Giles Maine sat in the middle of the ward, his hands crossed on his
new umbrella, while his fellow-inmates gathered together in knots and
stared at him, some curiously, some enviously, some a little
regretfully, though all were ready to wish him God-speed when the
moment of parting came.
By a strange turn of Fortune's wheel, Giles Maine, the oldest inmate
of Branston Union, who had in truth for twenty years known no other
home, now found himself, at the age of seventy-eight, a comparatively
wealthy man. A distant relative, a relative so distant indeed that
Giles had been unaware of his existence, had recently died intestate,
and Giles proved to be his next-of-kin.
It had taken him some time to grasp the situation, and to understand
that he was now free to live where he would, in a position of comfort,
not to say affluence. Everybody had taken him in hand, however; the
master had ordered a brand-new suit of clothes for him; the matron had
engaged rooms in the village, and had put him under the charge of his
future landlady, who was a motherly sort of woman, and could be
trusted to look after him; the clergyman had given him much kind
advice, and many friendly warnings; and at length the old man found
himself ready to depart. He was now, in fact, only waiting to say
good-bye to the matron before turning his back for ever on the bare
room where he had spent so many monotonous hours.
The prospect ought surely to have elated him, yet his face wore a very
blank expression as he sat awaiting the expected summons; his new
clothes felt strange and stiff, the high collar of his fine white
shirt hurt his neck, his shiny new boots pinched his feet, the knobby
handle of his massive umbrella was not so comfortable to grasp as the
familiar crook of his battered old stick.
"First turn at the end of the lane, then third house on the right, and
ax for Mrs. Tapper," he repeated to himself from time to time. "First
turn, and third house--'e-es I can mind it right enough--third house
and ax for Mrs. Tapper."
"'Tis a pity," said some one for the fortieth time that day, "'tis a
pity, Mr. Maine, as you ain't got no folks o' your own. Ah, 'tis a
pity, sure. 'Twould ha' been more cheerful like if you'd ha' been
going home."
"'E-es," agreed Giles, also for the fortieth time, "'e-es I d' 'low it
would, but I ain't had no folk--there! I can scarce mind when I had
any. I never so much as heerd the name o' this 'ere chap what has left
me his fortun'. Never heerd his name--never so much as knowed he were
born."
"Dear to be sure! It seems strange, don't it? And him to leave ye his
money and all. I wonder where ye'll go, Mr. Maine. P'r'aps ye'll go to
Lunnon?"
"To Lunnon?" gasped Giles, his jaw dropping. "What should I go to
Lunnon for?"
"Oh, I don't know--ye can go where ye like, d'ye see. I reckon I'd go
to Lunnon if I was in your shoes."
"Would 'ee?" queried Giles, interested, but still aghast. "Nay now, ye
see, I never was one for travellin'--I've never been so far as
Darchester, not once all the time I were"--he jerked his thumb over
his shoulder--"outside."
"Well, your lodgin' be only took on trial, so to speak, to see how ye
do like it," said another man. "Ye can change it so soon as ye please,
and move here and there just as ye fancy. A fine life--I'd give summat
to be you."
"I never was one for movin' much," said the old man, uneasily. "Nay,
movin' weren't in my line. I did use to work for the same master
pretty near all my life, till I were took bad wi' the rheumatiz.
'E-es, he were a good master to I. I could be fain to see en again,
but he's dead, they tell me, and the family ha' shifted. There bain't
nobody out yonder as I ever had acquaintance wi' in the wold times.
Nay, all 'ull be new, and a bit strange."
"A pleasant change, I should think," a gruff man was beginning--an
unattractive person this, with a week-old beard and a frowning brow,
when an old fellow, who had been sitting disconsolately in the corner
of the room, suddenly struck in:
"I d' 'low, Giles, ye'll be like to miss we when ye're all among
strangers, I d' 'low ye will. 'E-es, ye'll be like to miss we just so
much as us'll miss you."
Giles rolled his eyes towards him with a startled expression, but said
nothing for a moment or two; then he remarked, in a somewhat dolorous
tone:
"I d' 'low I'll miss you, Jim; you and me has sat side by side this
fifteen year--'tis fifteen year, bain't it, since ye come?"
"Ah! fifteen year," agreed Jim. "I'll be the woldest inmate in th'
Union when you do leave."
"'E-es, Jim, thee 'ull be gettin' all the buns and all the baccy now,"
cried one of the others, laughing. "He'll have to stand up and say
'Good marnin'' to the gentry when they comes round, and tell his age,
and how long he've a-been here, and all. I d' 'low he'll do it just so
well as you."
Giles gazed at the speaker frowningly; he did not seem to like the
idea, but if he meditated a retort he was prevented from uttering it
by the advent of a messenger from the matron, which was the signal for
his own departure. He stood up, and went shuffling from one to the
other of his former cronies, shaking hands with them all, but without
speaking. He gripped Jim's hand the hardest, and pumped it up and down
for so long a time that the messenger grew impatient; and then he went
stumbling along the passage, and down the stone stairs to the door,
where the master and matron both stood awaiting him. He received the
money which had been placed in the master's hands for his actual
needs, and scraped his rickety old foot, and pulled his forelock,
after a forgotten fashion, as he listened to their kindly words. Then
they, too, shook hands with him, and accompanied him to the gate,
looking after the feeble old figure until it disappeared.
