NEHEMIAH WIMPENNY, of Holmfirth, "Gentleman, one of Her Majesty's
&c.," in other words a solicitor, was the only legal practitioner in
the village or neighbourhood, and though not more than thirty years of
age, enjoyed a considerable practice. His father, Ebenezer, had been a
successful manufacturer and a zealous Methodist. Presumably he believed
that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than
for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. Certainly he shared
the common belief that lawyers are very scarce in the celestial regions.
But these convictions did not deter him from storing up riches in this
world, nor from bringing up his son to the legal profession. Perhaps he
had confidence in the axiom that exceptions prove the rule.
Nehemiah was well cut-out for a country lawyer: he had the native
shrewdness and common sense, and if he did not know much law he found
common-sense a very good substitute for it. His local knowledge was like
that of a historic character extensive and peculiar, and his father's
acquaintances and business connections who, at first from friendship,
gave their business to young Nehemiah, had no reason to complain of lack
of his attention to their interests or ability to protect them. In
person he was of medium height, of sandy hair and pale complexion, with
a cold and fishy eye and a cold and clammy hand. He dressed loudly and
flashily, but as the extravagance of his raiment was attributed to a
twelve months' stay in London in the office of a town agent its fashion
or propriety few questioned. He was fond of jewellery, and displayed a
good deal of it on his person, and was supposed by envious young
manufacturers and merchants to be a "devil among the women,"--a
reputation of which he was not a little vain, and which he sustained by
the amorous glances and _doubles entendres_ of refreshment rooms and
bars. He had spent a week in Paris, and hinted that he could an' he
would tell a thing or two about the iniquities of the gay city. This did
not prevent Nehemiah from attending with laudable regularity at the
Methodist Chapel, and anxious mammas with marriageable daughters, secure
in the assurance that a reformed rake makes a very passable saint,
viewed with complacency the attentions which it pleased this very
common-place Lothario to pay to the virgins of their flock and fold; and
the pastor of Zion Chapel himself, doubtless reflecting that he was sent
to the lost sheep of the house of Israel, and to heal those that were
sick and not those that were whole, was very tender indeed to a
church-member who gave weekly signs of grace in the form of substantial
contributions to the collection box, and whose quarterly pew-rent could
always be depended on. It is only fair to Nehemiah to say that he never
permitted his dissipations which were possibly much exaggerated, to
interfere with business, and that, however deep his potations of the
previous night, he was always to be found at his desk with a clear head
and a steady hand, a circumstance, of itself, that secured Nehemiah more
appreciation in a hard-drinking community, than would have been inspired
by an intimate acquaintance with the whole _corpus juris_.
Among his clients Nehemiah numbered Mr. Jabez Tinker, and he was
therefore not surprised when the master of Wilberlee presented himself
in the small, dingy, stuffy office which Nehemiah found sufficient for
his needs. Mr. Tinker, of course, was well aware of the somewhat dubious
moral character of the gentleman he had come to consult; but then he did
not go to Nehemiah for morals but for professional assistance.
"Well, Mr. Tinker, and how do you find yourself this morning--warm,
isn't it."
"Very," said Mr. Tinker--"it's warm, and it's close for the time of the
year. But any sort of weather 'll do for your kind of work, I guess,
Wimpenny."
"Rather,--the warmer the better--get me used to a sultry climate. It's
as well to be prepared for the future, eh?"--Mr. Wimpenny's expansive
smile indicated his own appreciation of a very feeble jest; but his
client's countenance was not responsive.
"H'm," said Mr. Tinker. "Well, Wimpenny, let's get to business. I want
to make my will, and it's no use putting the thing off. I can always
alter it?"
"Yes, yes, certainly--as long as a man lives he can alter his will,
always supposing he remain _compos mentis_; and we're all human, Mr.
Tinker, we're all human."
"It shouldn't be a very complicated affair either," went on Mr. Tinker.
"Unfortunately, except the house I live in."
"Snug little hole, but too near the mill," thought his adviser.
"Except that, practically all I have is tied up in my business."
"And a very good business too, Mr. Tinker, by all accounts."
"I've nothing to complain of in that score; but it is unfortunate as
things have turned out that I did not arrange differently. You see, I've
no son to carry on the concern after my death."
The lawyer nodded assent.
