NO pleasanter place than Mrs. Meatyard’s dairy was to be found at any
hour of the summer’s day; but it was a busy place too. At early dawn the
clatter of bright cans and the lowing of cows in the adjacent yard
announced milking time, and men came staggering in with great foaming
pails of milk and poured it, sweet and warm, into the shallow tins
prepared for it. A little later mistress and maid alike were busy
skimming the thick folds of last night’s cream. On churning days the
regular _splash_, _splash_ in the outer milk-house was the forerunner of
the pleasant labour of butter-making. On cheese days the huge vat had to
be filled with gallons and gallons of milk, and then the rennet carefully
measured out, and then Mrs. Meatyard and Rebecca took it in turns to
“work” the curds; and what with this working, and putting the curds into
presses, and running off the whey, and cleaning up afterwards, a body, as
Rebecca frequently said, would be better off with four pair of hands nor
with one.
Nevertheless there was something cheerful and delightful even to the
workers about the bustle and stir—the sight of the rich milk, the faintly
sour smell of the curds, the pure, sweet air that circled round hot faces
through the wide open door, the little shifting lights and shades that
played about shining tins and whitewashed walls as the branches of the
trees that surrounded the house were set dancing in the wind. Yes,
Thorncombe Dairy was a pleasant place, and never more so than on this
particular June afternoon, when the roses outside the milk-house door
were in full bloom, and the sweet odours of the old-fashioned flowers in
the borders beneath the windows came floating in to mingle with the
homelier scents within.
Mrs. Meatyard had duly “cleaned herself” and changed her dress, and now,
with the cuffs of her stuff gown turned up, was delicately enswathing
roll after roll of golden butter in small squares of gauze, and packing
them, when thus protected, in baskets ready for to-morrow’s market. Old
Rebecca was busy at the other end with scrubbing-brush and pail,
“swilling down” the shelves. Her spare form was encased in a somewhat
faded cotton garment, the sleeves of which were rolled up high; the
sparse wisps of her grey hair were ruffled and untidy, but her ruddy,
wrinkled old face was cheery and good-tempered, and she crooned a song to
herself as she scrubbed the boards.
In the outer milk-house one of the labourers was also at work cleaning
up, hissing as he used the broom as though he were rubbing down a horse,
and every now and then making a great clatter with the piled-up cans.
Through the open door the imposing form of the “master” could be seen
leaning over the gate which opened into the farmyard, contemplating the
operations of two of the farm hands who were engaged in cleaning an
outhouse. On the cobble-stones near his feet pigeons were strutting up
and down, bowing and cooing; a little group of calves lay sunning
themselves in a corner of the yard, flapping their ears and waving their
tails as the flies teased them. Cocks and hens were crowing and
clucking, pigs were grunting, sheep and lambs in the pasture behind the
house were bleating, bees in the lime-blossom were humming, and
throughout all the din of outdoor life Rebecca’s quavering, voice could
be plainly heard:—
For Do’set dear
Then gi’e woone cheer;
D’ye hear? Woone cheer.
But louder even than her ditty sounded all at once a shrill, tuneful
whistle, and the head of a young man came presently in sight, moving
rapidly along the irregular line of hedge that divided the farm premises
from the lane; and presently the owner of the head rounded the corner and
entered the yard.
“’Tis you, Charl’?” observed Farmer Meatyard, without removing his pipe
from his mouth. “You be come in nice time to fetch cows up.”
“Jist what I was a-thinkin’,” said Charl’. “I was kept a bit longer in
town nor I looked for, but I did hear sich a funny bit o’ noos.”
“Did ’ee now?” inquired his father, much interested.
“’Ees, I do ’low I did. That there new show as they be all a-talkin’
about—the Agricultural Show they calls it—ye wouldn’t never think what
they be goin’ to give a prize for.”
“Why, I did hear, all sarts,” returned the father a trifle impatiently.
“Harses and cattle and pigs, and cheese and butter—all they kind o’
things. There bain’t nothin’ so very wonderful i’ that. ’Tis much same
as other shows—voolish work, I reckon it. Ye mid have the best harse, or
the best milkin’ cow in the countryside, and yet they wouldn’t give en a
prize. Nay, they’d sooner gi’e it to some strange beast from Bourne or
Templecombe or some sich place.”