"I do hope Mrs. Tapper will look after him," said the matron. "He's no
more fit to take care of himself than a baby."
Giles tottered on down the hill, his eyes roaming vaguely over the
landscape, which was looking its fairest on this mellow June
afternoon. Yonder rolled the downs, all golden green in the light of
the sinking sun, nearer at hand lay the meadows, very sheets of
buttercup gold; every leaf and twig of the hedgerow was a-glitter,
too--all Nature, it seemed, had arrayed itself in splendour to
correspond with the old pauper's sudden access of wealth. Not that any
such fancy crossed his dazed mind. As he shuffled along he thought of
how he had walked this way last year, with Jim at his side, on one of
their rare outings. They had, in fact, been on their way to the
parsonage, and Jim, who had been a farm labourer in a previous state
of existence, had called his attention to the "for'ardness" of the
potatoes which were growing where the hay grew now.
Giles paused mechanically, and gazed at the billowing grass; and then
he went on a little, and stopped again at the next gap in the hedge,
where Jim had pointed out the splendid view of Branston.
"I could wish," he muttered, as he turned away, "we was goin' to tea
at the rectory now."
Farther down the road was a bench where it was the old paupers' custom
to sit awhile on their return journey, before beginning the steep
ascent of the hill; Giles sat stiffly down now, and once more stared
about him. By-and-by the town clock struck seven and he instinctively
rose to his feet, and began hurriedly to retrace his steps, but pulled
himself up of a sudden.
"Seven o'clock! It 'ud seem more nat'ral to be goin' up-along. I was
nigh forgettin' I be comed away! Mrs. Tapper 'ull think I bain't
a-comin' if I don't hurry up."
This time he made up his mind to continue his journey without further
interruptions, and very soon arrived at the end of the lane, and even
at the third house on the right, where he was duly received by Mrs.
Tapper. She was most civil, not to say respectful; called him "Sir"
and "Mr. Maine," hustled her children out of his way, installed him in
the elbow-chair in the corner, and waited upon him at tea-time as
though he had been a gentleman born.
At first Giles rather enjoyed it, but presently the feeling of
loneliness and strangeness, against which he had been struggling all
day, returned with redoubled force; and when he was finally ushered
into his clean tidy little room, and Mrs. Tapper, after calling his
attention to the various preparations she had made for his comfort,
left him to himself, he sat down on the side of the bed and groaned
aloud.
[Illustration: GILES IN LUCK
"Waited upon him at tea time as though he had been a gentleman born"]
They would just be about "turnin' in" at the Union, and Jim, laying
himself down on the pallet next to his, would be making the
time-honoured joke about the absence of spring-mattresses and
feather-beds, with which he was usually wont to regale the other
inmates at this hour. As Giles turned down the spotless
lavender-scented sheets he thought longingly of the workhouse twill.
A week later Giles was permitted to visit his former friends, laden
with such a store of buns and baccy as would have ensured his welcome,
even had not most of his cronies been genuinely glad to see him.
"Dear heart alive!" cried Jim, receiving his modicum of twist with a
delighted chuckle, "these be new times, these be. Who'd ever ha'
thought o' Giles Maine walkin' in like a lard wi' presents for us
all?"
But Giles was looking round with a foolish wavering sort of smile.
"It'd seem real homely in here," he remarked. "Ah! it do fur sure.
There be the papers as us'al, I see--I do miss papers awful out
yonder."
"Why, to be sure," cried one of the younger men, "you can buy 'em for
yourself now. I'm blowed if I wouldn't have all the papers as comes
out if I was you."
"I did go to a shop onest," said the old man, "and I did ax, but they
didn't seem able to gi' me the right 'uns. 'I want pictur's o' the
snow and folks huntin' and that,' says I. 'Not this time o' year,'
says the young lady; 'them's in Christmas numbers.' 'That's what I've
bin used to,' says I. 'Well, we can order 'em for you,' says she, but
I couldn't mind the names. I knowed one did begin 'G--r--a--p--' so I
did ax if they had one about 'Grape--summat,' and they did give I the
_Gardener_--ah, that was what they did call it; but there weren't no
pictur's in it at all, only flowers and mowing machines, and
sich-like."
"Why, ye mean the _Graphic_" cried some one with a laugh; "no wonder
the maid couldn't make out what you was a-drivin' at."
But Giles did not heed him; he was gazing hungrily at the greasy pack
of cards which lay on the deal table.
"It d' seem a martal sight of time since I've had a game," he
exclaimed. "Light up, Jim; you and me 'ull jist have time for one
afore tea."
When the bell rang for this last-named meal Giles rose with the rest,
and was preparing to walk with them down the well-known stairs, when
he was astonished by receiving an invitation to tea with no less a
person than the matron herself.
He smoothed his hair with the palms of his hands, pulled up his
shirt-collar, and followed the messenger with an odd mixture of pride
and reluctance. It was no doubt highly gratifying to be thus honoured
before all his former mates, but he was conscious of a secret yearning
to sit down once more in the old place, and munch his allotted portion
of bread and cheese with a friend at either elbow.