"I must provide for my widow, of course. She must have the house and
furniture for her life, and I thought of, say, three hundred a
year--not a penny more, she'd only give it to the chapel."
Again the lawyer nodded, making notes, as he listened, on a sheet of
foolscap.
"That's plain speaking," went on Mr. Tinker, "but where's the £300 to
come from? That's the difficulty. Mills aren't easy to let, and the
bigger they are the fewer people want them. I suppose there's nothing
for it but the hammer. It's enough to make us Tinkers all turn in our
graves. But there it is.--Even if Dick--you won't remember my brother,
Richard,--if he'd had a son, it would have been different."
"But we all know he left a very charming daughter," said Wimpenny with a
bow and a smirk.
"Dorothy's right enough," said her uncle, curtly. "But you can't turn
her into a manufacturer. Though she's a sort of partner all the same.
You know her father died suddenly."
Of course Wimpenny knew.
"And her father was part owner of the mill and business. Well, the
girl's money is in the business still."
"Phew! that's bad, Mr. Tinker."
"I know it is, and the worst of it, I've kept no separate accounts. I've
treated Richard's share just as my own. But my will must put all that
right. Subject to my wife's provision Dorothy must have all. There'll be
nob'dy else for it."
Wimpenny did not speak for some time. He chewed the end of his quill
instead, a way he had when absorbed in thought.
"It's a bad business Mr. Tinker;" he said at length; "it was scarcely
like you to confound accounts in that loose fashion and to put trust
money into what was practically your own business. People might call it
by an ugly name."
Jabez flushed angrily. "What do you mean, sir? I treated my niece as my
daughter, brought her up in my house as my own child, and now I propose
to leave her my sole heiress. Nothing very ugly about that, I should
think."
"Not as things have turned out," was the reply, "but you know as well as
I do they _might_ have turned out differently, and where would your
ward's money have been? However, it's to-day and tomorrow we're
concerned with, not yesterday. Has it occurred to you that Miss Dorothy
may marry?"
"Of course she may. One doesn't need to pay six-and-eight to learn
that."
"Exactly," said the unruffled lawyer. "Now an adopted daughter and an
adopted daughter's husband are often quite two different beings, and
should Miss Tinker marry it's the husband we should have to reckon
with."
"Well, I could pay him out, I suppose?"
"Of course you could--by selling Wilberlee at a sacrifice, a great
sacrifice, or by putting a heavy mortgage on the property if it would
carry it. We must remember that there are eighteen years of profits to
set-off against Miss Dorothy's up-bringing, and the Court of Chancery
does not weigh trustees' profits in a hair-balance, I can tell you."
Mr. Tinker rose impatiently. "I didn't come here to have you raise
difficulties but to meet them, nor yet to be frightened by bug-bears."
"Now you are unreasonable, Mr. Tinker. I shouldn't be worth my salt if I
didn't put the situation plainly before you. You don't go to a doctor
for smooth sayings nor yet for sweetmeats instead of pills. No use
getting huffed, you know."
But Mr. Tinker was huffed. He was a Tinker and a magistrate, and had
been a man of mark these thirty years, and was not pleasant to be told
these things by a young lawyer who might have been his son. But he had
the good sense to know that what Nehemiah said was truth.
"Ah, well," he said, "I dare say we are meeting trouble half-way. You
know what I want doing. I did everything for the best, and I don't know
that I care very much what the world says or your infernal Court of
Chancery either, if it comes to that. When will you have the will ready,
Wimpenny?"
"Let me see. To-day's Monday. Say Thursday of next week. We close for
Whitsuntide, you know."
"Very good, so be it. I'll call in on that day. I'll be glad to have the
thing off my mind before the holidays. Mrs. Tinker's at Harrogate, and I
was thinking of running over for a few days. Till Thursday, then," and
Mr. Tinker went his way feeling less comfortable in his mind than he had
done for many a long day.
"Confound the fellow," he said to himself, wiping his brow, "and
confound his stuffy little office, too. It's worse than the
sweating-room at the Bank."
Left to himself Nehemiah Wimpenny sunk into a deep reverie; and, to
judge from the faint smile that occasionally played upon his face, a not
unpleasing one.
