A summer sunset filled all the sky above Castle Barfield and its
encircling fields. The sun had disappeared, leaving behind him a broad
reflected track of glory where, here and there, a star was faintly
visible. A light wind was blowing from the hollow which sheltered the
town towards the higher land whereon the rival houses of Eeddy and
Mountain faced each other. Below, it was already almost night, and as
the wind blew the shadow mounted, as if the wind carried it. The rose
and gold left by the departing sun faded down the sky, and settled at
the horizon into a broad band of deep-toned fire, which, to one facing
it in ascending from the lower ground, seemed to bind the two houses
together. Some such fancy might have been in the head of Mrs. Jenny
Rusker, as she went in the warm evening air towards the little eminence
on which stood the long low-built house of Samson Mountain, already
a-twinkle with occasional lights in the gloom, its own bulk cast against
the fast-fading band of sunset.
Mrs. Jenny, hale and vigorous yet, and still a widow, was older by
fifteen years than on the day when she unfolded to Dick Reddy the story
of Romeo and Juliet. Fifteen years was a good slice out of a lifetime,
even in Castle Barfield in the first half of the century, when time
slipped by so quietly and left so little trace to mark his flight.
She passed the gate which opened on the public road, and entered the
Mountain domain. The air was so still that the bubble of the boundary
brook was clearly audible a hundred yards away, with nothing to accent
it but the slow heavy flap of a late crow, winging his reluctant flight
homewards, and save for him, sky and earth alike seemed empty of life,
and delivered wholly to the clinging peace of evening. So that when Mrs.
Jenny came to the only clump of trees in her line of progress between
the gate and the house the little scream of surprise with which she
found herself suddenly face to face with an unexpected human figure was
justified.
‘Sh-h-h! ‘said the figure’s owner. ‘Don’t you know me, Aunt Jenny?’
‘Dick!’ said Mrs. Jenny, peering at him. ‘So it is. You welly frightened
the life out o’ me. What brings you here, of all places in the world?’
‘Can’t you guess?’ asked Dick. He was tall and broad-shouldered now,
an admirable fulfilment of the physical promise of his boyhood, and far
overtopped Mrs. Rusker. ‘It isn’t for the first time.’
‘I feared not,’ said the old woman. ‘You was allays main venturesome.’
‘It will be for the last, for some time, Aunt Jenny. I leave Castle
Barfield to-morrow.’
‘Leave Barfield?’ cried the old woman. ‘Why, Dick, wheer are ye goin’?
You ain’t agoin’ to do nothin’ rash, that I do hope.’
‘I am going to London,’ said Dick, ‘and I must see Julia before I go.
You must help me. You are going to the house now, aren’t you?’
‘Going to London?’ repeated Mrs. Eusker, who had no ears for the last
words after that announcement. ‘What’s made you so hot foot to go to
London all of a minute like?’
‘It was decided to-day. My father suspects what is going on. I feel
sure of it, though he has never said a word about it. You know he always
meant to make a doctor of me--it was my own choice when I was quite a
little fellow, and it has always been understood. Last month he asked me
if I was of the same mind still, and to-day he told me that my seat is
taken in the coach from Birmingham. You know my father, Aunt Jenny, as
well as I do. He has been a very good father to me, and I would not give
him pain or trouble for the world. I could not refuse. Indeed, it is
my last chance of ever doing anything for myself and making a home for
Julia.’
‘My dear, they’ll never hear on it, nayther of ‘em. Samson Mountain ‘d
rather see his daughter in her coffin than married to any kin of Abel
Reddy’s. Though he loves her, too, in a kind o’ way. An’ your father’s
jist as hard; he’s on’y quieter with it, that’s all They’ll niver
consent Niver, i’ this world.’
‘Then we must do without their consent, that’s all. I must see Julia
to-night, and you must help me. Tell her that I am here and must see
her. Oh, Aunt Jenny, you are surely not going to desert us now, after
helping us so often.’
‘I’m dub’ous, my dear. I hope good may come of it, but I’m dub’ous. I’m
doubtful if I did right in helping you, again your father’s will, an’
Mr. Mountain’s, too.’
‘You won’t refuse to do so little, after doing so much,’ pleaded the
young man. ‘Why, it was at your house that I used to meet her, when we
were children together, and you first christened us Romeo and Juliet.’
‘A name o’ bad omen, my dear. I wish I hadn’t gi’en it to you now.’
‘For niver was a story o’ more woe, Than this o’ Jewliet an’ her Romeo.’