The matron received him cordially.
"Come in, Mr. Maine, and sit down; I am glad to have an opportunity of
chatting with you. It would never do for you to have tea with the
others now, you know."
"No, to be sure," agreed Giles blankly.
"Well, and how are you, Mr. Maine? Most comfortable and happy, Mrs.
Tapper tells me."
"'E-es, mum," returned Giles mournfully.
"Sugar and milk, Mr. Maine?"
"Thankee, mum, I likes it best pure naked. I'd be thankful to 'ee,
mum, if ye wouldn't call me Mr. Maine; it don't seem naitral like."
"Perhaps not," agreed the matron, with a kindly laugh. "Well,
Giles--I'll say Giles, then--Giles, do you know that you are quite a
remarkable person? They have been writing about you in the papers. 'A
lucky pauper,' they call you."
"Have they now, mum?" returned Maine, staring at her over the rim of
his cup.
"Yes, indeed, and people have been writing to me to know the
particulars. 'Tis not often, you see, such a stroke of good fortune
befalls an inmate of the Union."
"I s'pose not," he agreed, between two gulps of tea.
The matron continued to speak in this congratulatory vein while the
old man ate and drank; but though he occasionally muttered a word or
two which would seem to endorse her statements, his countenance was
far from wearing the joyful self-satisfied expression which she had
anticipated.
All at once he pushed away plate and cup.
"Mum," he said, "if I mid make so bold I'd like to say summat. I've
been a-thinkin'--couldn't I come back here?"
"Here!" echoed she in astonishment. "Here! to the workhouse?"
Giles nodded.
"Why, are you not happy at Mrs. Tapper's?"
"'E--es, oh, 'e--es, I haven't got no fault to find wi' she nor
naught; but I--I'd like the Union best."
"Well, but you see, my dear Giles, the Union is meant for people who
cannot live anywhere else. You have got plenty of money now, and--"
"I'd be willin' to pay," said Giles.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the matron.
The old man looked at her stolidly, but made no further remark.
"I'm sure I don't know what to say," she went on, after a pause. "I
don't suppose such a thing has ever been heard of--I'm sure the
guardians would never allow it."
"I'd pay handsome," said Giles. "You ax 'em, mum."
"Well, I will if you like; but don't you think you are very foolish?
There you are, a man of property, who can hold up your head with the
best, and pay your way, and you want to come back here among a lot of
miserable paupers."
"I've a-been twenty year here," observed Giles, making the statement
in a dispassionate tone. "I know 'em all here, and I'm used to the
ways. I couldn't never get used to no other ways, and no other folks.
I'd sooner bide, mum, if ye'd ax 'em to let me. I'd not give no
trouble--no more n' I ever did, an' I'd pay for my keep."
"Well, well," said the matron, staring at him in puzzled amazement.
"Can I go up to 'em again for a bit?" queried the old man. "Me and Jim
was in the middle of a game."
"Oh, yes, you can go up to them."
He rose, scraped his leg and pulled his forelock as usual, and backed
out of the room, leaving his fine new hat on the ground beside his
chair.
Coming upon it presently, the matron decided to return it herself to
the owner; perhaps she was a little curious to see how he comported
himself among his mates.
She opened the door of the old men's ward so quietly that no one
noticed her entrance; the room was full of tobacco smoke, and the
inmates were sitting or standing about as usual. Giles sat in his old
corner, with Jim opposite to him; both had removed their coats, and
the grizzled heads were bent together over the battered cards.
"You be in luck, Jim," Giles exclaimed as the matron closed the door.
"You've turned up a Jack!"
"THE WOLD LOVE AND THE NOO"
"Have ye heard the noos?" said Betty Tuffin, thrusting in her head at
old Mrs. Haskell's open door.
"Lard, no, my dear," returned her crony, hastily dropping the crooked
iron bar with which she had been drawing together the logs upon her
hearthstone. "There, I never do seem to hear anything nowadays, my
wold man bein' so ter'ble punished wi' the lumbaguey and not able to
do a hand's turn for hisself. Why, I do assure 'ee I do scarce ever
set foot out o' door wi'out it's to pick up a bit o' scroff, or a few
logs--an' poor ones they be when I've a-got 'em. I can hardly see my
own hand for the smoke. Step in, do, Betty love, an' tell I all what's
to be told."
Betty had stepped in long before Mrs. Haskell had concluded her
harangue, and had, by this time, taken possession of a comfortable
corner of the screened settle, deposited her basket by her side,
folded her arms, and assumed that air of virtuous indignation which
denoted that she was about to relate the shortcomings of some third
party.
"Dear, to be sure! Souls alive! Lard ha' mercy me, ye could ha'
knocked I down wi' a feather when Keeper told I--"
"A-h-h-h, them bwoys o' Chaffey's has been poachin' again I d' 'low,"
interrupted Mrs. Haskell eagerly. "Never did see sich chaps as they be.
A body 'ud think they'd know better nor to act so unrespectable-like.
Why, as my wold man do say sometimes, 'ye mid as well put your hand in
Squire's pocket as go a-layin' snares for his hares an' rabbits--'tis
thievin' whichever way ye do look at it,' he do say."