“Well, but ye haven’t heard my tale yet,” cried the son. “Jist you try
to guess the last thing as I’ve heared they be a-goin’ to give a prize
for. ’Tis somethin’ livin’—I’ll tell ’ee that much, and it isn’t neither
a harse nor a cow, nor a pig, nor anything as ye’d think likely.”
“A bull?” suggested Farmer Meatyard, who was not an imaginative man.
“Nay now; when I said a cow I meant male or faymale. It bain’t nothin’
o’ that kind, nor yet cocks and hens. Ye’ll never guess—’tis the
queerest thing! Call Mother, and let her see if she can have a shot at
it.”
“Come here, Missus!” shouted the farmer excitedly. “Come here and give
your opinion. Here’s Charl’ come back from town, and he do say they be
a-goin’ to give a prize at this ’ere noo Show as is a-comin’ off next
month for summat altogether out o’ the common. ’Tis alive, he says, but
’tis neither bird nor beast as I can hear of.”
“Wait a bit,” said Mrs. Meatyard, folding her hands at her waist, and
looking out of the rose-framed milk-house door with placid interest.
“Now—I have it! Bees!”
“No. Bless you, Mother, there bain’t nothin’ wonderful nor yet funny
about bees.”
“Dear heart alive, what a tease the lad be! Is it a handsome thing,
Charl’, or an oncommon thing?”
“’Tis neither one nor t’other,” replied Charl’, exploding with laughter.
“There, I’d best tell you, for you’d never guess. ’Tis a wold ’ooman.”
“Ah, get away, do!” growled his father, much disgusted. “Don’t ’ee go
for to tell I sich cock-and-bull stories. A wold ’ooman—who’d go for to
give a prize for sich as that?”
“’Tis true, though,” retorted Charl’, “’twas in every one’s mouth. A
prize, they do say, will be given for the woldest faymale farm servant.”
“Well, to be sure,” ejaculated his mother, “I’ve heard o’ prizes bein’
give for the finest baby, and somebody did tell I once about a prize
bein’ give for the beautifullest young girl, but I never did hear o’
givin’ prizes for wold folks.”
“’Tisn’t raysonable, I don’t think,” commented her lord. “Nay, it do
seem a foolish kind o’ notion. Why, if they do go encouragin’ o’ the
wold hags that way, they’ll live for ever!”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” cried Mrs. Meatyard, disregarding him, “if our
Rebecca didn’t have so good a chance as any one. She’s a good age,
Rebecca is. Ah, I shouldn’t wonder a bit if Rebecca was to get it. I
think she is the woldest woman in these parts, without it’s Mr. Sharp’s
Bithey.”
“Becky!” screamed Charl’ ecstatically. “Becky! Come here a minute.
I’ve brought some good news for ’ee.”
Becky came to the door, wiping her soapy arms with her coarse apron, and
smiling pleasantly if toothlessly at the young man, who was a favourite
with her.
“Becky,” cried he, “how would ’ee like for to win a prize at the new Show
what’s to be given in the Royal George’s grounds next month? There,
Mother thinks you have got so good a chance as any one.”
“I did hear as they was a-goin’ to give a prize for butter,” said
Rebecca; “but all as comes out of this ’ere house be Missus’s makin’. I
wasn’t never no great hand at it. Nay, I can milk and skim and churn
right enough; but I haven’t Missus’s hand on butter.”
“It bain’t the butter prize as I mean,” cried Charl’. “They be a-goin’
to give a prize for the woldest ’ooman-servant. I heared it wi’ my own
ears, and the prize is to be a butter-dish, and you’ve just so good a
right to it, Becky, as any other. Better! For I don’t believe there’s
sich another old witch in the country.”
“Ye’re an impident chap, Charl’,” cried Rebecca, somewhat offended. “I
don’t want to listen to sich a pack of rubbish! There, I’ve a-got summat
else to do. Ye mid keep a civil tongue in yer head, I think. Witch,
says he! Tell him to go and drive cows up, Master, else we shan’t get
through with our work this day.”
