latticed windows the smell of roast beef and onions, which

generally composed the Buggins' Sunday meal, came in odorous whiffs

down the little lane, almost smothering the delicate perfume of the

sprouting sweet-briar hedges on either side, and the nodding

cowslips in the grass below; Bainton to his own cottage on the

border of his master's grounds, a pretty little dwelling with a

thatched roof almost overgrown with wistaria just breaking into

flower.

Far away from St. Rest, the greater world swung on its way; the

whirl of society, politics, fashion and frivolity revolved like the

wheel in a squirrel's cage, round which the poor little imprisoned

animal leaps and turns incessantly in a miserable make-believe of

forest freedom,--but to the old gardener who lifted the latch of his

gate and went in to the Sunday dinner prepared for him by his stout

and energetic helpmate, who was one of the best dairy-women in the

whole countryside, there was only one grave piece of news in the

universe worth considering or discussing, and that was the 'layin'

low of the Five Sisters.'

"Never!" said Mrs. Bainton, as she set a steaming beef-steak pudding

in its basin on the table and briskly untied the ends of the cloth

in which it had been boiling. "Never, Tom! You don't tell me! The

Five Sisters comin' down! Why, what is Oliver Leach thinking about?"

"Himself, I reckon!" responded her husband, "and his own partikler

an' malicious art o' forestry. Which consists in barin' the land as

if it was a judge's chin, to be clean-shaved every marnin'. My

wurrd! Won't Passon Walden be just wild! M'appen he's heard of it

already, for he seems main worrited about somethin' or other. I've

allus thought 'im wise-like an' sensible for a man in the Church wot

ain't got much chance of knowin' the wurrld, but he was jes'

meanderin' along to-day--meanderin' an' jabberin' about a meek an'

quiet sperrit, as if any of us wanted that kind o' thing 'ere! Why

it's fightin' all the time! If 'tain't Sir Morton Pippitt, it's

Leach, an' if 'tain't Leach it's Putty Leveson--an' if 'tain't

Leveson, why it's Adam Frost an' his wife, an' if 'tain't Frost an'

his wife, why it's you an' me, old gel! We can get up a breeze as

well as any couple wot was ever jined in the bonds of 'oly

matterimony! Hor-hor-hor! 'Meek an' quiet sperrit,' sez he--'have

all of ye meek an' quiet sperrits'! Why he ain't got one of 'is own!

Wait till he 'ears of the Five Sisters comin' down! See 'im then! Or

wait till Miss Vancourt arrives an' begins to muddle round with the

church!"

"Nonsense! She won't muddle round with the church," said Mrs.

Bainton cheerfully, sitting down to dinner opposite her husband,

'What nesh fools men are, to be sure! Every-one says she's a fine

lady 'customed to all sorts of show and gaiety and the like--what

will she want to do with the church? Ten to one she never goes

inside it!"

"You shouldn't bet, old woman, 'tain't moral," said Bainton, with a

chuckle; "You ain't got ten to bet agin one--we couldn't spare so

much. If she doos nothing else, she'll dekrate the church at 'Arvest

'Ome an' Christmas--that's wot leddies allus fusses about--

dekratin'. Lord, Lord! The mess they makes when they starts on it,

an' the mischief they works! Tearin' down the ivy, scrattin' up the

moss, pullin' an' grabbin' at the flowers wot's taken months to

grow,--for all the wurrld as if they was cats out for a 'oliday. I

tell ye it's been a speshel providence for us 'ere, that Passon

Walden ain't got no wife,--if he 'ad, she'd a been at the dekratin'

game long afore now. Our church would be jes' spoilt with a lot o'

trails o' weed round it--but you mark my wurrd!--Miss Vancourt will

be dekratin' the Saint in the coffin at 'Arvest 'Ome wi' corn and

pertaters an' vegetable marrers, all a-growin' and a-blowin' afore

we knows it. There ain't no sense o' fitness in the feminine natur!"

Mrs. Bainton laughed good-naturedly.

"That's quite true!" she agreed; "If there were, I shouldn't have

made Sunday pudding for a man who talks too much to eat it while

it's hot. Keep your tongue in your mouth, Tom!--use it for tastin'

jes' now an' agin!"

Bainton took the hint and subsided into silent enjoyment of his

food. Only once again he spoke in the course of the meal, and that

was during the impressive pause between pudding and cheese.

"When he knows as 'ow the Five Sisters be chalked, Passon Walden's

sure to do somethin'," he said.

"Ay!" responded his wife thoughtfully; "he's sure to do something."

"What d'ye think he'll do?" queried Bainton, somewhat anxiously.

"Oh, you know best, Tom," replied his buxom partner, setting a

flat Dutch cheese before him and a jug of foaming beer; "There ain't

no sense o' fitness in ME, bein' a woman! You know best!"

Bainton lowered his eyes sheepishly. As usual his better half had

closed the argument unanswerably.