BARJONA'S DOWNFALL
Soon after breakfast on Saturday a furniture cart stopped at Carrier
Ted's gate, and the village turned out _en masse_. There had been a
heavy downpour of rain during the night, but the sun struggled through
the clouds at breakfast time, and by nine o'clock had gained the
mastery. It was dirty on the roadway, so the half-dozen neighbourly
men who were piling the household effects on to the cart had to be
careful not to rest them in the mud.
Not that Carrier Ted cared anything about it. He stood in the garden
with the old silk hat pushed deep down over his brow, and looked
abstractedly at his peonies. He seemed oblivious to the busy scene
that was being enacted about him: of all the spectators he was the
least moved: he, the most interested of all, was less interested than
any.
By and by Barjona drove up and was greeted with scowls and muttered
imprecations. Two or three of the women went a step beyond muttering,
and expressed their views in terms that lacked nothing of directness.
"You ought to be ashamed o' yerself, Barjona Higgins!" said one; "yes,
you ought! To turn the old man out of his 'ome at his time o' life.
You'd turn a corpse out of its coffin, you would!"
Barjona's cold eyes contracted. "What's wrong now, eh?" he jerked;
"house is mine, isn't it? .... Paid good money for it.... Can do as I
like wi' my own, can't I? ... You mind your business; I'll mind mine."
He walked up the path to the house, merely nodding to Ted as he passed;
but Ted did not see him.
After a while he returned and went up to the old man, and shouted in
his ear as though he were deaf, so that we all could hear:
"There'll be a bit o' plasterin' to do ... your expense ... an' there's
a cracked winda-pane ... ye'll pay for that, Ted?"
The old man looked up and passed his sleeve across his brow, then
rubbed his knuckles in his eyes as though awaking from sleep.
"Owt 'at's right, Barjona; owt 'at's right, lad."
Reuben Goodenough's eldest son was passing at the time, with a heavy
fender over his shoulder. Hearing these words he stopped, and I
thought for a moment that he was going to bring it down on Barjona's
head, but with an angry gesture he moved on and deposited his burden on
the cart. Then he went up to the new owner and laid a heavy hand on
his shoulder. How I admired the strong, well-set man, and the man
within him.
"Mr. Higgins," he said, "you can see for yourself 'at Ted isn't fit for
business. If you've ought to say, say it to me. I'm actin' for 'im."
There had been no such arrangement, of course, but this provisional
government met with the approval of the crowd.
"That's right, Ben lad, you tak' both t' reins an' t' whip!" shouted
Sar'-Ann's mother; "I'm fain to see there's one man in t' village."
"Now, you look here, Mr. Higgins," continued Ben, thus encouraged,
"ought 'at it's right for Ted to pay shall be paid, but you send your
list an' bill in to me, an' if my father an' me passes it ye'll be
paid, an' if we don't ye won't; so you can put that in your pipe an'
smoke it."
"Keep cool, Ben, keep cool!" said Barjona, who himself was not in the
least ruffled; "only want what's right, you know ... only what's
right.... You or Ted, Ted or you ... all the same to me."
"I feel dead beat, lad," said Ted, who still seemed dazed; "I'll go
inside an' lie down a bit."
Ben motioned to me, and I stepped through the gate and joined them.
"Ted's tired," he said, "and wants to lie down. Would you mind taking
him across to Susannah's and askin' her to let 'im rest on t' sofa a
bit?" Then turning to the old man he said: "Go with this lady, Ted: go
with Miss Holden. We've nearly finished packing all your stuff on t'
cart, you know. But Susannah 'll get you a sup o' something warm, an'
you can lie down on her sofa, an' Miss Holden 'll talk to you a bit."
He spoke soothingly, as to a child, and the old man turned his eyes
upon me.
"Shoo's a stranger, Ben?"
"Nay, she's lived here a twelvemonth, Ted. Now come, you go with 'er.
She'll look after you nicely."
He suffered himself to be led away, but when we reached the group about
the gate he would go no farther, but suddenly found tongue, and began
to speak in a ruminating way, looking first at one and then another,
but keeping fast hold of my arm.
"Ye'll none o' ye mind my mother? No, no, ye're ower young, all o' ye.