"Well, I don't agree wi' he," responded Betty with some heat. She had
sons of her own who were occasionally given to strolling abroad on
moonlight nights, and usually returned with bulging pockets. "I don't
agree at all. The Lard made they little wild things for the poor so
well as for the rich--same as the water what runs through Squire's
park an' down along by the back o' my place. Who's to tell who they
belongs to. A hare 'ull lep up on one side o' the hedge, an' then
it'll be Squire's, an' it'll run across t'other side, an' then it's
Maister's, an' then it'll come an' squat down in my cabbage
garden--then I d' 'low 'tis mine if I can catch it."
Mrs. Haskell, who was too anxious to gossip to dally by the way in a
disquisition on the Game Laws, assented to her friend's argument with
somewhat disappointing promptness, and returned to the original
subject of discussion.
"I be real curious to hear that there bit o' noos."
"You'll be surprised I d' 'low," said Mrs. Tuffin. "Ye mind Abel Guppy
what went off to the war out there abroad wi' the Yeomanry? Well, they
d' say he be killed."
"Dear, now, ye don't tell I so," said the other in a dispassionate,
and if truth be told, somewhat disappointed tone. A death, though
always exciting, was not after all so very uncommon, and when a man
"'listed for a soldier," most of the older village folk looked upon
his destruction as a foregone conclusion. "Killed, poor young chap!
His aunt Susan 'ull be terrible opset."
"I d' 'low she will be opset," said Betty meaningly, "and it bain't
only along of him bein' killed, poor feller, but you'd never think,
Mrs. Haskell, how things have a-turned out. Ye mind that maid up to
Bartlett's what he was a-courtin'?"
"'E-es, to be sure I do. A great big bouncin' wench as ever I did see,
wi' her red head an' all."
"Well, it seems afore poor Abel went out he wrote a paper an' give it
to this 'ere maid, a-leavin' her everything as the poor chap had in
the world."
"Mercy on me! But she be a-walkin' out wi' somebody else they tell me;
she've a-took up wi' the noo love afore she did leave off wi' the
wold."
"She have," agreed the visitor emphatically. "That be the very thing
Susan 'ull find so cruel 'ard. She did say to I to-week afore she
knowed her nevvy were killed, 'If any harm comes to en,' says she, 'it
do fair break my heart to think as that good-for-nothing Jenny Pitcher
'ull have her pick of everything in this place. It bain't the same as
if she'd truly m'urned for en, but she've a-taken up wi' a new young
man,' says she, 'what walks out wi' her reg'lar.'--'My dear,' says I,
'if anything should happen to your nevvy, which the Lard forbid,
she'll never have the face to come to ax for his bits o' things,
seein' as she haven't been faithful to en.' 'She will though,' says
Susan, an' 'tis the talk o' the place that _she will_.'"
Mrs. Haskell clapped her hands together. "Well, well! But what a sammy
the chap was. He did ought to ha' made sure afore makin' sich a will.
It be a will, I suppose, my dear?"
"It be a will sure enough," said Mrs. Tuffin gloomily. "There, Susan
did tell I as that there artful hussy made sure he got it signed an'
all reg'lar. There's a few pounds too in the savings bank--I don't
know if she'd be able to get 'em out or not."
"Well, I never heerd such a tale. That maid must be a reg'lar Jezebel,
Betty, that's what she must be. That hard-hearted, unfeelin'--Lard ha'
mercy me! Well, well, well!"
Betty took up her basket again, and was proceeding leisurely towards
the door, shaking her head and uttering condemnatory groans the while,
when she suddenly gripped her friend by the arm with an eager
exclamation.
"There she be!--there's the very maid a-walkin' by so bold as brass
with her young man along of her!"
"I shouldn't wonder," said Mrs. Haskell in sepulchral tones, "I
shouldn't wonder but what she be a-goin' up to Susan's to pick out
poor Abel's things."
"Dear, do you raly think so?" gasped Betty, almost dropping her basket
in her horror. "Why the noos of him bein' killed only come this
marnin'."
"I d' 'low she be a-goin' there," repeated Mrs. Haskell emphatically.
"If I was you, Betty, I'd follow 'em, careless-like, an' jist find
out. It do really seem like a dooty for to find out. I'd go along of
you only my wold man 'ull be a-hollerin' out for his tea."
A muffled voice was indeed heard at that very moment proceeding from
the bedroom, accompanied by an imperative knocking on the wall.
"There he be," said Mrs. Haskell, not without a certain pride. "He do
know the time so reg'lar as church clock. He'll go on a-shoutin' and
a-hammerin' at wall wi' his wold boot till I do come. I do tell en he
wears out a deal more shoe-leather that way nor if he were on his
feet."
She turned to go upstairs, and Betty crossing the threshold stood a
moment irresolute. Her basket, full of purchases recently made at the
shop a mile away, was heavy enough, and her feet were weary; but
Jenny's tantalising red head gleamed like a beacon twenty yards away
from her, and curiosity silenced the pleadings of fatigue. Hitching up
her basket she proceeded in the wake of the young couple, who were
walking slowly enough, the girl's bright head a little bent, the man
slouching along by her side in apparent silence. All at once the
observer saw Jenny's hand go to her pocket, and draw thence a
handkerchief which she pressed to her eyes.