"So Miss Dorothy's to be old Tinker's heiress," thus ran his thoughts,
"and that means probably old Eph. Thorpe's into the bargain. Guess I
rather frightened the immaculate Jabez with that hint of a probable
Chancery suit. Talk about men starting at their own shadows, as if any
possible suitor for the fair Dorothy would dream of muddling away not
only her fortune, but her expectations by going to law with a man who
could leave him or not leave him thousands of pounds just as the fancy
took him. Should have thought Tinker was more level headed. It isn't the
money he's frightened of, it's the scandal. These cold, reserved, proud
men are always so devilish thin-skinned. Wonder who the happy man 'll
be.--Haven't heard of anyone nosing around."
"By Jove! why shouldn't I cut in myself? She's a pretty little filly and
a high-stepper too. I've had my fling, and it's about time I looked
around for Mrs. Nehemiah. Wonder I never meet her out anywhere. Tinker
keeps her up pretty close apparently, perhaps she doesn't care for
high-teas, small talk, and cribbage. Shows her sense."
"Wonder how I can get to know her. No use fishing for an invitation to
Tinker's. Jove! I have it. Didn't he say he was off to Harrogate to
cheer up the old woman. Let's see, Jabez is an Aenonite. H'm, I must
sweeten the Reverend David--well that's easy enough. Pity I don't go to
Aenon; but that's soon got over. One chapel's as good as another to a
broad-minded man. All retail the same blooming rot. I mean they all lead
to the same place. Different roads to the same city--that's the
phrase."
"Whitsuntide is it, next week? Shouldn't mind a run over to Scarborough.
Better than sulphur-water at Harrogate, friend Tinker. Why! there'll be
the Sunday School treats, band, flags, processions stale buns and coffee
grounds. The sportive Dorothy's pretty sure to be doing the cheap
philanthropic with the kids--and Nehemiah 'll be there or thereabouts,
you bet."
"But I'll make sure how Richard left his money. Hearsay's all very well,
but matrimony on hearsay might turn out a sell. I'll get a copy of his
will. But that'll be all right, I fancy. Gad, it's dry work thinking.
I'll step across and have a tiddley at the Crown, and I might as well
take little Polly that pair of gloves I promised her. Heigho, I guess
I'll have to swear off lovely Pollys, at any rate till the honeymoon 's
over."
But before the sagacious Wimpenny abandoned himself to the delights of
gin-and-bitters and the lively sallies of the lovely Polly, he dropped a
confidential note to his London agent to procure a copy of Richard
Tinker's will and such information as the archives of Somerset House
could furnish to the interested or the curious as to the Residuary and
Legacy accounts filed by the deceased's executor, Mr. Jabez Tinker, to
wit.
This missive despatched with his own hand Nehemiah turned his steps
towards the Crown, feeling very much at peace with himself and fully
entitled to bask in the sunshine of Polly's ready smile. On the way he
chanced across the pastor of Aenon Chapel, who was devoting his morning
to calling upon sundry of his flock and getting up an appetite for his
mid-day dinner.
"Good morning, Mr. Jones the very man I wanted to see. I've a crow to
pull with you. Won't there be the usual school treat this Whitsuntide?"
"Certainly, Mr. Wimpenny We'd a special prayer last meeting for a fine
day."
"Well, now, I go to Zion. But we Nonconformists are not so narrow as our
Church friends, eh? So long as the good work goes on, that's the main
thing isn't it?"
"Most assuredly, Mr. Wimpenny, most assuredly. We're only tools in the
great Worker's hands."
"Quite so, Mr. Jones, quite so; my sentiments to a T, only better
expressed. Now I know these efforts of the Sunday School cost money. I'm
not good enough to be a teacher; but you must let me help in my own way.
I hoped you would have called, as your predecessor did, and asked for a
subscription, then we could have had a comfortable chat," and Nehemiah
slipped a sovereign into the parson's palm.
Now Mr. Jones had gone very recently over the list of subscribers to the
various efforts and celebrations of Aenon Chapel, and flattered himself
that he knew to a nicety the amount for which every inhabitant of
Holmfirth "was good;" but he certainly could not remember to have seen
Nehemiah Wimpenny's name for so much as a widow's mite. But perhaps the
lawyer was one of those worthy men who do good by stealth and blush to
find it known. So he had no qualms about pocketing the coin.