“I’ll go and drive cows up right enough,” said the youth; “but ye needn’t
be so highty-tighty, Beck! ’Tis truth as I be a-tellin’ ’ee. Every one
be a-talkin’ of it in town.”
“Dear, to be sure!” ejaculated Rebecca, partially convinced, but looking
to her mistress for confirmation of the strange statement.
“It do seem queer,” returned Mrs. Meatyard; “but it’s true, Becky; and as
I was a-sayin’, I think you ought to try for it. You be turned seventy,
bain’t you?”
“I reckon I must be,” said the old woman, ruminating. “My hair have been
white this twenty year and more, d’ye see; and I haven’t a tooth in my
head. I must be a tremenjious age, sure!”
“’Tis a bit hard to tell wi’ such as you, Beck,” remarked Farmer
Meatyard, contemplating her thoughtfully. “You do seem to be sich a
dried-up wold stick—ah, and have been so ever since I knowed ye. Ye’ve
never looked a bit different since ye come to this ’ere village. How
long ago was that, can you mind?”
“Well, now, ’tis a bit hard to reckon, Master—one year do seem so like
another, and the days do follow each other so fast. I lived down at
Childe-Okeford till I were thirty year of age, and then when mother died
I went to service, and I were ten year or thereabouts at a farm
Shillingstone way, and eight year at a public, and fifteen year at
another farm a mile out of Sturminster—I think ’twas fifteen year, but it
mid ha’ been eighteen—and then I’ve been here the rest of the time.”
“An’ that must be twelve year or more,” put in her mistress, “for I can
call to mind as Charl’ there was only just breeched when you did come.”
“Why, woman, you must be comin’ on for eighty,” cried the farmer,
half-admiringly, half-disapprovingly. “Bless me, ye haven’t no business
to be alive at all!”
“He, he,” chuckled Becky. “Here I be, ye see, sir; and if there’s to be
a prize for wold folks, I shouldn’t wonder if I did get it.”
“I can’t call to mind anybody else in these parts as can beat ye if your
tale be true,” returned he, “unless it’s Mr. Sharp’s Bithey. She be a
wonderful age, now—I shouldn’t wonder if she’s turned her four score.”
“Lard, no, sir!” cried Rebecca, with a sudden cessation of her laughter,
while a flush began to mount in her shrivelled cheeks. “Bithey! Why,
she’s no age at all to speak on. She’ve ha’ got very near all her teeth,
and her hair—what there is of it, they do say is as black as can be under
that wold woolly net as she do wear. She don’t come up to my age,
Master!”
“She runs you very near though, Beck,” cried mischievous Charl’,
beginning to caper with glee. “She’s oncommon hard o’ hearin’, and she
do get the rheumatiz so bad in her j’ints. Ther’ be times, Mr. Sharp do
say, as she can scarce walk.”
“Pooh,” cried Rebecca, with fine scorn, “what signifies that? A child
mid get rheumatiz, and I’ve ha’ knowed folks so young as Missus be hard
o’ hearin’. That don’t prove nothin’. There, I must give over talkin’
here, and get back to my work.”
She retired, muttering to herself and shaking her head, while Charl’,
still chuckling, went off to fetch the cows.
He came back in a state of explosive excitement, and immediately called
his parents out of hearing of Rebecca, who had stalked loftily past him,
armed with stool and pail.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve been doin’,” he began. “Jist as I was
crossin’ the lane down yonder, who should I see but wold Bithey toddlin’
along in front of me; so I hollers after her, and tells her all about the
prize, and did advise her to go in for it, and the wold body is that set
up about it ’tis as good as a play. She makes sure she is goin’ to win
it, and thinks nothin’ at all o’ poor Beck’s chance. Lard, ’twill be
rare sport to set the two wold folks one again t’other.”
The father laughed jovially, but the mother inquired in an aggrieved tone
why he had interfered and lessened poor Rebecca’s chance.
