IMPROVEMENTS.
Things were changed now out of doors. There was no dissatisfaction, no
complaining. Roy was deposed from his petty authority, and all men were
at peace, with the exception, possibly, of Mr. Peckaby. Mr. Peckaby did
not, find his shop flourish. Indeed, far from flourishing, so completely
was it deserted, that he was fain to give up the trade, and accept work
at Chuff the blacksmith's forge, to which employment, it appeared, he
had been brought up. A few stale articles remained in the shop, and the
counters remained; chiefly for show. Mrs. Peckaby made a pretence of
attending to customers; but she did not get two in a week. And if those
two entered, they could not be served, for she was pretty sure to be
out, gossiping.
This state of things did not please Mrs. Peckaby. In one point of view
the failing of the trade pleased her, because it left her less work to
do; but she did not like the failing of their income. Whether the shop
had been actually theirs, or whether it had been Roy's, there was no
doubt that they had drawn sufficient from it to live comfortably and to
find Mrs. Peckaby in smart caps. This source was gone, and all they had
now was an ignominious fourteen shillings a week, which Peckaby earned.
The prevalent opinion in Clay Lane was that this was quite as much as
Peckaby deserved; and that it was a special piece of undeserved good
fortune which had taken off the blacksmith's brother and assistant in
the nick of time, Joe Chuff, to make room for him. Mrs. Peckaby,
however, was in a state of semi-rebellion; the worse, that she did not
know upon whom to visit it, or see any remedy. She took to passing her
time in groaning and tears, somewhat after the fashion of Dinah Roy,
venting her complaints upon anybody that would listen to her.
Lionel had not said to the men, "You shall leave Peckaby's shop." He had
not even hinted to them that it might be desirable to leave it. In
short, he had not interfered. But, the restraint of Roy being removed
from the men, they quitted it of their own accord. "No more Roy; no more
Peckaby; no more grinding down--hurrah!" shouted they, and went back to
the old shops in the village.
All sorts of improvements had Lionel begun. That is, he had planned
them: begun yet, they were not. Building better tenements for the
labourers, repairing and draining the old ones, adding whatever might be
wanted to make the dwellings healthy: draining, ditching, hedging. "It
shall not be said that while I live in a palace, my poor live in
pigsties," said Lionel to Mr. Bitterworth one day. "I'll do what I can
to drive that periodical ague from the place."
"Have you counted the cost?" was Mr. Bitterworth's rejoinder.
"No," said Lionel. "I don't intend to count it. Whatever the changes may
cost, I shall carry them out."
And Lionel, like other new schemers, was red-hot upon them. He drew out
plans in his head and with his pencil; he consulted architects, he
spent half his days with builders. Lionel was astonished at the mean,
petty acts of past tyranny, exercised by Roy, which came to light, far
more than he had had any idea of. He blushed for himself and for his
uncle, that such a state of things had been allowed to go on; he
wondered that it could have gone on; that he had been blind to so much
of it, or that the men had not exercised Lynch law upon Roy.
Roy had taken his place in the brick-yard as workman; but Lionel, in the
anger of the moment, when these things came out, felt inclined to spurn
him from the land. He would have done it but for his promise to the man
himself; and for the pale, sad face of Mrs. Roy. In the hour when his
anger was at its height, the woman came up to Verner's Pride,
stealthily, as it seemed, and craved him to write to Australia, "now he
was a grand gentleman," and ask the "folks over there" if they could
send back news of her son. "It's going on of a twelvemonth since he
writed to us, sir, and we don't know where to write to him, and I'm
a'most fretted into my grave."
"My opinion is that he is coming home," said Lionel.
"Heaven sink the ship first!" she involuntarily muttered, and then she
burst into a violent flood of tears.
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Lionel. "Don't you want him to come home?"
"No, sir. No."
"But why? Are you fearing"--he jumped to the most probable solution of
her words that he could suggest--"are you fearing that he and Roy would
not agree?--that there would be unpleasant scenes between them, as there
used to be?"
The woman had her face buried in her hands, and she never lifted it as
she answered, in a stifled voice, "It's what I'm a-fearing, sir."
Lionel could not quite understand her. He thought her more weak and
silly than usual.
"But he is not coming home," she resumed. "No, sir, I don't believe that
England will ever see him again; and it's best as it is, for there's
nothing but care and sorrow here, in the old country. But I'd like to
know what's become of him; whether he is alive or dead, whether he is
starving or in comfort. Oh, sir!" she added, with a burst of wailing
anguish, "write for me, and ask news of him! They'd answer _you_. My
heart is aching for it."
He did not explain to her then, how very uncertain was the fate of
emigrants to that country, how next to impossible it might be to obtain
intelligence of an obscure young man like Luke; he contented himself
with giving her what he thought would be better comfort.
"Mrs. Frederick Massingbird will be returning in the course of a few
months, and I think she may bring news of him. Should she not, I will
see what inquiries can be made."
"Will she be coming soon, sir?"
"In two or three months, I should suppose. The Misses West may be able
to tell you more definitely, if they have heard from her."