"They say open confession 's good for the soul," went on Nehemiah. "I
was just on my way to have a nip and a snack at the Crown--just a glass
of bitter, you know"--Oh! Nehemiah, Nehemiah!--"No use asking you, I
know. The old Vicar, now, always had a glass of sherry with me when we
met. But they say you are just ruining the trade, with your temperance
sermons and your temperance missions. You mustn't do that Mr. Jones; for
if you shut up public-houses _I_ might as well shut up shop too. Well,
good day, good day."
Mr. Jones's face was beaming.
"Do they really say so?" he asked.
"Of course they do, and mean it. There isn't a publican in the town but
would rejoice to have you popped off like an Irish rack-renter. Oh! By
the bye, whose field do you have on Monday for your gala? I might manage
to have an hour's romp with your youngsters--any road I could squander
a few nuts and have them racing for oranges."
"Mr. Tinker has kindly let us have the loan of his paddock at the rear
of Wilberlee. We've had it for years, till the school almost expect it
as a right."
"I see, I see--a prescriptive right. A better sort of prescription than
a doctor's, eh?"
Mr. Jones accorded the tribute of a smile. "You don't allow your drier
studies to dull your sense of humour, I perceive. By the way, the dear
children of Zion are joining us this year both in the procession and the
after proceedings, so you will not be hampered by any sense of a divided
duty. I must not omit to thank you for your generous donation, but I
assure you we shall value your presence among us more highly than any
gift."
"Don't mention it--a bagatelle. Wish it were more. Make it yearly. But
now I really must be off or I shall miss my snack."
"And your glass of--bitter? I think you said,"
"Ah, well, I'll make it mild to-day. That's next to teetotal, you know.
Again, good day. Hope to have the pleasure of an introduction to Mrs.
Jones on Monday."
"What a very excellent young man," mused the reverend divine, as he
scurried through his calls. "I wish brother Brown of Zion put more
fervour into Temperance work.--He might win that young man to the
cause"--a conclusion Mr. Jones might have modified had he seen the wink
with which the very excellent young man favoured himself as he took the
steps of the Crown Hotel and called for his "usual, and a smile with it,
please, Polly."
"Miah's in extra spirits this morning. Wonder who's feathers he's been
plucking so early," was the mental comment of the slim-waisted damsel as
she handed the "usual" with a coquettish air and neatly evaded the
proffered salute.
"There's someone coming!" she whispered, as she skipped away.
"There always is, damn 'em," said that very excellent young man.
Whit-Monday in Yorkshire is the saturnalia of the Sunday schools, a
festival to which both teachers and taught look forward with delighted
anticipation. A committee of the teachers and those members of the
congregation who are supposed to be musically gifted, select the hymns
to be sung at the services and at the halts of the procession on its
route, and the discussion and final settling of the hymn-sheets are not
always attended by the harmony appropriate to the occasion. The lives of
the organist and the choirmaster are made a burden to them, and before
the sheet reaches the printer there is often a coolness between ladies
who had vowed eternal friendship. The scholars are very zealously
drilled by the choirmaster, the girls singing with zest at the
"practices," the boys stimulating their attention by pulling their hair,
but lifting up their own voices under protest. The young ladies of the
Sunday School wear a subdued modification of their Sunday best at the
week-night practices and as they have neither father nor mother to
escort them home at the somewhat late hour to which the practices are
prolonged, have to make shift with the arm of a blushing and embarrassed
teacher from the Boys' School, and, to do them justice, the young ladies
cheerfully submit to be thus accompanied. If it should be discovered
during the homeward walk of this sober minded Phyllis and Stephen of the
mills that their voices go well together, the practising at the school
not unfrequently conduces to domestic duets, never, let us hope, to
matrimonial discords. An ingenuous bride, not long ago, assured the
writer that she simply doted on the Sunday School. When asked for the
reason, she naively confessed that it was there she first met her Billy.
As this frank young lady has since sent in her resignation as a teacher,
it is to be assumed that she now dotes on Billy to the detriment of the
Sunday School; but she has not thought it necessary to return the
time-piece presented to her by her fellow-teachers on the eve of her
wedding-day.