“There, she’ve a-been that excited all the evenin’ thinkin’ about
it—she’ll be awful disappointed if she don’t get the prize. Besides, I
can’t but think ’twould ha’ been a kind o’ honour for we if she was to
win it.”
“Maybe she will, all the same,” said Charl’. “I don’t believe Bithey’s
half so old myself.”
And he went away to do his share of the milking.
The news soon spread all over the village that both Rebecca and Bithey
intended to compete for the strange new-fangled prize that was to be
given at the forthcoming show. Opinions were pretty evenly divided as to
the respective merits of the two aspirants, but much amusement was caused
by the seriousness and pertinacity with which each old lady advanced her
claims.
On the Sunday following Charl’ mischievously brought the rivals into
contact by calling back Rebecca just as she had haughtily walked past
Bithey on leaving church.
“Come here, Beck, for one minute. Here’s Bithey won’t believe you are
any older nor her.”
Rebecca turned, eyeing Tabitha up and down somewhat disdainfully.
“Ye may believe it or not, as ye please,” she said, “but you was a little
maid goin’ to school when I was out in service.”
“What does she say?” inquired Tabitha, turning to one of the
bystanders—for quite a little crowd had gathered around the two.
“She says you are no age at all worth countin’,” bawled Charl’. “She
’lows you be quite a little maid still.”
“Little maid, indeed!” retorted Bithey. “I know I must be seventy if I’m
a day, and I’m a’most sure I’m a good bit more nor that. Why, I be
getting that weak in the limbs I can scarce get about.”
“Anybody mid get weak in the limbs!” cried Rebecca wrathfully. “’Tisn’t
no sign of age, that isn’t. When I did come to live at Thorncombe Farm,
twelve or fifteen years ago, I was a staid body, as anybody mid see; but
you—you was quite fresh and well-lookin’. I can mind it well. You did
come up to our place for a bit o’ lard soon arter I did get there, and
you was as straight and as active and as smooth and chuffy in the face—”
“Dear, dear! however can ye go for to tell sich tales, Rebecca?” groaned
Bithey, much scandalised. “I can mind that day so well as you, and I can
mind as you did offer to carry the lard for me as far as the gate, for,
says you, ‘You do look mortal tired for sure,’ says you; ‘and ’tis a long
way to carry it and you not bein’ so young as you was’.”
“Oh, faith, Becky, the case is goin’ again’ you!” shouted Charl’. “If ye
said that, it shows plain as you was treatin’ Bithey respectful like, you
bein’ the youngest.”
“God forgive you, Bithey!” ejaculated the dairywoman. “Have you no
conscience at all? _I_ say sich a thing! I offer to carry lard for you!
’Twas never my way to go in for payin’ compliments to folks, and I’d
always plenty to do wi’out makin’ out more work for myself.”
“Come, come,” cried a fat, good-natured man who had drawn near, “don’t be
fallin’ out on a Sunday! There must be some way of knowin’ your ages.
Let’s see how far back you can remember, and maybe that’ll tell us
summat. Can ye mind when Rectory chimbley was blowed down? I were a
little chap myself then, but I can remember it.”
“Nay, that was afore my day,” said Becky, much crestfallen. “I’ve only
been here a matter of twelve or fifteen year.”
“I can mind it,” cried Bithey eagerly. “I can mind it so well as if it
were yesterday. I had my sampler in my hand, and when my mother did call
out I run the needle very nigh an inch into my finger.”
“Then you was a little gurl, for sure!” exclaimed Rebecca triumphantly.
“Ye must ha’ been quite a young maid, else ye wouldn’t ha’ been workin’
on a sampler. What year was that, Mr. Joyce?”
“Let’s see,” said Mr. Joyce meditatively. “’Twas in the year ’48, I
think—’ees, I’m very near sure ’twas ’48.”
“An’ say you was ten year old then, Bithey,” went on the other claimant,
with increasing animation, “say you was ten or twelve—you couldn’t ha’
been much more, else you’d ha’ had more sense nor to be working
samplers—well, ’tis but a little over fifty year ago—that ’ud leave ye
not much more nor sixty. Ye haven’t wore so very well, I d’ ’low; but
there, ’tis plain sixty’s your age.”