"Thank ye, sir; then I'll wait till she's home. You'll not tell Roy that
I have been up here, sir?"
"Not I," said Lionel. "I was debating, when you came in, whether I
should not turn Roy off the estate altogether. His past conduct to the
men has been disgraceful."
"Ay, it have, sir! But it was my fate to marry him, and I have had to
look on in quiet, and see things done, not daring to say as my soul's my
own. It's not my fault, sir."
Lionel knew that it was not. He pitied her, rather than blamed.
"Will you go into the servants' hall and eat something after your walk?"
he kindly asked.
"No, sir, many thanks. I don't want to see the servants. They might get
telling that I have been here."
She stole out from his presence, her pale, sad face, her evidently deep
sorrow, whatever might be its source, making a vivid impression upon
Lionel. But for that sad face, he might have dealt more harshly with her
husband. And so Roy was tolerated still.
It was upon these various past topics that Lionel's mind was running as
he walked away from Deerham Court after that afternoon's interview with
Lucy, which he had made so significant. He had pleaded an engagement, as
an excuse for quitting his mother's drawing-room and her guests. It must
have been at home, we must suppose, for ho took his way straight towards
Verner's Pride, sauntering through the village as if he had leisure to
look about him, his thoughts deep in his projected improvements.
Here, a piece of stagnant water was to be filled in; there was the site
of his new tenements; yonder, was the spot for a library and
reading-room; on he walked, throwing his glances everywhere. As he
neared the shop of Mrs. Duff, a man came suddenly in view, facing him; a
little man, in a suit of rusty black, and a white neckcloth, with a pale
face and red whiskers, whom Lionel remembered to have seen once before,
a day or two previously. As soon as he caught sight of Lionel he turned
short off, crossed the street, and darted out of sight down the
Belvidere Road.
"That looks as though he wanted to avoid me," thought Lionel. "I wonder
who he may be? Do you know who that man is, Mrs. Duff?" asked he aloud;
for that lady was taking the air at her shop-door, and had watched the
movement.
"I don't know much about him, sir. He have been stopping in the place
this day or two. What did I hear his name was, again?" added Mrs. Duff,
putting her fingers to her temples in a considering fit. "Jarrum, I
think. Yes, that was it. Brother Jarrum, sir."
"Brother Jarrum?" repeated Lionel, uncertain whether the "Brother" might
be spoken in a social point of view, or was a name bestowed upon the
gentleman in baptism.
"He's a missionary from abroad, or something of that sort, sir. He is
come to see what he can do towards converting us."
"Oh, indeed," said Lionel, his lip curling with a smile. The man's face
had not taken his fancy. "Honest missionaries do not need to run away to
avoid meeting people, Mrs. Duff."
"He have got cross eyes," responded Mrs. Duff. "Perhaps that's a reason
he mayn't like to look gentlefolks in the face, sir."
"Where does he come from?"
"Well, now, sir, I did hear," replied Mrs. Duff, putting on her
considering cap again, "it were some religious place, sir, that's talked
of a good deal in the Bible. Jericho, were it? No. It began with a J,
though. Oh, I have got it, sir! It were Jerusalem. He conies all the way
from Jerusalem."
"Where is he lodging?" continued Lionel.
"He have been lodging at the George and Dragon, sir. But to-day he have
gone and took that spare bedroom as the Peckabys have wanted to let,
since their custom fell off."
"He means to make a stay, then?"
"It looks like it, sir. Susan Peckaby, she were in here half an hour
ago, a-buying new ribbons for a cap, all agog with it. He's a-going to
hold forth in their shop, she says, and see how many of the parish he
can turn into saints. I say it won't be a bad 'turn,' if it keeps the
men from the beer-houses."
Lionel laughed as he went on. He supposed it was a new movement that
would have its brief day and then be over, leaving results neither good
nor bad behind it; and he dismissed the man from his memory.
He walked on, in the elasticity of his youth and health. All nature
seemed to be smiling around him. Outward things take their hue very much
from the inward feelings, and Lionel felt happier than he had done for
months and months. Had the image of Lucy Tempest anything to do with
this? No--nothing. He had not yet grown to love Lucy in that idolising
manner, as to bring her ever present to him. He was thinking of the
change in his own fortunes; he cast his eyes around to the right and the
left, and they rested on his own domains--domains which had for a time
been wrested from him; and as his quick steps rung on the frosty road,
his heart went up in thankfulness to the Giver of all good.
Just before he reached Verner's Pride, he overtook Mr. Bitterworth, who
was leaning against a roadside gate. He had been attacked by sudden
giddiness, he said, and asked Lionel to give him an arm home. Lionel
proposed that he should come in and remain for a short while at Verner's
Pride; but Mr. Bitterworth preferred to go home.
"It is one of my bilious attacks coming on," he remarked, as he went
along. "I have not had a bad one for this four months."
Lionel took him safe home, and remained with him for some time, talking;
the chief theme being his own contemplated improvements, and how to go
to work upon them; a topic which seemed to bring no satiety to Lionel
Verner.