‘I don’t believe much in omens,’ said Dick. ‘But you will tell Julia
that I am here, won’t you? It’s the last time, for ever so long.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ said Mrs. Rusker. ‘But don’t stay here; goo down to the
Five Ash. Mr. Mountain’s gone to Burmungem, an’ he’ll come across this
way when he comes back. You must tek a bit o’ care, Dick, for the gell’s
sake.’
‘I’ll take care, dear. It’s good-bye this time, Aunt. You’ve been very
good to me always, and I shan’t forget your kindness while I’m away. And
you’ll be good to Julia, too, while--while I’m away, won’t you?’
Mrs. Rusker’s objections had never had any heart in them, and had been
merely perfunctory, and such as she conceived her age and semi-maternal
authority compelled her to make. She was wholly given over to Dick and
Julia, and all her simple craft was for their service. She kissed him,
and cried over him, and so they parted, he bound for the Five Ash field,
and she for the farmhouse.
‘Why, lacsaday, Jenny, whativer is the matter?’ asked Mrs. Mountain,
when her visitor entered her sitting-room, and gave her tear-stained
cheek to her old friend’s embrace. Julia, a lithe, graceful girl, rose
at the query from the other side of the little table, and came to Mrs.
Rusker’s side.
‘Why, you’re cryin’,’ continued the elder woman. ‘What is it, my dear,
as has upset you i’ this wise?’
‘Well, my dear,’ said Mrs. Rusker, wiping her eyes and smoothing her
dress, as if her grief was done with and put away, ‘it ain’t a trouble
as I expects sympathy from you in.’
Mother and daughter exchanged glances.
‘It must be a queer sort o’ trouble, then,’ said Mrs. Mountain; ‘an’
you might tell me what it is afore you say that, Mrs. Rusker, arter all
these ‘ears as we’n knowed each other.’
‘Well, if you must know, I’ve jist sin young Reddy, i’ the road, jist
outside the Five Ash.’ Julia’s hand was on her shoulder as she spoke,
and she felt the soft touch tremble. ‘He’s a-leavin’ Barfield, agoin’ to
London, for a long time.’
‘Oh, that’s the matter, is it? Well, I don’t know anythin’ agin the
young man, barrin’ as he is a Reddy. An’ for the matter o’ that, though
o’ course a woman has no ch’ice but to stand by the kin as her marries
into, I niver found much harm in ‘em, unless it is as they’re a bit
stuck up. I know as you was allays fond on him, an’ I hope the young man
‘ll do well. I’ve often said to Samson as it was all rubbidge, a-keepin’
up a old quarrel like that, as keeps two dacent fam’lys at daggers
drawn. Theer, theer, let Julia get you a cup o’ tay, an’ let’s talk o’
somethin’ cheerful.’
‘I’ll go and send it in to you,’ said Julia. She exchanged one quick
glance of intelligence with the widow as she left the room. The old
woman had done her errand, and Julia knew where to seek her lover.
She found her hat in the hall, and slipped out by the back way, after
directing the servant to take in the required refreshment to Mrs.
Busker. It was bright moonlight now, and as she ran lightly across the
Five Ash field in her white summer dress, Dick, waiting in the shelter
of the hedge, saw her plainly, and advanced to meet her.
‘Oh, Dick, is it true?’
He took her in his arms and kissed her before he answered. ‘Yes, dear,
it’s true. I am going to London.’
‘But why so suddenly, so soon?’
‘I must, dear. It is my own choice. I am going to study, to fit myself
to take my place in the world, and to find a home for you. Be brave,
dear. It is only for a little time.’
‘It is all so sudden.’
‘Yes. I had hoped to stay a little longer, to see more of you, to get
used to my happiness before I lost it. But my father suspects, I am
sure, if he does not know, and I dared not refuse. It hurts me to go,
but what can I do? You know the man he is. And there is only one thing
in the world that your father would help him to do--to separate us. I
must go away and make a home for you with my own hands; we can expect no
help from them. If we are true to each other we shall be happy yet. Our
love may end the ridiculous family squabble which has lasted all these
generations. But it would be madness to speak yet.’
‘It is that which makes me so unhappy, Dick. Why am I not like other
girls? Why can’t you come to the farm and ask my father’s leave to court
me, as other girls’ sweethearts do, and as you would like to do? I
can’t help feeling that this is wrong, meeting you in secret, and being
engaged to you against my father’s will, without his knowledge.’