"She be a-cryin'" commented Betty, not without a certain satisfaction.
"They've a-had a bit of a miff, I d' 'low; well, if the young man have
a-got the feelin's of a man he'd be like to object to this 'ere notion
of hers--Nay, now, he do seem to be a-comfortin' of her. There! Well!"
They had left the village behind, and Betty's solitary figure was
probably unnoticed by the lovers. In any case it proved no hindrance
to the very affectionate demonstrations which now took place.
Presently Jenny straightened her hat, restored her handkerchief to her
pocket, and walked on, "arm-in-crook" with her admirer.
"They be a-goin' to Susan's, sure enough. Well, to be sure! Of all the
hard-hearted brazen-faced--!" words failed her, and she quickened her
pace as the couple disappeared round the angle of the lane. A few
minutes' brisk walking brought the pair, with Betty at their heels, to
a solitary cottage standing a little back from the lane in the shelter
of a high furze-grown bank. As the young man tapped at the door Jenny
turned and descried Betty's figure by the garden-gate.
"Is it you, Mrs. Tuffin?" she inquired. "I can scarce see who 'tis wi'
the sun shinin' in my eyes. Be you a-goin' in?"
"It's me," responded Betty tartly, in reply to the first question,
while she dismissed the second with an equally curt "I be."
The door opened and the figure of a stout elderly woman stood outlined
against the glow of firelight within. She peered out, shading her eyes
from the level rays of the sinking sun, and starting back at sight of
Jenny.
"'Tis you, be it? Well, I didn't think you'd have the face to come, so
soon."
"I did just look in to say a word o' consolation, Miss Vacher," said
the girl, drawing herself up. "I be very grieved myself about this
melancholy noos. I've a-been cryin' terrible, I have, an' says I, 'Me
an' poor Abel's dear aunt 'ull mingle our tears.'"
"Mingle fiddlesticks!" said Susan. "What be that there young spark o'
yours a-doin' here? Be he come to drop a tear too?"
"He be come along to take care of I," said the girl demurely. "'Tis
Mr. Sam Keynes. He didn't think it right for I to walk so far by
myself. Did ye, Sam?"
"Well, now ye can walk back wi' her," said Susan, addressing that
gentleman before he had time to answer. "I don't want no tears
a-mingled here. Who be that by the gate?"
"'Tis me, Betty Tuffin," returned the owner of that name. "I didn't
come wi' these 'ere young folks--don't think it, my dear. I come to
see if this 'ere noos be true an' to tell you how sorry I be."
"I'd 'low the noos bain't true, but come in all the same, Betty. I be
al'ays glad to see _you_. You'd best be marchin', Jenny Pitcher, you
and your new sweetheart, else it'll be dark afore you get home."
Jenny looked at her admirer, who nodded encouragingly and nudged her
with his elbow.
"I think as we've a-come so far," she remarked, "I must ax leave to
step in for a bit, Miss Vacher. 'Tis a little matter o' business, and
business is a thing what ought to be attended to immediate."
Miss Vacher threw open the door with such violence that the handle
banged against the wall, and stepped back with sarcastic politeness.
"Oh, come in, do. Come, and poke and pry, and see what ye can pick for
yourself."
Sarcasm had turned to fury by the time the end of the sentence was
reached, and, as Jenny, overcome by conflicting emotions, was about to
sink into the nearest chair, she darted forward and snatched it away.
"That's mine anyhow," she cried emphatically. "You shan't touch that."
Jenny almost fell against the table, and gasped for a moment or two,
partly from breathlessness, partly, as presently appeared, from grief.
"Oh, poor Abel!" she groaned, as soon as she could speak. "The poor
dear fellow. Oh, oh dear!"
"I wouldn't take on so if I was you," said Betty sarcastically, while
even Mr. Keynes surveyed his intended with a lowering brow, and
gruffly advised her to give over.
"'Tis a pity to upset yourself so much," said Miss Vacher, with a
shrill laugh. "I don't believe he be dead. Somebody 'ud ha' wrote if
he was. The papers--you can't credit what they say in them papers."
"Oh, he's dead, sure enough," cried Jenny, suddenly recovering
herself. "I know he's dead--I know'd he'd die afore he went out.
There, I had a kind o' porsentiment he'd be killed, and so had he,
poor fellow. That's why he settled everything so thoughtful and kind.
Oh dear, oh dear! It fair breaks my heart to think on't. Poor Abel! he
was too good for this world--that's what he was. We'll never, never
see his likes again."
"Dear, to be sure, think o' that now!" cackled Betty. "I hope ye like
_that_, Mr. Keynes."
Mr. Keynes evidently did not like it at all, if one might judge from
his expression, but Jenny now turned towards him in artless appeal.
"You do know very well, Sam, don't you, as poor Abel was my first
love? I've often told 'ee so, haven't I? You must remember, Sam, I did
say often and often, as 'whatever happens you can only be my second.
Don't ever think,' says I, 'as you can ever be to me what he was.'"
