“Hoo's a queer little wench,” said one of the roughest Rigganite
matrons, after Anice's first visit, “I wur i' th' middle o' my weshin
when she coom,--up to th' neck i' th' suds,--and I wur vexed enow when
I seed her standin' i' th' door, lookin' at me wi' them big eyes o'
hers--most loike a babby's wonderin' at summat. 'We dunnot want none,'
I says, soart o' sharp loike, th' minute I clapped my eyes on her.
'Theer's no one here as can read, an' none on us has no toime to spare
if we could, so we dunnot want none.' 'Dunnot want no what?' she says.
'No tracks,' says I. And what do yo' think she does, lasses? Why, she
begins to soart o' dimple up about th' corners o' her mouth as if I'd
said summat reight down queer, an' she gi'es a bit o' a laff. 'Well,'
she says, 'I'm glad o' that. It's a good thing, fur I hav'n't got
none.' An' then it turns out that she just stopped fur nowt but to leave
some owd linen an' salve for to dress that sore hond Jack crushed i' th'
pit. He'd towd her about it as he went to his work, and she promised to
bring him some. An' what's more, she wouldna coom in, but just gi' it
me, an' went her ways, as if she had na been th' Parson's lass at aw,
but just one o' th' common koind, as knowd how to moind her own business
an' leave other folkses a-be.”
The Rigganites became quite accustomed to the sight of Anice's small low
phaeton, with its comfortable fat gray pony. She was a pleasant sight
herself as she sat in it, her little whip in her small gloved hand, and
no one was ever sorry to see her check the gray pony before the door.
“Anice!” said Mr. Barholm to his curate, “well! you see Anice
understands these people, and they understand her. She has the faculty
of understanding them. There is nothing, you may be assured, Grace, like
understanding the lower orders, and entering into their feelings.”
There was one member of Riggan society who had ranged himself among Miss
Barholm's disciples from the date of his first acquaintance with her,
who was her staunch friend and adviser from that time forward--the
young master of “th' best tarrier i' Riggan.” Neither Jud Bates nor
Nib faltered in their joint devotions from the hour of their first
introduction to “th' Parson's daughter.” When they presented themselves
at the Rectory together, the cordiality of Nib's reception had lessened
his master's awkwardness. Nib was neither awkward nor one whit abashed
upon his entrée into a sphere so entirely new to him as a well-ordered,
handsomely furnished house. Once inside the parlor, Jud had lost courage
and stood fumbling his ragged cap, but Nib had bounced forward, in the
best of good spirits, barking in friendly recognition of Miss Barholm's
greeting caress, and licking her hand. Through Nib, Anice contrived
to inveigle Jud into conversation and make him forget his overwhelming
confusion. Catching her first glimpse of the lad as he stood upon the
threshold with his dubious garments and his abashed air, she was
not quite decided what she was to do with him. But Nib came to her
assistance. He forced himself upon her attention and gave her something
to say, and her manner of receiving him was such, that in a few minutes
she found Jud sidling toward her, as she half knelt on the hearth
patting his favorite's rough back. Jud looked down at her, and she
looked up at Jud.
“Have you taught him to do anything?” she asked. “Does he know any
tricks?”
“He'll kill more rats i' ten minutes than ony dog i' Riggan. He's th'
best tarrier fur rats as tha ivver seed. He's th' best tarrier for _owt_
as tha ivver seed. Theer is nowt as he canna do. He con feight ony dog
as theer is fro' heer to Marfort.” And he glowed in all the pride of
possession, and stooped down to pat Nib himself.
He was quite communicative after this. He was a shrewd little fellow and
had not spent his ten years in the mining districts for nothing. He
was thoroughly conversant with the ways of the people his young hostess
wished to hear about. He had worked in the pits a little, and he had
tramped about the country with Nib at his heels a great deal. He was
supposed to live with his father and grandmother, but he was left
entirely to himself, unless when he was put to a chance job. He knew
Joan Lowrie and pronounced her a “brave un;” he knew and reverenced “Owd
Sammy Craddock;” he knew Joan's father and evidently regarded him with
distrust; in fact there was not a man, woman or child in the place of
whom he did not know something.
Mr. Barholm happening to enter the room during the interview, found his
daughter seated on a low seat with Nib's head on her knee, and Jud a few
feet from her. She was so intent on the task of entertaining her guest
that she did not hear her father's entrance, and the Reverend Harold
left the three together, himself in rather a bewildered frame of mind.
“Do you know?” he asked of his wife when he found her, “do you know who
it is Anice is amusing in the parlor? What singular fancies the girl
has, with all her good sense!”