‘The quarrel is not of our making, Julia. We only suffer by it. I hope
we shall bring it to an end, and teach two honest men to live at peace
together, as they ought. Why, you’re crying.’
Her tears had been running quietly for some minutes past, but at this
she began to sob unrestrainedly. Dick comforted her in the orthodox
fashion, and in that sweet employment almost succeeded in forgetting
his own sorrow. He drew bright pictures of the future: youth held the
palette, and hope laid on the colour. Two or three years of partial
separation--so little--and he would have a livelihood in his hand, and
could offer her a safe asylum from parental tyranny, and bid his own
people either to accept the situation or renounce him, as they might
choose. He was quite heroic internally about the whole business. He felt
the promise of the coming struggle brace his nerves, and he was more
than ready for the test. Young love is selfish at the best, and the
heroic likeness of himself doing battle with the world of London half
obliterated the pitiful figure of the poor girl, left at home, with
nothing to fill her heart but dreams. For him, the delight of battle;
for her, long months of weary waiting.
It was no doubt of him, but only the rooted longing for assurance of his
love, that made her ask,
‘You won’t forget me, Dick, in London?’
Forget her! His repetition of the word, his little laugh of loving
scorn, were answer enough, though he found others, and arguments
unanswerable, to clinch them. How could he forget the sweetest, dearest
girl that ever drew the breath of life, the prettiest and the bravest?
She spoke treason against herself in asking such a question. He could
no more forget her in London than Romeo, Juliet in Mantua. She laughed
a little at his recalling the old story, from which Mrs. Jenny had
drawn so many illustrations of the course of their love since they were
children. It recalled the old woman to their minds.
‘I shall write to you every week, and send the letters under cover to
her,’ said Dick. ‘And you may be sure that I shall find--or make--plenty
of opportunities to run down here from time to time. There is a coach
every day to Birmingham.’
They had been walking slowly all this time. It was night now, the last
gleam of sunset had faded, the stars were lustrous overhead, and a
yellow moonlight flooded the surrounding country. A long distance off,
faint but clear in the dead hush of the summer night, they heard, but
did not mark, the beat of horses’ hoofs approaching them.
‘I must go, Dick,’ said Julia. ‘It is late, and they will wonder where I
am No, let me go now, while I have the strength.’
He took her in his arms again, and her head dropped on his shoulder,
and the tears began to run afresh. He held her close, but in that last
moment of parting could find no word of comfort, only dumb caresses. The
hoof-beats were near at hand now, just beyond the bend of the road.
They rounded the corner, and broke on the lovers’ ears with a loud and
startling suddenness. The girl broke away, and ran through the gate into
the field with a stifled sob. Dick turned, and walked down the road in
the direction of the approaching horseman. The moon was at the full, and
shone broadly upon his face and figure.
‘Hullo!’ cried the rider, in gruff challenge, and pulling his horse into
Dick’s path, reined in. The young man looked up and recognised Samson
Mountain. Flight would have been as useless as ignominious, and it had
never been Dick’s way out of any difficulty.
‘Well?’ he asked curtly, and stood his ground.
‘Is that my daughter?’ demanded Mountain, pointing with his heavy whip
after the white figure glinting across the field. ‘Spake the truth for
once, though you be a Reddy.’
‘It’s a habit we have,’ said Dick quietly. His calm almost surprised
himself. ‘Yes.’
Mountain had always been of a heavy build, and of late years had
increased enormously in girth and weight. But his wrath at this
confirmation of his half guess stirred him so, that before the sound of
the word had well died out on the air he had dismounted, and came at the
young man with his riding-whip flourished above his head.
‘Don’t do that, sir.’ Dick spoke in a low voice, though quickly; and
there was something in his tone which brought the weapon harmlessly to
the farmer’s side again. ‘It is your daughter. We love each other, and
she has promised to be my wife.’
Mountain staggered, as if the words had been a pistol bullet or a stab,
and struck furiously. Quick as was Dick’s parry, he only half saved
himself, his hat spun into the road, and the whip whistled within an
inch of his ear. He made a step back, and stopped a second furious
stroke. The whip broke in the old man’s hand, and he flung the remaining
fragment from him with a curse.
‘I can’t strike you, sir,’ said Dick. ‘You’re her father.’ Mountain’s
choking breath filled in the pause, and Dick went on: ‘You know well
enough there’s not another man in England I’d take that from.’
‘You’re a coward, like all your tribe,’ said Mountain.
‘Not at all, I assure you, sir,’ said Dick calmly. ‘If you like to send
anybody else with that message, I’ll talk to him. Let us talk sensibly.