At this point Sam's feelings were too many for him; he made a stride
towards his charmer, and imperatively announced that he'd be dalled if
he'd stand any more o' that. "Cut it shart, Jenny, cut it shart, or
I'm off!"
"There, I did ought to think more o' your feelin's," said Jenny,
drying her eyes with surprising promptitude. "I beg your pardon--I
were that undone, ye see, wi' lookin' round at all my poor Abel's
things, what's to be mine now. They do all seem to speak so plain to
I--the very clock--"
"The clock!" exclaimed Susan, with an indignant start, "why that there
clock have hung over chimney-piece for nigh upon farty year! That
clock didn't belong to Abel!"
"That clock," said Jenny with mild firmness, "did belong to my poor
Abel's father, and 'twas his by rights; he've a-left it to me wi' the
rest of his things, and I shall value it for his sake. When I do hear
it tickin' it will seem to say to I, _Think o'--me; think o'--me_."
"Jenny, drop it," cried Mr. Keynes with a muffled roar of protest; "I
tell 'ee 'tis more nor flesh and blood can bear. If you be a-goin' to
think constant o' he you'd better ha' done wi' I."
"Sam, dear Sam," said Jenny in melting tones, "you be all as I've
a-got left now; don't you desert me."
"Well, don't you go a-carryin' on that way," said Sam, still
unmollified and eyeing her threateningly.
"You don't lay a finger on the clock," said Susan Vacher with spirit.
"Who told you that clock was Abel's? It's a-been there ever since my
mother's time, and I've a-wound it up myself every Saturday night."
"That clock belonged to Abel," repeated Jenny emphatically, "and he've
a-left it to me in his will."
She drew a piece of paper from her pocket, opened it slowly, and
proceeded to read its contents aloud, with great dignity.
"'In case o' my death, I, Abel Guppy, bein' firm in mind and body--'"
"What does he mean by that?" interrupted Betty. "Lawyer Wiggins did
make my father's will an' 'tweren't wrote that way. What's 'firm in
mind and body'?"
"This 'ere was copied from a pattern will what was bought for sixpence
up to Mr. Marsh's in town," said Jenny loftily. "It do begin, '_I,
M.N., bein' o' sound mind though infirm in body_'--Abel, d'ye see,
weren't infirm in body; he were as well as ever he were in his life,
poor chap, when he did set out."
"Well, let's hear," said Susan with a martyrised air.
"'I, Abel Guppy,'" resumed Jenny, "'bein' firm in mind and body, do
hereby state as I wish for to leave my sweetheart, Jenny Pitcher, if I
do die in this 'ere war, all what I've a-got in this world. The money
in the Savings Bank--'" Betty groaned and threw up her eyes to heaven;
Susan involuntarily clenched her fist; Sam's brow cleared.
"'The money in the Savings Bank,'" repeated Jenny unctuously, "'and
any bits o' furniture what belongs to I, more partic'lar the clock
over the chimney-piece, the two chaney dogs, and the warmin'-pan--'"
"Well, I never!" interrupted Susan; "them two chaney dogs my mother
bought herself off a pedlar that come to the door. I mind it so well
as if it were yesterday."
"Very like she did," returned Jenny sharply. "And when she died hadn't
Abel's father, what was her eldest son, the best right to 'em? And
when he went to his long home they was Abel's, and now they'm
mine--and the warmin'-pan too," she added defiantly.
"Well, of all the oudacious--" Susan was beginning, when Jenny cut her
short, continuing to read in a high clear voice--
"'And half-a-dozen silver spoons, also the hearth-rug what was made
out o' my old clothes--'"
"I'm--I'm blowed if you shall get the hearthrug," cried Susan
explosively. "That's mine whatever the rest mid be. Them clothes was
only fit to put on a scarecrow, an' I cut 'em up, and picked out the
best bits, and split up a wold sack and sewed on every mortial rag
myself; and I made a border out of a wold red skirt o' mine."
"And a handsome thing it is too, my dear," said Betty admiringly.
"They was Abel's clothes, though," said Jenny; "ye can't get out o'
that, Miss Vacher."
"No, but there's one thing _you_ can't get out of, Miss Jenny, so
clever as ye think yerself," cried the outraged possessor of the
hearthrug. "You be a-comed here on false pertences. Even if my nevvy
_be_ dead you han't a-got no right to these 'ere things now. He wrote
it plain, 'I leave 'em all _to my sweetheart_ if I'm killed.' Well,
you wasn't his sweetheart when he was killed--you was a-walkin' out
wi' this 'ere chap."
"Abel Guppy did mean I to have they things," said Jenny. "I was his
sweetheart at the time he wrote it, and if I left off bein' his
sweetheart 'twas because I felt he was too good to live. I knowed he
wouldn't come back--as I tell you I had a porsentiment. I were forced
to take up wi' Sam because I knowed Abel 'ud never make any livin'
maid his bride."
"That's the third time!" cried Sam, ramming on his hat, and making for
the door. "I've had about enough o' this. I'll look out for another
maid as hasn't got a sweetheart i' th' New House--you be altogether a
cut above the likes of I."
