HOMELESS.
Of course Stephen's brief term of favour with Black Thompson was at an
end; but whether Miss Anne had given him a hint that the boy was under
her protection, and had confessed all to her, or because he might be
busy in some deeper scheme of wickedness, he did not display as much
anger as Stephen expected, when he refused to show him the haunts of
the grouse, or go with him again on a poaching expedition. Stephen was
more humble and vigilant than he had been before falling into temptation.
He set a close watch upon himself, lest he should be betrayed into a
self-confident spirit again; and Tim's loud praises sounded less
pleasantly in his ears, so that one evening he told him, with much shame,
into what sin he had been led by his desire to avenge Snip's murder.
Unfortunately, this disclosure so much heightened Tim's estimation of his
character, that from time to time he gave utterance to mysterious hints
of the extraordinary courage and spirit Stephen could manifest when
occasion required. These praises were, however, in some measure balanced
by Martha's taunts and reproaches at home.
The shooting season had commenced, and the lord of the manor was come,
with a number of his friends, to shoot over the hills and plantations. He
was a frank, pleasant-looking gentleman, but far too grand and high for
Stephen to address, though he gazed wistfully at him whenever he chanced
to meet him on the hills. One afternoon Martha saw him and the master
walking towards Fern's Hollow, where the fencing-in of the green and of
the coppice behind the hut were being finished rapidly; and she crept
with stealthy steps under the hedge of the garden, until she came within
earshot of them; but they were just moving on, and all she heard of the
conversation were these words, from the lord of the manor: 'You shall
have it at any rate you fix, Wyley--at a peppercorn rent, if you please;
but I will not sell a square yard of my land out and out.' How Martha and
Stephen did talk about those words over and over again, and could never
come to any conclusion about them.
It was about noon on Michaelmas Day, a day which was of no note up at
Fern's Hollow, where there was no rent to be paid, and Martha was busily
hanging out clothes to dry on the gorse bushes before the house, when she
saw a troop of labourers coming over the brow of the hill and crossing
the newly-enclosed pasture. They were armed with mattocks and pickaxes;
but as the peaceful little cottage rose before them, with blind old Fern
basking in the warm sunshine, and little Nan playing quietly about the
door-sill, the men gathered into a little knot, and stood still with an
irresolute and ashamed aspect.
'They know nothing about it,' said William Morris; 'look at them, as
easy and unconcerned as lambs. I was afeared there'd be a upshot, when
the master were after old Fern so long. I don't half like the job; and
Stephen isn't here. He does look a bit like a man, and we could argy with
him; but that old man, and that girl--they'll take on so.'
'I say, Martha,' shouted a bolder-hearted man, 'hasn't the master let
thee know thee must turn out to-day? He wants to lay the foundation of a
new house, and get the walls up afore the frost comes on; and we are come
to pick the old place to the ground. He only told us an hour ago, or we'd
have seen thee was ready.'
'I don't believe thee; thee's only romancing,' said Martha, turning very
pale. 'The old place is our own, and no master has any right to it, save
Stephen.'
'It's no use wasting breath,' replied William Morris. 'The master says
he's bought the place from thy grandfather, lass; and he agreed to turn
out by noon on Michaelmas Day. Master doesn't want to be hard upon you;
and he says, if you've no place to turn in to, you may go to the old
cabin on the upper cinder-hill, till there's a cottage empty in Botfield;
and we'll help thee to move the things at wunst. We're to get the roof
off and the walls down afore nightfall.'
'Grandfather and little Nan!' screamed Martha; 'get into the house this
minute! It's no use you men coming up here on this errand. You know
grandfather's simple, and he hasn't sold the house; how could he? He's no
more sense than little Nan. No, no; you must go down to the works, and
hear what Stephen says. You're a pack of rascals, every one of you, and
the master's the biggest; and you'll all have to gnash your teeth over
this business some day, I reckon.'
By this time the old man and the child were safely within the house;
and Martha, springing quickly from the wicket, where she had kept the
men at bay, followed them in, and barred the door, before any one of
the labourers could thrust his shoulder in to prevent her. They held a
consultation together when they found that no arguments prevailed upon
her to open to them, to which Martha listened disdainfully through the
large chinks, but vouchsafed no answer.
'Come, come, my lass,' said William Morris soothingly; 'it's lost time
and strength, thee contending with the master. I don't like the business;
but our orders are clear, and we must obey them. Thee let us in, and
we'll carry the things down to the cinder-hill cabin for thee. If thee
won't open the door, we'll be forced to take the thatch off.'
'I won't,' answered Martha,--'not for the lord of the manor himself. The
house is ours, and I 'ware any of you to touch it. Go down to Stephen and
hear what he'll say. If thee takes the thatch off, thee shan't move me
out.'
But when the old stove-pipe, through which the last breath of the
household fire had passed, was drawn up, and the blue sky could be seen
through the cloud of dust and dirt with which the hut was filled, choking
the helpless old man and the frightened child, Martha's courage failed
her; and she went out, with little Nan clinging round her, and spoke as
calmly to the invaders as her rising sobs would let her.