He must be a very callous individual indeed who does not delight in the
sight of the scholars as they marshal under the folds of the School
flag, blazoned with the name of the chapel and borne in a somewhat
staggering fashion by sturdy teachers who find consolation for their
tribulations in the honour of being standard-bearers. Even a slattern
mother and a drunken father will make a shift at sacrifice to turn the
"childer" out decent for the "Whissun treat." It is indeed the time of
year when the yearly Sunday suit is chosen. Poverty must indeed have
made its home in the house of a Yorkshire mill-hand if a white muslin
frock and brilliant sash and a new straw hat with bright ribbons cannot
be found for the girls, and a new suit, be the material never so rough,
for the lads. It is a feast to the eyes to see the young coquettes--a
maid of five is often a promising if not a quite accomplished
coquette--arrayed in all their glory, conscious of their charms and
severely critical of the gowns of their comrades. There is the
exhilaration of the strains of the brass band--which in all probability
will be comfortably drunk before the day is out; there is the fluttering
of the silken banners in the summer breeze, and, above all, there is the
consciousness of being the beheld of all beholders. The boys look
either bored or ashamed of themselves and wish they were nearer the buns
and nuts, for which they are gloomily conscious they will have to pay by
submitting to the humiliating exactions of kiss-in-the-ring. Every door
of the village is open as the long procession winds through the narrow
streets, and anxious matrons and elder sisters watch for their own to
see the sash has retained its bunch and the flounces have not given:
also to receive the soothing assurance that Annie or Lizzie is dressed
as smart as the best of them. Then there is the singing of a hymn at the
minister's house and before the deacons' and--pleasantest feature of
all the day's proceedings--the lifting of the sweet young voices under
the window of a sick companion who listens from a tear-stained pillow to
the air she may never sing again. The distinction almost compensates for
pain.
Among those watched the procession was Ben Garside, Hannah, and Lucy.
She had been wheeled to the open door. Her father and mother stood on
the other side. Tom was in his bedroom, "fettling hissen," as Hannah put
it. Ben had put on his better suit, and shaved himself in honour of the
holiday,--the last holiday of the year for working-folk till Christmas
should come again. There were no Bank Holidays in those days. Hannah had
put on her somewhat rusty silk dress, and would have scorned to
acknowledge that it pinched round the waist more than it did a year
before. As the rear rank of the scholars and the last banner disappeared
up the street, Tom's feet were heard descending the stairs.
"Tom 'll be for off, nah," said Hannah, "pity he couldn't ha' his
baggin' so's things wouldn't be lyin' abaat all hours."
"Now Ben," said Tom, cheerily, "I'm ready, are you?"
"By Gosh! Aw sud think yo' are ready: stan' ther an' let's ha' a looik
at yo'."
Tom laughed, and stood to attention. "Do the creases show very much?" he
asked, "I feel like a draper's parcel wrapped in brown paper."
It was a great event. Tom had got a suit of navy blue serge for the
summer, and it fitted him like a glove.
"Aw mun gi' yo' a pinch for new," said Hannah, nipping the upper arm.
"An' put a penny in his pocket," added Lucy, "for luck."
"It should be a shilling if it's to match the pinch," laughed Tom,
rubbing his arm. "But where's your bonnet, Hannah, and your hat, Lucy?"
"What's ta thinkin' on, Tom?" asked Ben.
"Why that we're all going to the field together. I'm going to wheel Lucy
and stand by her, and you and Hannah are to enjoy yourselves with the
other young folk."
Ben protested he wouldn't budge an inch. "Not but what he liked to see
th' childer enjoy theirsen, but Whissunday wer' a heathenish festival
an' a relic o' superstition."
"But you've knocked off work and donned--I mean dressed yourself,"
remonstrated Tom.
"Aye at nooinin'. Who could wark wi' that blethrin' brass band brayin'
up an' down th' street?"
Mrs. Garside looked at Lucy. "It 'ud be a treeat for th' lass," she
said.
"I should like it, but I should only be a hindrance. Fancy Tom standing
by me for hours at a stretch and all the other young men in the field
enjoying themselves. Take mother, father, and I'll stop at home. No one
will run away with _me_." she added bravely, but there was a tear in her
voice.
"If you stop at home, I stop," said Tom emphatically. "Besides, as for
being tied to your side all the time, when you get tired of me, and
mother there's tired of mooning about with Ben, we can take turn and
turn about. I couldn't enjoy myself a bit if you were stuck here all by
yourself, and what's more, I won't try."