It'll be seventy year an' more sin' she died, an' I wor only a lad at
t' time. That wor her rockin'-chair 'at they're puttin' on t' cart,
an' when I browt my missis 'ome, shoo hed it. First my mother,
neighbours, an' then t' missis; an' t' owd chair lasts 'em both out,
an' 'll last me out. I nivver thowt but it 'ud stand there aside o' t'
chimley till they carried me out o' t' door, feet for'most. T' old
chair 'll feel kind o' lonesome, neighbours, kind o' lonesome, in a
strange kit chin."
"Nivver 'eed, lad," said one of the older women; "ye'll be varry
comfortable down i' t' Clough."
"Aye, happen so," he replied, "but lonesome, neighbours, lonesome.
There isn't a crack i' t' beams but what looked friendly-like, for
we've grown old together; an' all t' furnitur' spake to me abaht old
times, for I niwer shifted 'em out o' their places. An' them two
chaney orniments o' t' chimley-piece, they wor allus comp'ny, too--Duke
o' Wellington an' Lord Nelson they are. My mother wor varry proud on
'em i' her time, an' t' missis wor just t' same; an' sin' shoo went
they've allus felt to be comp'ny like. I doubt they'll nivver look t'
same on another chimley-piece."
"It's a shame 'at 'e's turned ye out, Ted," said Susannah, "an' I 'ope
'e'll 'ave to suffer for it, I do."
"Aye, lass," he replied, "I could ha' liked well to ha' drawn my last
breath i' t' old cottage, I could, for sure. I think Barjona mud ha'
let me live on i' t' old 'ome. I shouldn't ha' troubled 'im so
long--not so long."
"Come inside, Ted," said Susannah, whose eyes were filling with tears,
"an' lie down while I get you a sup o' tea."
He appeared not to hear her, however, but stared fixedly at the flagged
footpath and muttered, as he slowly shook his head:
"I shouldn't ha' troubled 'im so long--not so long."
Somebody fetched him a stool, and he sat down outside the gate with his
back against the wall, whilst the women sympathised volubly, arms
akimbo.
It was very pathetic, but no words of comfort came to my lips, though
my heart ached for the silent old man who was leaving behind everything
that counted in life, and who was sure to feel keenly the loss of
familiar faces and friendly looks, even though he had not shown himself
neighbourly. I said something of the sort to Mother Hubbard, who had
now joined us, but she was doubtful.
"Well, love, I don't know. Ted has never shown much feeling. I have
known him nearly all his life, and I don't think he has very deep
feelings, love. He always seemed friendly with his wife, but not what
you would call affectionate, you know, love. Of course, one doesn't
know what he really felt when she died, but it didn't seem to trouble
him very much."
"That proves nothing," I replied, with the emphasis born of
observation; "the proverb says that 'still waters run deep,' and it is
never more true than in this connection. The wailing widower is
usually easily consoled."
"Yes, love, but I have discovered that you are very imaginative, though
at one time I didn't think so, and you may read your own feelings into
Ted's, you know. I really do think, love, that he has not very deep
feelings."
Soon everything was piled upon the cart, and Ben Goodenough came up to
the old man to inform him that they were ready to leave.
"Now, Ted!" he said, with an assumption of cheerfulness; "we've got
everything on nicely, an' we'll step down with you to t' Clough an' get
'em into their places at t' other end. You'll want to have a look
round, 'appen, before we leave."
"Aye, Ben lad, I tak' it varry kindly 'at ye're givin' yerself all this
trouble. It's friendly, lad, friendly. Aye, I sud like to hev a look
round for t' last time afore we start."
He rose wearily and accompanied Ben up the path. Barjona was standing
at the door, and all three went in. They came out before long, and
there were no traces of emotion on Ted's ruddy face. But as he looked
up and down the garden his lips quivered, though he mastered himself
with an effort. The gladioli and hollyhocks made a brave show amid the
humbler sweet-williams and marigolds, but they would have to be left.
He stopped opposite the rose-bush.
"Ben, lad," he said, "ye'll do me one more favour, willn't ye? Get me
a spade off o' t' cart, will ye? I've left it till t' last minute, for
I can 'ardly bide to root it up, but I munnut leave that tree be'ind."