What harm have I ever done you? Or my father either? Why should two
honest families keep up this ridiculous story, which ought to have been
buried ages back? Why not let bygones be bygones? I love your daughter.
I am a young man yet, sir, with my way to make in the world, and I
am going away to London to study. I met your daughter to-night to say
goodbye to her, and if you had not come I should have gone away and said
nothing until I could come and claim her, with a home worthy of her to
take her to.
But since you know, I speak now. We love each other, and intend to
marry.’
‘Oh!’ said Mountain. He had gone all on a sudden as cool as Dick, and
nothing but his stertorous breathing hinted of the rage which filled
him. ‘That’s it, is it? Then, if you’re finished, hear me. I ain’t got
the gift o’ the gab as free as you, but I can mek plain my meanin’,
p’raps. I’d rather see her a-layin’ theer ‘(he pointed with a trembling
hand at the ground between them); ‘I’d rather lay her there, dead afore
my eyes, an’ screw her in her coffin a’terwards, than you or any o’ your
kin should as much as look at her, wi’ my goodwill. And now you’ve got
your answer, Mr. Fair an’ Fine. Remember it, an’ look out for yourself.
For, by the Lord! ‘he went on, with a solemn malignity doubly terrible
in a man whose passion was ordinarily so violent, ‘if iver I ketch you
round my house again, I’ll put a bullet atween thy ribs as sure as my
naame’s Samson Mountain.’
With this, he took his horse by the bridle, and passed through the gate,
leaving the young man to his own reflections. He took the beast to the
stable, delivered him into the care of a servant, and made straight
for the parlour, where his wife and Mrs. Rusker were seated at an early
supper.
‘You’re back early, Sam,’ said the former, rising to draw an additional
chair to the table. ‘Wilt have some tay, or shall Liza draw you a jug o’
beer?’
Samson returned no answer, either to this or to Mrs. Rusker’s greeting.
‘Lawk a mussy, what ails the man? ‘asked Mrs. Mountain, as Samson stood
looking round the room. She had never seen such an expression on her
husband’s face before. The skin was livid under its rude bronze, and his
lips twitched strangely.
‘Wheer’s that wench of ourn?’ he asked, after a second glance round
the room, Mrs. Busker’s heart jumped, and she held on tight to the
arm-pieces of her chair.
‘Julia?’ said Mrs. Mountain. ‘Her’s about the house, I reckon.’
‘Call her here,’ said Samson; and his wife wondering, but not daring to
question, went to the door of the sitting-room and screamed ‘Julia!’
A servant girl came running downstairs at the call, and said that Miss
Julia did not feel well, and had gone to bed.
‘Fatch her down,’ said Samson from the sitting-room, and the girl, on
receipt of a confirmatory nod from Mrs. Mountain, went upstairs again.
Samson took a chair and sat with his head bent forward and his arms
folded, staring at the paper ornaments in the grate.
‘Samson!’ said his wife appealingly, ‘don’t skeer a body i’ thisnin.
Whativer _is_ the matter?’
‘Hold thy chat,’ said Samson. ‘Thee’st know soon enough,’ and the trio
sat in silence until Julia entered the room. She was pale, and there
were traces of tears on her cheeks, and Samson, as he glanced at her
askance from under his heavy eyebrows before he rose, saw that she was
struggling to repress some strong emotion. She advanced to kiss him, but
he repelled her--not roughly--with his heavy hand upon her shoulder.
‘You wanted to see me, father,’ she asked, trembling.
‘I sent for you.’
Mrs. Rusker was in a state of pitiable excitement, if anybody had had
the leisure to notice her.
‘Theer’s some’at happened to-day as it’s fit an’ right as yo’ should
know. I met ode Raybould today i’ th’ Exchange, an’ he tode me some’at
as I’d long suspected, about his son Tom. I reckon you know what it
was.’
Julia knew well enough. Tom Raybould was a young farmer, a year or two
older than herself. She had known him all her life, and he had been a
schoolfellow and chosen chum of her brother’s. He had shown unmistakable
signs of affection for her, but had never spoken. He was a good fellow,
according to common report, and she had a good deal of liking and
respect for him, and a little pity, being a good girl, and no coquette.
‘I see thee understandest,’ said Samson. ‘I told th’ ode man as he might
look on it as settled, an’ Tom ‘ll be here to-morrow. He’s a likely lad,
an’ he’ll have all the Bush Farm when his father goes, as must be afore
long, i’ the course o’ nature. The two farms ‘ll goo very well in a
ring fence. Theer’s no partic’lar hurry, as I know on, an’ we’ll ha’ the
weddin’ next wik, or the wik after.’