"Well, then, that sattles it," said Hannah. "We'll all go, an' th' haase
mun tak' care on itsen. Awst put mi silver spooins i' mi pocket, an'
there's nowt else 'at means owt. Nah! Ben, stir thee, mon, an' dunnot
stan' theer like a stuck sheep."
"_Aw'm_ ready," said Ben, "Aw'n nowt to do but don mi cap an' that won't
tak me as long as it'll tak' thee to don thi bonnet. Tom an' me could go
to the field an' be back afore yo' an' Lucy 'll be ready."
"Aw said stir thee. Put th' kettle on. What's th' use o' goin' to th'
field an hour afore there'll be ony theer. Tha doesn't want a whole
field to thissen, does ta? We'll ha' us baggin afore we start, an' then
we'st ha' th' day i' front on us."
"But aw could put mi finger dahn mi throit an' feel mi dinner yet,"
demurred Ben. "It's nooan three o'clock bi th' Church."
"That's noah odds. Aw'm nooan baan to ha' thee worritin' me all th'
afternooin becos yo'n nooan had thi baggin, an happen sneakin' off into
th' village to get a pint becos tha's a sinkin' i' thi' stomach, an' me
lookin' for thi all ovver th' field, wanderin' abaat gawpin' as if aw'd
just bin let loise aat o'th 'sylum, an' thee stuck at th' _Cropper's
Arms_ as large as life, makkin' a beeast on thisen becos it's
Whissunday. Nooah! if yo' dunnot want yo'r baggin nah, yo' mun ha' it
agen yo' do want it."
Hannah's feet and hands had been as busy as her tongue. She had turned
up the skirt of her gown and put an apron over all, spread the cloth,
fetched up the bread and the butter, cut and spread thick slices for
herself and the men, and thin ones for Lucy, washed the lettuce,
radishes, and shallots, smoothed the top of the salt-cellar, set Tom to
toasting a couple of currant teacakes, produced a jar of raspberry jam
and mashed the tea before you could say Jack Robinson.
"Aw've getten a caa-heel for thi supper, an' tha can bring thisen a pint
o' Timmy (best ale) for supper as it's holiday time," she conceded to
Ben, evidently in great good humour with herself at the prospect of
their outing.
And so as the large field near Mr. Tinker's house--there was but a
privet hedge separating it from the house garden--began to fill, as the
boys and girls gathered from their respective school-rooms, flushed from
their hasty tea-drinking, the lads not without a guilty consciousness of
a filched bun bulging their trousers pocket, as the brass band played
their final tune before withdrawing to the nearest inn to partake of
something better than "spotted Dick an' washin'-up watter," as a member
irreverently styled the scholars' repast, Ben Garside sauntered into the
field trying to look as if Sunday School treats were an every-day
occurrence of his life, Hannah sailed behind, whilst Tom with Lucy
brought up the rear. There grew a large beech tree on the slope of the
ground, and under its full-leaved branches Tom drew the chair in which
Lucy sat, her cheeks faintly tinged with a delicate bloom and her eyes
sparkling with the unwonted excitement. Her mother raised her to a
sitting posture and settled the cushions and wraps as only she could,
and "theer yo' are, lass," she concluded, with a fond look at her
darling child, "theer yo' are as right as ninepence." But the mother's
heart was full as she remembered the day, but as yesterday, when Lucy's
little feet would have skimmed the greensward light as a fairy's dance.
But Hannah was not long suffered to indulge in reflections sad or
otherwise she was a popular character in the village, and everyone knew
that Hannah's bark was worse than her bite. Soon the good wives of the
village began to stroll about the field, scanning each others' dresses,
and exchanging kindly greetings, whilst their good men sought secluded
corners where they might enjoy a furtive pipe, and talk over the topics
of the day; the serious minded discussing the last sermon, the
pugnacious revelling in the shortcomings of Parliament and the misdeeds
of ministers. A small group gathered round Lucy's chair, some of them
rosy-cheeked young lasses, who had worked with Lucy in the mill, and who
now brought up their young men to be exhibited with all the pride of
conquest. And Lucy had a smile and pleasant word for all, and many a
strapping swain, as he lounged past the nook where Lucy held her little
Court and let his glance dwell upon the delicate face with its refined
and chastened beauty, knew rebellious thoughts against the fate that had
put the crippled girl beyond the sighs and vows of man; and grey-headed
grandsires, bent with age and toil, recalled the former days when they
had suffered and striven for the easier lot their children owned.