One of the men had darted off at the mention of the word "spade," and
the beloved implement--the old man's faithful friend--was placed in his
hand.
"Thee an' me's hed monny a grand time together, lad," he said,
apostrophising the spade, "but nivver such a sad job as this afore. A
sad job, aye, a sad job. But we've got to do it, lad, ye an' me."
He put his foot upon it and prepared to dig up the tree, when Barjona
interposed. Every word was clearly heard by the group in the roadway.
"Steady there! ... what ye goin' to do?"
"Nobbut just dig t' tree up, Barjona."
"Leave t' tree alone ... that tree's mine."
Ted looked at him and his hands began to tremble. "Ye don't meean,
Barjona, 'at ye won't let me tak' t' rose-tree away wi' me?"
"Ye tak' nowt out of t' garden ... all what's rooted in t' soil belongs
to me ... paid good money for it.... Put yer spade away."
"Look 'ere, Mr. Higgins," interrupted Ben, "do you mean to tell me 'at
you're going to prevent Ted takin' a bit of a rose-tree with him? If
you do, you're a harder-'earted old wretch than I took you for."
Angry murmurs arose from the crowd, but Barjona's jaw stiffened and
there was no hint of yielding in his tone.
"Right's right," he said ... "that rose-tree's mine ... took a
partic'lar fancy to it ... won't part with it for nob'dy."
Ted fumbled in his pocket and produced a wash-leather bag, the neck of
which was tied round with string. With shaking fingers he felt for a
coin and drew out a half-sovereign.
"I'll pay ye for't, Barjona. Sitha, I'll give ye ten shillin' for t'
plant."
"Put yer brass back, Ted ... brass willn't buy it ... took my fancy,
that tree has ... you mun buy another."
Sar'-Ann's mother pushed her way through and strode up to the stubborn,
grasping man, and shook her fist in his face.
"You miserable old devil!" she cried. "Oh, if I were only a man I'd
thrash ye while ever I could stand over ye. Yes, I would, if they sent
me to gaol for 't. I wish the earth 'ud open an' swalla' ye up. But
t' varry worms 'ud turn at ye."
Barjona thrust his hands deep into his trousers' pockets and assumed an
air of weariness.
"Isn't there a man among ye?" continued the infuriated woman. "Ben,
haven't ye spunk enough to fell 'im to t' ground? Eh, these men! God
forgive me 'at I call 'em men!"
She fell back, and burst into hysterical tears, and Ben made another
attempt.
"What the hangment do ye mean by it, Mr. Higgins? Have ye no 'eart at
all? Ye'll never miss t' tree. I'll give you two just as good out of
our own garden, hanged if I won't. Let him take t' tree, an' we'll be
going."
"He--leaves--that--tree--where--it--is," replied Barjona with emphasis;
"an' ye can all clear out o' this garden.... That tree's mine."
Ben took Ted's arm, but the old man refused to move. A tear forced its
way out of the corner of his eye, and he drew a red cotton handkerchief
from his trousers' pocket and wiped it away.
"Barjona, lad," he pleaded tremulously, "only just this one tree--nowt
else; just this one tree, there's a good lad."
"I've said my say," replied Barjona.
"Take no notice of him, Ted," said Ben. "I'll give you one o' t'
grandest rose-trees i' Yorkshire. Let t' old skinflint have his tree."
"Nay, but I mun hev it, I mun hev it," moaned the old man. "I mun hev
it, lad; I mun hev it."
I wondered if I could influence Barjona, and I stepped up to him.
"Mr. Higgins, you see how distressed Ted is. Surely you will not make
the parting more bitter for him. Think how unpleasant it will be for
you to live among us if you make us all your enemies."
"Much obliged, Miss 'Olden.... If you mind your business ... I'll
mind mine."
"But why are you so set upon it, Mr. Higgins?"
"'Cos I am ... that's enough ... that plant's mine, an' mine it's goin'
to be."
I turned to Ted. "Cannot you make up your mind to do without it?" I
asked. "Do you want it so very much?"
He nodded, and the tears now followed each other fast down his cheeks.
"I mun hev it; I mun hev it," he moaned.
We were all gathered round now; not a soul was left in the roadway, and
the flower-beds were suffering.
"But why?" I persisted. "What makes you so very anxious to have it?