The girl’s breast was labouring cruelly, in spite of the hand that
strove to still it.
‘Father!’ she said. ‘You don’t mean it!’
‘Eh?’ said Samson. ‘I ginerally mean what I say, my wench. I should ha’
thout as yo’d ha’ known that by this time.’
He stopped there, for Julia, but for her mother’s arm, would have
fallen.
‘You great oaf!’ cried Mrs. Mountain, irritated for once into open
rebellion. ‘Oh, it’s like a man, the stupid hulkin’ creeturs as they
are, to come an’ frighten the life out of a poor maid i’ that style.’
‘Theer, theer!’ said Samson, with the same heavy and threatening
tranquillity he had borne throughout the interview. ‘Tek her upstairs.’
He sat down again, and without another word filled and lit his
churchwarden, and stared through the smoke-wreaths at the grate.
V
Mrs. Jenny Rusker, who was half dead with fear of an _exposé_ of her
part in this unlucky love-affair, was additionally prostrated by the
dire reversal of all her hopes by Samson Mountain’s ultimatum. Mrs.
Mountain, with the aid of a female servant, supported Julia upstairs,
and Samson smoked on stolidly, taking no note whatever of the visitor’s
presence. Still in doubt of what Samson might or might not know, and
fearing almost to breathe, lest any reminder of her presence should call
down his wrath upon her, she listened to the tramping and the muffled
noises overhead until they ceased, and then, gathering courage from his
continued apathy, slipped from the room and left the house.
She got home and went to bed and passed an interminable night in tossing
to and fro, and bewailing the untoward fate of the two children. Dawn
came at last, though it had seemed as if it never would break again,
and, for the first time for many a year, the first gleam of sunlight saw
her dressed and downstairs. She felt feverous and ill, and having brewed
for herself a huge jorum of tansy tea, sat down over this inspiring
beverage, and tried to pull her scattered wits together and think out
some way of untangling the skein of difficulty with which she had to
deal. The danger was pressing, and if she had been herself the poor
lovesick girl who lay a mile away, stifling her sobs lest they should
reach her father’s ears, and vainly calling on her lover’s name, she
would scarcely have been more miserable.
One thing was clear. Dick must be warned, and his journey to London
postponed by some device. He might lie hidden for a day or two in
Birmingham, and Julia be smuggled there and secretly married. It was no
time for half measures, and whatever was done should be done quickly and
decisively. At this idea, at once romantic and practical, Mrs. Jenny’s
spirits revived.
‘Samson ‘ll disown Julia, I know. Her ‘ll never see a penny o’ his
money. An’ I doubt as Abel Reddy ‘ll do the same wi’ Dick. He’s just
as hard and bitter as th’ other, on’y quieter wi’ it. Well, they shan’t
want while I’m alive, nor after my death neither, and Dick ud make his
own way with nobody’s help. I’ll write to him, and find somebody to take
the letter. I won’t go myself, at this hour o’ the day.’
She concocted a letter and sealed it, and putting on her bonnet sallied
out to find a messenger. Fate was so far propitious that scarce
a hundred yards from her door she met Ichabod Bubb, bound for his
morning’s work at Perry Hall Farm. Ichabod was bent and gnarled and
twisted now, stiff in all his joints and slow of movement, but his
quaint visage bore the same look of uncertain and rather wistful humour
which had marked it in earlier times.
‘Morning, mum,’ he said, with a stiff-necked nod at Mrs. Jenny.
‘Good-mornin’, Mr. Bubb,’ said the old lady. Ichabod beamed at this
sudden and unexpected ceremonial of title, and straightened his back.
‘You ‘m afoot early, mum.’
‘Why, yes. But it’s such a beautiful morning; it’s a shaame to lie abed
a time like this.’
‘So many folks, so many ways o’ thinkin’,’ said the ancient one; ‘not
as it’s a sin as I often commits, nayther, ‘cos why, I don’t get the
chance.’
‘I’ve got a bit o’ business as I want done, Mr. Bubb,’ said Mrs. Busker,
‘if ye don’t mind earnin’ a shillin’.’
‘Why,’ returned Ichabod, ‘I don’t know as I’ve got any, not to say
rewted, objection to makin’ a shillin’.’