"Eh! but it's gran' to see yo', Hannah," one would say, "Why aw declare
aw hannot seen yo' donned up an' aat sin' we put owd Susan o' 'Lijah's
under th' graand. An' yo' do looik weel to be sure, an' aw will say 'at
if theer's a woman i' th' village 'at does her clo'es credit it's yo',
Hannah. And your Lucy, too, aw declare oo's quite a colour. Yo're
lookin' mony a pund better nor th' last time aw seed thi, Lucy, an' tha
mun keep thi heart up, lass, theer's no tellin' yet. See yo' Hannah,
theer's yar Jud (George) an' yo'r Ben t'other side o'th' field, an'
Jud's shakkin' his fist i' Ben's face, an' Ben's dancin' like peeas on a
bake-ston'. It's them plaguing politics, but they're enjoyin' theirsen.
An' theer's yar 'Tilda yonder i'th' kiss-i'th-ring an Jim Sykes after
her. Run, lass, run--eh! he's caught her. Th' clumsy felly, he'll rive
all th' clo'es off her back. Gi' 'im one an' get it ovver. Eh! it fair
ma'es one young agin to see th' young folk enjoy theirsen."
Lucy had insisted on Tom joining the revels of the field, the gay and
innocent sports of the youths and maidens, and her eyes followed him as
he joined in the games at "Tirzy," hand ball, and what not. But Tom's
thoughts seemed elsewhere, and Lucy knew that his eyes wandered from the
laughter-ringing throngs to the rustic gate that led from Wilberlee to
the pasture land.
"He's watching for Dorothy," she thought, and there passed, maybe, a
shadow over Lucy's gentle face, "and there comes Dorothy herself. Ah!
well, I knew it long ago. God send it may not spoil our Tom's young
life."
There was a rush of twinkling little feet to meet the young mistress of
Wilberlee as she passed slowly through the gateway, and moved into the
field, clad in a loose gown of sprayed muslin of palest blue. She swung
her hat in one hand that the soft cool air might play about her face,
and the rays of the declining sun gleamed upon the auburn tresses, and
gave them a golden sheen.
A dozen youngsters danced up to her, shouting their childish welcome,
and more than one little toddlekin did Dorothy catch up in her arms and
kiss. They danced round her as she walked up the field, or clasped her
hand to claim her for some favourite game. And Dorothy smiled down upon
the uplifted faces, and made feint to run away from them, but was
captured and prisoned in their midst. And so, surrounded by bright and
happy faces, Dorothy moved about the field, speaking to many, and giving
a pleased recognition to all she knew,--and there was not a man or
woman of Aenon chapel she did not know, not a worker at her uncle's mill
she could not address by name.
"As free as th' air, Miss Dorothy is," said one, "but she never demeans
herself nor forgets she's th' young mistress." And the hands respected
her, the more for it. The working people of the mills knew their place,
and were not ashamed of it, nor servile to those above them. They did
not care that anyone should assume a familiarity they knew must be
feigned and which they were bound to suspect.
The Rev. David Jones was in his glory. He had shaken hands with everyone
there above the age of thirteen, had inquired about everyone's health as
though he loved them, and their pains were his, had narrowly escaped
being decoyed into a game at romps, and had looked as though he liked it
when a hand-ball knocked off his hat. This did not prevent him confiding
to Mrs. Jones, a placid little woman who took life serenely, that he
should be glad when it was all over.
As the afternoon wore to evening and the pastor, wearied of parading the
field and repeating stale vacuities, he saw, with the pleasure we
experience when we realize what we had hoped for rather than expected,
that young Wimpenny had not forgotten his half-promise of a day or two
ago. Wimpenny was speaking to the minister of his own chapel, a meek,
timid man, but hard-working, sincere and self-sacrificing, beloved of
little children and their mothers, and for whom even the hard-hearted
operatives had a good word. The lawyer was not long in making his way
towards Mr. Jones.
"You see I have been able to come, though I'm afraid I'm a late scholar.
Won't you introduce me to Mrs. Jones?" and the introduction was duly
made. The three paced together through the changing throng, parted
occasionally when some eager urchin, in full cry after the flying ball,
darted under the parson's arms or a breathless Daphne, with ringlets
streaming in the breeze, fled in simulated fright from a pursuing swain.