You shall have another just as fine. Why do you want this particular
one so badly?"
He shook his head, and raised his sleeve to his brow with the old
nervous, familiar action.
"Cannot you tell me?" I asked.
Then the answer came, low but clearly heard by everybody: "_Shoo_ liked
it!"
The shame of the confession made him shake from head to foot, but the
revelation of unsuspected deeps thrilled us, every one, and set us on
fire with indignation and contempt.
"You heard him!" I said, turning to Barjona. "Now listen! I will give
you five pounds for that rose-bush."
"That--tree--will--bide--where--it--is," replied Barjona doggedly.
There was a movement in the crowd as a raging woman forced her way
through. She was hatless, like the rest of us, but her arms were bare
to the elbows. Until I noticed the tightly-coiled hair I did not
recognise Barjona's wife, for the usually pleasant face was clouded in
storm.
She strode up to her husband and seized him by the collar of his coat
with both hands.
"You heartless rascal!" she hissed in his ears; "so this is your
blessed secret 'at you've kept for a surprise, is it? I'll surprise
ye, ye good-for-nowt old Jew. What do ye mean by it, eh?" She shook
him as if he had been a lad of ten, and he was helpless in her grip.
"You leave me alone!" he threatened, but all the brag was gone from him.
"Leave--you--alone!" she hissed between her clenched teeth; "I wish to
God I had; but I took ye for better or worse, an' it isn't goin' to be
all worse, I can tell ye! I hearkened to ye while I could 'earken no
longer. The Lord gi' me grace to keep my 'ands off o' ye!"
It was a remarkably futile prayer, seeing that she was holding him as
in a vice, and shaking him at intervals.
"D'ye think I'd ever live 'ere, an' let a poor old man like Ted fend
for hisself anywhere? What do ye take me for? Ye knew better than to
tell me while ye'd gotten yer dirty work done, but thank the Lord I was
just in time. 'Ere, get away! I'm stalled o' talkin' to ye!"
She pushed him away roughly, but he made one more sulky struggle for
mastery.
"Are ye t' boss 'ere, or am I?" he growled; "I've bought it ... an'
I'll live in it."
"Will ye?" she said with scorn, "then ye'll live by yersen. But I'll
show ye who's t' boss. You may thank the Lord 'at ye've got a wife wi'
a bit o' gumption. Ye shall be t' master when ye can master yersen.
I'm fair shamed o' ye! We'll 'appen live 'ere when owt 'appens Ted,
but never as long as 'e wants it; so that's flat!"
The crowd cheered, and Maria brightened visibly. "Nay, to be sure,
Miss 'Olden, an' friends," she said, "to think 'at any 'usband o' mine
should disgrace hisself an' me i' this fashion! I never knew a word,
believe me, while 'alf an hour sin' when I chanced across young
Smiddles, an' he let into me right an' left. I can tell you I didn't
let t' grass grow under my feet afore I set off 'ere. Don't you fret,
Ted, lad! Turn ye out? Not we! Sitha, Barjona's fair shamed of
hisself, an' well he might be. Nay, to be sure, I stood at back on ye
all an' hearkened while my blood boiled. He must ha' been wrong i' his
'ead, Barjona must. Come, friends, get out o' t' gate, an' we'll carry
t' furnitur' in agen, an' soon hev t' place to rights. Now you can
stop that mutterin', Barjona, an' just get into t' trap out o' t' road!"
Many willing hands made the task a light one, and in an hour's time the
cottage had assumed its old aspect, and the women had swept and dusted
and given the finishing touches to everything. Mrs. Higgins was
critical, but expressed herself satisfied at last. Then she climbed
into the trap and seated herself beside her husband.
"Good-bye, friends," she shouted, as they drove off. "Don't ye worry.
He can drive t' owd mare, but 'e can't drive me. I'll bring 'im to 'is
sops!"
"Gosh!" snapped Sar'-Ann's mother, "now that's some bit like! Gi' me a
woman for mettle an' sperrit I Lord 'elp us, but I reckon nowt o' such
a white-livered lot o' men as we hev i' Windyridge. She'll mak' a man
o' yon old rascal yet, will Maria!"
As I looked back on my way home I saw that Ted had fetched his rake,
and was busy getting the garden into order again.