“I feel sure I’m a deal more nor sixty,” protested Bithey, almost in
tears. “Now I think on’t, ’twasn’t when Rectory chimbley was blowed down
as I did run needle into my finger; ’twas when Mr. Sharp’s roof took
fire. Can you mind when Mr. Sharp’s thatch took fire, Mr. Joyce?”
“Nay, nay, ’twas long afore my time.”
“An’ _you_ must be comin’ on about sixty, Mr. Joyce?”
“Ah, I fancy that’s about my age.”
Tabitha cast a look of triumph towards Rebecca, who feigned
unconsciousness.
“I can mind the time o’ the Crimee War,” she announced deliberately.
There was a chorus of derisive comment.
“The Crimean War! Why, that’s scarce any time ago,” said Mr. Joyce.
“’Twas in the fifties, I think; ’ees, I can remember the time very well
myself. That don’t go for to prove nothin’, Rebecca.”
“Well, there’s one comfort,” returned she, undaunted, “us’ll be judged by
folks as don’t know us one from t’other, and they’ll be like to judge us
fair. There be things for and against both on us. Bithey’s hard o’
hearin’ and wonderful stiff in her j’ints, and all that’ll be in her
favour; but if they do go for to judge us wold women same way as they do
judge harses, I reckon I’ve a-got the best chance.”
“How’s that?” cried Charl’.
“Why, if they go for to examine our teeth, to be sure; they’d see as I
hadn’t got none.”
And further demonstrating the fact by a wide smile, Rebecca walked away,
followed by a burst of mirthful applause.
On the eventful morning of the Show all the inhabitants of Thorncombe
Farm assembled to see Rebecca start. Charl’ was to drive her to the
town, for, as he explained, it would never do for her to let on she was
hearty enough to walk such a distance.
“If I was you, Beck,” he added, “I’d make out to have a bit of a limp.
’Twould go far to make ye evener like wi’ Bithey.”
“Nay,” returned Rebecca stoutly, “I was never one for makin’ out what
wasn’t true.”
“Smooth down your hair a bit under your bonnet,” advised Mrs. Meatyard
anxiously. “It mid be any colour tucked away like that.”
As this injunction could be obeyed without detriment to her principles,
the old woman pushed back her bonnet and pulled into greater prominence
her scanty snowy side-locks. Then she climbed into the cart, with a
palpitating heart, and sat clutching at her umbrella while they jogged
out of the yard, and down the green lane, and out on the dusty high road.
Mr. and Mrs. Meatyard did not make their appearance at the Show till the
afternoon, when most of the judging was over, and only that important
part of the programme which related to various feats of horsemanship
remained to be carried out.
“Let’s hunt up Becky afore we go to look at the jumpin’,” said the farmer
to his wife, as they passed through the turnstile and threaded their way
amid the various stalls and pens containing exhibits from all parts of
the neighbourhood. Here a beautiful little red Devon cow thrust a moist
protesting nose through the railings; there a sturdy black-faced ram made
abortive butts with his curled horns at the passers-by; yonder a pen of
cackling geese flapped distracted wings and extended yards of snowy neck
with prodigious outcry; and now there was a stampede among the
ever-increasing crowd, as a great cart-colt was led past floundering and
kicking.
The Meatyards stared about them, and wondered and commented, and had
almost forgotten Becky in their interest and excitement, when they
suddenly came upon her, walking arm-in-arm with no other person than her
rival Bithey.
“Why bless me, Rebecca, so here ye be!” cried the farmer. “And Bithey,
too. What! Han’t ye been judged yet? An’ who’s the winner?”
“What does he say?” asked Tabitha plaintively of the other competitor,
and the Meatyards noticed with surprise that her tone was meek, and
indeed confiding.
“Master do want to know if we’ve a’ been judged yet, my dear,” returned
Becky soothingly. “I reckon he’ll be surprised when he do hear how we’ve
a-been used.”
“’Ees indeed,” sighed Bithey, and she wiped her eyes with a corner of her
shawl.