"Miss Tinker seems to be enjoying herself," said Nehemiah to Mrs. Jones,
after he had duly admired her own numerous offspring whom she had
indicated in various quarters of the field.
"Is she as nice as she is pretty?"
"Yes, she is very nice, and seems fond of the people. She spoils the
children though,--my husband is sometimes a little put out. She does
not take life seriously enough, she says, and he is vexed she won't be
baptised, though she is quite old enough to become a full church member.
I asked her if she had religious scruples that Mr. Jones could assist
her to banish; but she only laughed and said the immersion costume of
the girls was hideous enough to account for a bushel of scruples without
searching further. But then you know she is Mr. Tinker's niece, and I
daresay she is indulged too much at home."
Nehemiah did not think this very likely, but, all the same, he replied
that it was a great pity.
"Do you now," he said, "I have never had the pleasure of meeting Miss
Tinker in society. She doesn't go out much. I fancy. Would you
mind----?"
"Certainly, Mr. Wimpenny, if you wish it. See, she is resting now and
fanning herself with that outlandish hat of hers. Shall we join her?"
And presently the diplomatic Wimpenny was making a somewhat exaggerated
bow before the heiress of Wilberlee.
And Tom's eyes followed the graceful girl as she walked by the side of
Nehemiah, chatting gaily and seeming well content with his
companionship; and Tom plunged his hands deep into his pockets and
stalked moodily with clouded brow about the field, deaf to every
entreaty from tempting lips to "choose the girl that he loved best," and
feeling that for him life had lost its zest. The blue of the sky was
dulled, the music of the lark soaring in the azure might have been the
cawing of the rooks, and the gentle summer breeze that scarce stirred
the leaves an icy blast from eastern shores.
"What a fool I am, crying for the moon. I, Tom Pinder, apprentice to
Jabez Tinker, Esquire and Justice of the Peace. Go to yonder rosy faced
weaver with sparkling eyes and towzled hair. _She_ will lend a ready
ear, you can send her home to-night, her heart in a tumult of delight;
in her dreams heaven will open to her, and she will wake with your name
upon her lips. Or go down yonder to the _Clothiers' Arms_. There are
some jolly fellows there, and you will be all the more welcome because
you have been set down as a strait-laced, sour-faced curmudgeon with
lead in your veins for blood. Go drink with them and join in their
drunken chorus; better that than eat your heart out after fruit that is
not for you."
And so with head down-bent he makes for where he had left Hannah and
Lucy; and in his abstraction nearly walks into Wimpenny and Dorothy.
Mrs. Jones had remembered the wise saying that two are company and three
are none.
"Mind where you're walking, will you?" exclaimed Wimpenny, cut short in
a very flowery compliment which Dorothy was perhaps not sorry to have
curtailed.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Tinker, I'm afraid I was very careless. I did
not see. I was thinking."
"Now that is not a very gallant speech, Tom--I mean Mr. Pinder. Mr.
Wimpenny would have assured me that he never thought at all except of
me, and that he would have divined my presence by instinct a mile off."
But Wimpenny was not to be rallied into good humour. He had put on a
very tight-fitting pair of patent-leather shoes, and he suffered from
the usual infliction of those who wear tight boots,--and Tom had grazed
his foot.
"Mr. Pinder! indeed," he thought, "why, damme, it's one of old Tinker's
mill hands."
Now Tom, having made his apologies to Dorothy, was for pursuing the
tenor of his way, being by no means disposed to offer any to Mr.
Wimpenny.
"Oh, you mustn't go, Mr. Pinder, you must take me to Lucy; but first you
must help me to gather some flowers. You know Paris so well, Mr.
Wimpenny, and must excuse my accent. Shall I say _Au revoir_ or _A
bientot_, and without waiting for a reply she turned in the direction
of the garden at the house, Leaving Nehemiah dumbfounded.
"Curse the jade," he muttered to himself, "chucked over for a dirty
weaver, by Jove. But I'll be even with her yet. It doesn't do to play
tricks with Miss Dorothy, and so you'll find some day. But I can bide my
time. I'll go and have a drink at the _Crown_, Polly 'll be glad to see
me anyhow."
And Tom walked as in a dream. The sky was blue again, and the lark
trilled a clearer note, and all the earth was glad in its summer
joyousness.