Susan obligingly opened the door for him, and in a moment he was gone,
leaving Jenny staring blankly after him.
The banging of the garden-gate seemed to restore her to her senses.
With a scream she threw the paper on the floor, and rushed out of the
house, calling wildly on her lover. Soon the sound of the hurrying
steps was lost in the distance, and the two women simultaneously
turned to each other, eyes and mouth equally round with amazement.
At last Betty, slowly extending her forefinger, pointed to the will.
"I know," said Susan, finding voice all at once. "I've a good mind to
pop it i' the fire."
Betty shook her head admonishingly.
"I wouldn't do that," she said, with a note of reproof in her voice.
"'T'ud be real dangerous. Folks could be sent to prison for meddling
wi' wills, an' sich."
Susan, who had grasped the document in question, dropped it as if it
burnt her.
"My very spoons!" she said with a groan. "I tell 'ee, Betty, I'd a
deal sooner bury 'em nor let her have 'em."
"I d' 'low you would," said Mrs. Tuffin commiseratingly; "but I don't
advise 'ee to do it, my dear--'twouldn't be safe, an' you'd be bound
to give 'em up one time or another. I d' 'low that maid be a-actin' as
she be to spite ye more nor anythin' else; the more unwillin' you be,
the more she'm pleased."
"Very like," agreed Susan. "She knowed I never were for Abel takin' up
wi' her, an' al'ays said so much as I could again the match."
"Well, if you'll take my advice, Susan, you'll jist disapp'int her by
givin' in straight off. If I was you I'd jist make up a bundle o' they
things what Abel left her; pack 'em all up an' pin the will on top,
an' give 'em to carrier to take to her, an' jist write outside, 'Good
riddance o' bad rubbish,' or 'What ye've touched ye may take,' or some
sich thing to show ye didn't care one way or t'other. I d' 'low that
'ud shame her."
"Maybe it would," said Miss Vacher dubiously, though with a latent
gleam of malice in her eye.
"Take my advise an' do it then," urged Mrs. Tuffin earnestly. "Make
the best of a bad job an' turn the tables on she. All the village 'ull
be mad wi' her--the tale 'ull be in every one's mouth."
Miss Vacher compressed her lips and meditatively rubbed her hands.
"Well, I will; but I'll tell 'ee summat--I'll cut off every inch o'
that red border."
She picked up the rug as she spoke and held it out. "That'll spile the
looks of it anyhow," she remarked triumphantly.
The threat was carried into effect, and on the morrow poor Abel
Guppy's little household gods were duly transferred to the home of his
former sweetheart. Jenny professed great indifference to Susan's
scornful message, and continued to hold her head high in spite of the
storm of indignation provoked by her conduct. She claimed and carried
off the departed yeoman's Savings Bank book, and was much aggrieved on
finding that the authorities would not at once permit her to avail
herself of the little vested fund; inquiries must be made, they said,
and in any case some time must elapse before she could be permitted to
draw the money out.
This was the only real cloud on Jenny's horizon, however, and she
speedily forgot it in the midst of her wedding preparations. She and
her Sam had made up their little difference, and as he was well-to-do
in the world, and quite able to support a wife, there seemed to be no
reason for delay.
The banns were duly called, therefore, and on one sunshiny summer's
day Jenny and Sam, followed by a little band of near relatives, walked
gleefully to their new home from the church where they had been made
one. Betty Tuffin, who, as a lone woman, could not in justice to
herself refuse any paying job, however little she might approve of her
employer, had been left to take care of the house and to assist in
preparing the refreshments, As the little party approached the cottage
door they were surprised to see her standing on the threshold, now
portentously wagging her black-capped head, now burying her face in
her apron, evidently a prey to strong emotion, though of what
particular kind it was difficult to say.
The bride hastened her steps, and Betty, who had for the twentieth
time taken refuge in her apron, cautiously uncovered what seemed to be
a very watery eye, and remarked in muffled and quavering tones from
behind its enveloping folds--
"I'm afeared you'll be a bit took a-back when ye go indoor, my dear;
best go cautious. I d' 'low ye'll be _surprised_!'
"What d'ye mean?" cried Jenny in alarm. "What's the matter?"
"Anything wrong?" inquired Sam from the rear.
But Betty was apparently entirely overcome, and could only intimate by
repeated jerking of her thumb over her shoulder her desire that they
should go in and see for themselves.
A long table was spread in the centre of the living-room, and, at the
moment that the bridal party entered, a tall figure, dressed in
kharki, was walking hastily round it, picking up a spoon from each
cup.
"Abel!" shrieked Jenny, staggering back against her husband.
"What, bain't ye dead?" gasped the latter with a dropping jaw.
Abel added another spoon to his collection, and then looked up:--"This
'ere only makes five," he said; "there did ought to be six. Where's
t'other?"
"Dear heart alive!" groaned Jenny's mother. "Jist look at en. We
thought en dead an' buried, an' here he be a-carryin' off the spoons!"
"I bain't dead, ye see," returned the yeoman fiercely. "There's more
Abel Guppys nor one i' the world, an' the man what got shot was a chap
fro' Weymouth. If I _was_ dead an' buried, all the same d'ye think I'd
leave my spoons to be set out at another man's weddin'? Where's the
other chaney dog?"