“There, don’t take ’ee on, my dear,” said Rebecca, patting her hand
affectionately. “The poor soul,” she explained, turning to the farmer
and his wife, who were gazing at the pair open-mouthed, “the poor soul do
seem to be quite undone. I d’ ’low ’twas a shame to go and disapp’int
her so. ’Twill ha’ gied her quite a turn—at her age an’ all.”
“’Tis no worse for me nor ’tis for you, my dear,” put in Bithey with a
groan of sympathy. “You had farther to come nor me, an’ you must be half
shook to pieces a-ridin’ in that wold cart.”
“In the name o’ fortun’,” cried the exasperated Mr. Meatyard, “which on
you did get the prize? There you do go chatterin’ an’ jabberin’ and
neither of you will tell us which be the winner.”
“You’d never think—” began Bithey.
“’Tis the most unfairest thing you ever did hear on!” exclaimed Becky.
“There was the two of us—the woldest women for miles round, I’ll go bail.
I’m sure ye did only need to look at Bithey here to see it.”
“And I’m sure,” wailed Tabitha, “the very sight o’ your grey hair did
ought to ha’ shamed them, Becky.”
Here the impatient farmer made a sudden lunge at them, almost after the
fashion of the curly-horned prize ram, and the two old women
simultaneously announced in an agitated whimper:—
“There, they didn’t give the prize to neither of us!”
“Dear heart alive! you don’t say so?” said Mrs. Meatyard, after a pause
of blank amazement, while her husband uttered a shrill whistle. “Didn’t
’ee get no prize at all then?”
“Wasn’t ’ee so much as ‘’Ighly Commended,’ Beck?” cried her master,
recovering from his stupor, and uttering a roar of laughter.
“No, sir,” returned Rebecca mournfully, “I didn’t get nothin’ at all—nor
Bithey neither. They never took a bit of notice after they’d axed how
long we’d been in our present sitooations. They went and give the
butter-dish to quite a young ’ooman. I don’t think she can ha’ been more
nor fifty-five. ’Ees, sir, if ye’ll believe me, a big strapping woman as
stout as me and Bithey put together, and so firm on her legs as
anything.”
“Whew!” whistled the farmer again, “you don’t say so! Well, I never
did—there must ha’ been some reason as you didn’t know on.”
“Maybe she was blind,” suggested Mrs. Meatyard. “That ’ud be a p’int in
her favour.”
“No more blind nor yourself, ma’am,” returned Becky almost triumphantly.
“She’d a-been thirty year in the one place—that was all as I could hear
as she could say for herself, and they went and give her the butter-dish
wi’out no more talk than that. So, when I did see how upset poor Bithey
was—an’ she so troubled with the rheumatiz, poor wold body—I jist says to
her, says I, ‘You take my arm, my dear,’ says I; ‘you jist come along of
I.’ And she were glad enough to do it.”
“I d’ ’low I was,” agreed her whilom rival. “I reckon I thought it
oncommon kind. ’Ees,’ says I, ‘Becky love,’ says I, ‘I take it oncommon
kind o’ you to help me same as you’re a-doin’ of, for ye bain’t so young
yourself,’ says I.”
Mr. Meatyard slapped his thigh and shouted with laughter.
“You’ve changed your note, I see—both on you,” he exclaimed as soon as he
could speak. “Well, and where are you bound for now?”
“Why, d’ye see, sir,” said Becky, “her an’ me is both tired o’ this—we
are—jist about! And so she says to me, says she, ‘Let’s go over to one
o’ them little booths over there and set down for a bit, and rest us.’
Didn’t ye, Bithey?”
“I did,” said Bithey, “and I says, ‘Becky,’ says I, ‘arter all this
standin’, an’ all this talkin’, and all the dust and sawdust flyin’
about, I’m awful dry,’ I says; ‘what would you say,’ says I, ‘to a bottle
of Pop?’”
The farmer laughed again, but his wife strongly advised the old couple to
have recourse to that restorative, and they therefore toddled away
together to drown the memory of their differences and, if possible, of
their disappointment in a sparkling and innocuous glass.