‘You’re goin’ to the farm?’ Ichabod nodded. ‘Then I want you to take
this note to Mr. Richard. But mind, you must get it to him private.
Nobody else must know. D’you understand?’
‘I’m all theer, missus,’ responded Ichabod.
‘Then there’s the note, an’ there’s the shillin’. An’ if you’re back in
two hours you shall have a pint o’ beer.’ Ichabod took the note and the
shilling, and clattered off with a ludicrous show of despatch, and
the old lady returned to her sitting-room to await the result of his
message. It came in less than the appointed time, and disappointed her
terribly. Ichabod had ascertained that Dick had started half an hour
before his arrival at the farm for Birmingham, and would only return
to-morrow night to sleep and take away his luggage on the following
morning.
‘And you come to me w’ a message like that, y’ ode gone-off!’ said
the exasperated old woman. ‘You might ha’ caught him up i’ the time as
you’ve wasted comin’ back here.’
‘Caught him up,’ said Ichabod, with a glance at his legs. ‘Yis, likely,
like a cow might ketch a race-hoss. I’m a gay fine figure, missus, to
ketch up the best walker i’ the country-side.’
Mrs. Jenny was a woman, and therefore to offer her reason as an antidote
to unreasoning anger was merely to heap fuel on flame.
‘Ah!’ she said, reasonably enraged with the whole masculine half of her
species,’ you’re like the rest on ‘em.’
‘Then I’m sorry for the rest on ‘em,’ said Ichabod, ‘whoever they may
be.’ Here Mrs. Jenny shut the door upon him, leaving him in the street,
and retired to her sitting-room. But with beer to be gained by boldness,
Ichabod was leonine in courage. He knocked, and the summons brought
the old lady to the door again. Ichabod spoke no word, but writhed
his twisted features into a grin which expressed at once humorous
deprecation and expectancy, and rabbed the back of his veiny hand across
his bristly lips.
‘Go round to the brewus,’ said Mrs. Jenny; ‘you’ll find the maid there.
It’s all you’re fit for, ye guzzlin’ old idiot.’
Ichabod retired, elate.
‘Her tongue’s a stinger; but, Lord bless thee, Ichabod, her bark’s a
long sight worse than her bite. An’ her beer’s main good.’
Mrs. Jenny, meanwhile, retired to the sitting-room, and there sat
immersed in gloom. Things looked black for her young protégés, and fate
was against them. With that curious interest in familiar trifles which
comes with any fit of hopelessness or despondency, she sat looking at
the furniture of the room and the pictures which decorated the walls.
Among these latter was a work of her own hands, her masterpiece, a
reproduction in coloured wool of a German engraving of the last scene
of _Romeo and Juliet_. There was a pea-green Capulet paralytically
embracing a sky-blue Montague in the foreground, with a dissolving view
of impossibly-constructed servitors of both houses and the County Paris,
with six strongly accented bridges to his nose and a worsted tear upon
his cheek, in the background. Under this production was worked in white,
upon a black ground, the legend which Mrs. Rusker mournfully repeated as
she gazed on it--
‘For never was a story of more woe,
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo’;
and as she spoke the words an inspiration flashed into her mind. She had
her plan.
The new-born idea so possessed her that she could not sit or rest. It
drove her out, as the gad-fly drove lo, to devious wanderings in the
neighbouring lanes, and as she walked and walked, finding some little
ease in the unusual and incessant exercise, she drew nearer and nearer
to the Mountain Farm. As she paused on a little eminence and looked
towards it, the distant church bell struck clear across the intervening
fields, proclaiming nine o’clock.
‘Thank the Lord,’ said the old woman. ‘I can go now. I dussent go too
early. They might suspect.’
She made straight for the house, and found Mrs. Mountain alone. Samson
was afield, and in answer to Mrs. Busker’s inquiries regarding Julia,
Mrs. Mountain tearfully informed her that the poor girl was too ill to
come downstairs, and had not eaten a crumb of the tempting breakfast
prepared and sent to her room for her. Mrs. Mountain was voluble in
condemnation of her husband’s lack of wit in his announcement of the
matrimonial scheme he had formed for the girl, and Mrs. Jenny was fluent
and honest in sympathy. Might she see the girl? Julia was fond of her,
and her counsels might bring some comfort. Mrs. Mountain yielded a ready
assent, and the old lady went up to the girl’s room, and entering on
the languid summons which followed her knock, saw Julia seated at the
window, listless, dejected, and tearful The tears flowed even more
freely at the sight of her, and the girl sobbed on her old friend’s
breast in full abandonment to the first great grief of her life.
‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Jenny, when this gush of sorrow was over, ‘take a
bit o’ heart. Things is rarely as bad as they seem; an’ there’s help at
hand always if we on’y know where to look for it.’
There was more meaning, to Julia’s thinking, in the tone in which this
commonplace condolence was delivered than in the words themselves. Mrs.
Rusker’s manner was big with mystery.
‘Now, my darlin’, I know you ‘m a brave gal, and can act accordin’ when
there’s rayson for it. I’ve got a plan as ‘ll save you yet, if on’y
you’ve got the courage.’
Julia’s clasped hands and eager look encouraged her to proceed.
‘My dear, you remember _Romeo and Juliet?_ You remember how Juliet got
the sleepin’ draught an’ took it? ‘Julia’s look was one of wonder, pure
and simple, now. ‘That’s my plan, my dear, an’ the Dudley Divil can do
it for us, if on’y you’ll ha’ the courage to tek it. Not as I mean as
you need be buried afore Dick comes to you. We shouldn’t go as far as
that. But I’ll get the stuff, an’ it’ll send you to sleep, an’ they’ll
think as you’re dead, an’ then I’ll tell ‘em how you an’ Dick loved
each other so’s you couldn’t bear to part wi’ him, an’ the fear of it’s
killed you. That’ll soften their hard hearts, my dear. Old Reddy knows
all about it--that’s why he’s sendin’ Dick away to London an’ I’ll get
him fetched back to see the last o’ you, an’ I’ll mek your father an’
his father shaake hands, an’ then you’ll come to, an’ after that what
can they do but marry you to Dick, an’ forget all that rubbidge about
the brook, an’ live in peace together, as decent folk should do.’
Julia’s reception of this brilliant scheme, which Mrs. Rusker developed
with a volubility which left no opportunity for detailed objection, was
to fall back in her chair and begin to cry anew at the sheer hopeless
absurdity of it.
‘What’s the matter wi’ the wench?’ demanded Mrs. Rusker, almost sternly.
‘Come, come,’ she continued, her brief anger fading at the sight of
Julia’s distress, ‘have a bit o’ sperrit. Now, will you try it? Spake
the word, an’ I’ll goo to the Divil this minute.’
This wholesale self-abandonment in the cause of love produced no effect
on Julia, except to frighten her. Mrs. Rusker argued and reasoned, but
finding her fears too obdurate to be moved by any such means, left
the house in dudgeon, whereat poor Julia only cried the more. But
Mrs. Rusker’s confidence in her plan was unshaken, and her persistency
unchecked. She would save the silly girl against her will, since it must
be so, and half an hour after she had crossed the Mountain threshold she
was in her trap, _en route_ for the dwelling of the wizard.
She found that celebrity alone, and opened fire on him at once.
‘Ruffis, I want thy help, an’ I’m willin’ to pay fur it.’ The
necromancer’s fishy eye brightened. Things were going poorly with him,
the rising generation followed newer lights unevident in his earlier
days, and his visitors were mostly of Mrs. Rusker’s age, and were
getting fewer day by day.
‘My skill’s at your service, ma’am, such as it is,’ he answered, with
gravity.
‘I want some’at as ‘d send a body to sleep--mek ‘em sleep for a long
time, wi’out hurtin’ ‘em. Can you doit?’
‘Why, yis; I could do that much, I think.’ His tone and manner intimated
vaguely how much more he could have done, and his disappointment at the
facility of his task. ‘But,’ he added prudently, ‘it’s a job as ain’t s’
easy as you might fancy.’
Mrs. Busker laid a sovereign on the table.
‘Wilt do it for that?’ she asked.
The wizard stole a look at her. She was obviously very much in earnest.
‘The hingredients,’ he said, ‘is hard to find, and harder to mix in doo
perportions.’
‘I must have it now, and at once,’ said Mrs. Busker.
‘That,’ said Rufus, ‘ain’t possible.’ Mrs. Jenny laid a second piece of
gold beside the first ‘It’s a dangerous bisness, missus,’ he went
on. ‘Theer’s noofangled laws about. ‘Twas only last wik as that young
upstart, Doctor Hodges, comes an’ threatens me with persecution as
a rogue an’ vagabond, a-obtainin’ money under false pertences for
practisin’ my lawful an’ necessary art. Why, it ain’t so long since I
cured his mother o’ the rheumatiz, as is more nor he can dew, wi’ all
his drugs, an’ the pestle an’ mortar o’er his door.’