He had already pocketed one, and now cast a vengeful glance round.
"On the dresser, Abel," gasped Jenny faintly; "oh, my poor heart, how
it do beat! To think o' your comin' back like that! Oh, Abel, I made
sure you was killed."
"And you're very sorry, bain't ye?" returned her former lover with
wrathful irony, "I'll thank ye for my bank-book, if ye please. Ye
haven't drawed the money out--that's one good thing. They telled I all
about it at the post-office yesterday. That's my dish, too." Extending
a long arm he deftly whisked away the large old-fashioned platter
which had supported the wedding-cake, dusting off the crumbs with an
air of great disgust.
"I think ye mid have found summat else to put your cake on," he said,
with a withering look; "I think ye mid ha' showed a bit more feelin'
than that."
"I'm sure," protested Jenny plaintively, "'twas only out o' respect
for you, Abel, that I set out the things. 'Twas out o' fond memory for
you. You know you did say yourself when you was a-writin' out your
will, 'I'll leave you all my things, Jenny, so as you'll think o'
me,'--an' I _did_ think o' you," she added, beginning to sob, "I'm
sure I--I--I even wanted to put a bit o' black crape on your clock,
but mother wouldn't let me."
"Well," interrupted Mrs. Pitcher apologetically, "I didn't think, ye
know, it 'ud look very well to have crape about on my darter's
weddin'-day. It wouldn't seem lucky. Or else I'm sure I wouldn't ha'
had no objections at all--far from it, Abel."
"But I'd ha' had objections," cried Sam, who had stood by swelling
with wrath. "I do think my feelin's ought to be considered so much as
yon chap's, be he alive or dead. It's me what's married your darter,
bain't it?"
"It be, Samuel; 'e-es I d' 'low it be," returned Mrs. Pitcher, with a
deprecating glance at the yeoman who was now rolling up the rug. "We
all on us thought as Abel was dead, ye see."
"Meanin', I suppose, as if ye knowed he was alive I shouldn't ha' had
her," retorted Sam explosively. "Well, I d' 'low, it bain't too late
yet to come to a understandin'. Jenny be married to I, sure enough,
but I bain't a-goin' to ha' no wives what be a-hankerin' arter other
folks. She may take herself off out of this wi'out my tryin' for to
hinder her. If she can't make up her mind to give over upsettin'
hersel' along o' he you may take her home-along, Mrs. Pitcher."
A dead silence ensued within the house, but Betty's strident tones
could be heard without, uplifted in shrill discourse to curious
neighbours.
"'E-es, d'ye see, he did write home so soon as he did get to
Darchester, a-tellin' of his aunt as he was a-comin' private-like so
as to surprise his sweetheart. And Susan, she did write back immediate
an' say, 'My poor bwoy, there be a sad surprise in store for _you_.'
And then when he comed they did make it up between them to keep quiet
till--"
"There's the clock, too," observed Abel, ending the pause at last.
"You can take the clock," cried Jenny, simultaneously recovering
speech and self-possession. "Take the clock, Abel Guppy, and take
yourself off. There ben a mistake, but it be all cleared up at last."
She stepped with dignity across the room, and slipped her arm through
Sam's, who made several strenuous but ineffectual efforts to shake her
off.
"You get hold o' he," cried Sam; "you cut along an' catch hold o' he.
It be he you do want."
"No, Samuel," said the incomparable Jenny with lofty resolution, "it
bain't he as I do want. I mid ha' been took up wi' some sich foolish
notion afore, bein' but a silly maid, but now I be a married 'ooman,
an' I do know how to vally a husband's love."
The new-made bridegroom ceased struggling and gaped at her. Jenny,
gazing at her former lover more in sorrow than in anger, pointed
solemnly to the clock:--
"Take down that clock, Abel Guppy," she repeated. "I do know you now
for what you be. I consider you've behaved most heartless an'
unfeelin' in comin' here to try an' make mischief between man an'
wife. I thank the Lard," she added piously, "as I need never ha' no
more to do with you. Walk out o' my house, if ye please--"
"_Your_ house," interpolated Sam, a note of astonished query
perceptible in his tone despite its sulkiness.
"'E-es," said Jenny firmly. "He shall never show his face inside the
door where I be missis. Take down the clock, Abel Guppy," she repeated
for the third time. "You'd best help him, Sam. He don't seem able to
reach to it."
Encumbered as he was with newly-regained possessions, the yeoman had
made but abortive attempts to detach the timepiece; and Sam, with a
dawning grin on his countenance, now mounted on a chair, officiously
held by one of the guests, and speedily handed it down.
After all it was the ill-used Abel Guppy who looked most foolish as he
made his way to the door, loaded with his various goods, the relatives
of bride and bridegroom casting scornful glances at him as he passed.
Before he had proceeded twenty yards Sam ran after him with the
bank-book, which the other pocketed without a word, while the
bridegroom returned to the house, rubbing his hands and chuckling.
Jenny was already seated at the head of the table and received him
with a gracious smile:--
"If you'll fetch another plate, Sam, my dear," she remarked, "I can
begin for to cut the cake."