‘You ought to know as you’re safe wi’ me, Rufus,’ said Mrs. Rusker. ‘Who
should I tell? Why, I should tell o’ myself tew, at that raate; an’ is
that likely?’
‘It’s dangerous, missus,’ repeated the wizard.
‘Well, if yo’ won’t, I must try them as wull,’ said Mrs. Jenny, rising
and taking up the coins.
‘I didn’t say as I wouldn’t,’ returned Rufus. ‘Theer’s no call to be so
uppish But if I tek a chance like that I expect to be paid for it.’
‘Two pound ud mek it wuth your while to do more than that.’
‘I’ll dew it,’ said the wizard. ‘Give us the money?’
‘Wheer’s the stuff?’
‘Why, it ain’t made yet. D’you think as I can percure a precious
hessence like that all of a minute?’
‘Then mek it, an’ I’ll gie you the money.’
‘Gi’ me a pound in advance, an’ I’ll bring it to you.’ And on that
understanding the bargain was made, and the time fixed for the delivery
of the potion. The intervening time was filled in by the astute wizard
journeying to a neighbouring town and procuring from a chemist a
sleeping draught, which he paid for out of Mrs. Busker’s sovereign. He
turned up at Laburnum Cottage at the stipulated hour, handed over the
draught (having previously washed off the chemist’s label), received his
second sovereign, and departed.
Mrs. Rusker, with the fateful bottle in the bosom of her dress, betook
herself again to Mountain Farm. Her unfeigned interest in the patient,
and the intimacy she had so long enjoyed with the whole family, made the
house almost as free to her as was her own, and when she took possession
of Julia in the capacity of nurse she was made welcome, and the poor
girl’s other attendants hoped much from her ministration. Julia was
undoubtedly very ill, so ill that even Samson Mountain forbore to
force her to descend to the parlour in which Mr. Tom Raybould nervously
awaited her coming, and where, on Samson’s return from his daughter’s
chamber, the pair sat and drank their beer together in miserable
silence, broken by spasmodic attempts at conversation regarding crops
and politics. The doctor had been called in, and, knowing nothing of the
grief which was the poor girl’s only ailment, had been too puzzled by
the symptoms of her malady to be of any great service. She was feverish,
excited, with a furred tongue and a hot skin. He had prescribed a mild
tonic and departed. Mrs. Jenny, intent on the execution of her plan,
gained solitary charge of her patient by telling Mrs. Mountain that her
attendance on her daughter had already told upon her, and advising a few
hours’ rest.
‘I don’t feel very well,’ Mrs. Mountain confessed. ‘Not a wink o’ sleep
have I had iver since Samson came home last night. Nor him nayther, for
the matter o’ that, though he tried to desave me by snorin’, whinever
I spoke to him; an’ as for any sympathy--well, you know him aforetime,
Jenny--I might as well talk to that theer poker.’
Then Jenny was fluent in condolence, and at last got the old lady out of
the room.
‘When did you take your medicine last, my dear?’ she asked the patient
‘Ain’t it time as you had another drop?’
‘It doesn’t do me any good,’ said the patient fretfully. She knew better
herself what was wrong with her than anybody else could guess, and only
longed passionately to be alone and free to think and cry over her lost
love and broken hopes.
‘Why, my dear, you’ve on’y took one dose yit,’ said Machiavel. ‘You
must give it time. I’ll pour you out another.’ Her back was towards the
patient as she clattered about among the glasses on the table with a
shaking hand. She poured out the wizard’s potion, the phial clinking
against the edge of the glass like a castanet, and her heart beating so
that she almost feared Julia would hear it The girl at first pettishly
refused the draught, but Mrs. Jenny, in her guilty agitation, made short
work of her objections, and poured it down her throat almost by main
force.
‘Maids must do as their elders bid ‘em,’ she said, as she returned the
glass to its place.
‘It doesn’t taste the same,’ moaned the patient
‘You’re like all th’ other sick folk I iver nursed. As fall o’ fancies
as you can stick,’ said Mrs. Jenny. ‘Lie quiet, and try an’ go to
sleep.’
The girl lay silent, and Mrs. Jenny, more than half wishing the whole
business had never been begun, sat and listened to her breathing. She
stirred and sighed once or twice, but after a while lay so utterly still
that the old lady ventured to approach the bed. Julia’s face was almost
as white as her pillow, and her breath was so light that it hardly
stirred the coverlet above her bosom.
‘It’s a-workin,’ said Mrs. Rusker.