'You know it's grandmother's own house,' she said; 'and the lord of the
manor himself has no right to it. But I'll go down and fetch Stephen, if
you'll only wait.'
'We daren't wait, Martha,' answered Morris kindly; 'and it's no use,
lass; the master's too many for thee. But thee go down to Stephen; and
we'll move the things safe, as if they were our own, and put them where
they'll not be broken; and we'll take care of little Nan and thy poor old
grandfather. Tell Stephen we're desperately cut up about it ourselves;
but, if we hadn't done it, somebody that has no good-will towards him
would have taken the job. So go thy poor ways with thee, my lass; we are
main sorry for thee and Stephen.'
The hot, choking smoke from the limekiln was blowing across the works;
and the dusty pit-bank was covered with busy men and boys and girls,
shouting, laughing, singing, and swearing, when Martha arrived at
Botfield. She was rarely seen at the pit, for her thrifty and housewifely
habits kept her busy at Fern's Hollow; and the rough, loud voices of the
banksmen, the regular beat of the engine, the clanking of chains, and the
dust and smoke and heat of the almost strange scene bewildered the
hillside girl. She made her way to the cabin, a little hut built near the
mouth of the shaft for the use of the people employed about the pit; but
before she could see Tim, or fix upon any one to inquire about Stephen
from, a girl of her own age, but with a face sunburnt and blackened from
her rough and unwomanly work, and in an uncouth dress of sackcloth, which
was grimed with coal-dust, came up and peered boldly in her face.
'Why, it's Miss Fern!' she cried, with a loud laugh; 'Miss Fern, Esq.,
of Fern's Hollow, come to learn us poor pit-folk scholarship and manners.
Here, lads! here's Mr. Stephen Fern's fine sister, as knows more nor all
of us put together. Give us a bit of your learning, Miss Fern.'
'I know a black-bess when I see one,' replied Martha sharply; and all the
boys and girls joined in a ready roar of merriment against Bess Thompson,
whose nickname was the common country name for a beetle.
'That'll do!' they shouted; 'she knows a black-bess! Thee's got thy
answer, Bess Thompson.'
'What's brought thee to the pit?' asked Bess fiercely; 'we want no
scatter-witted hill girls here, I can tell ye. So get off the pit-bank,
afore I drive thee off.'
'What's all this hullabaloo?' inquired Tim, making his appearance at the
cabin door. 'Why, Martha, what brings thee at the pit? Come in here, and
tell me what's up now.'
Tim listened to Martha's tearful story with great amazement and
indignation; and, after a few minutes' consideration, he told her he had
nothing much to do, and he would get leave to take Stephen's place for
the rest of the day, so as to set him free to go home at once. He left
her standing in the middle of the cabin, for the rough benches round it
looked too black for her to venture to take a seat upon them; and in a
short time he shouted to her from a skep, which was being lowered into
the pit, promising her that Stephen should come up as soon as possible.
It seemed a terribly long time to wait amid that noise and dust, and
every now and then Black Bess relieved her feelings by making hideous
grimaces at her when she passed the cabin door; but Stephen ascended at
last, very stern-looking and silent, for Tim had told him Martha's
business; and he hurried her away from the pit-bank before he would
listen to the detailed account she was longing to give. Even when they
were in the lonely lane leading homewards, and she was talking and
sobbing herself out of breath, he walked on without a word passing his
lips, though his heart was sending up ceaseless prayers to God for help
to bear this trial with patience. Poor old home! There was all the
well-used household furniture carried out and heaped together on the
turf,--chairs and tables and beds,--looking so differently to what they
did when arranged in their proper order. The old man, with his grey head
uncovered, was wandering to and fro in sore bewilderment; and little Nan
had fallen asleep beside the furniture, with the trace of tears upon her
rosy cheeks. But the house was almost gone. The door-sill, where Stephen
had so often seen the sun go down as he rested himself from his labours,
was already taken up; the old grate, round which they had sat all the
winter nights that he had ever known, was pulled out of the rock; and all
the floor was open to the mocking sunshine. It is a mournful thing to see
one's own home in ruins; and a tear or two made a white channel down the
coal-dust on Stephen's cheeks; but he subdued himself, and spoke out to
the labourers like a man.
'I know it's not your fault,' he said, as they stood round him, making
explanations and excuses; 'but you know grandfather could not sell the
place. I'll get you to help me carry the things down to the cinder-hill
cabin. The sheep and ponies are coming down the hill, and there'll be
rain afore long; and it's not fit for grandfather and little Nan to be
out in it. You'll spare time from the work for that?'
'Ay, will we!' cried the men heartily; and, submitting kindly to
Stephen's quiet directions, they were soon laden with the household
goods, which were scanty and easily removed. Two or three journeys were
sufficient to take them all; and when the labourers returned for the last
time to their work of destruction, Stephen took little Nan in his arms,
and Martha led away the old man; while the sound of the pickaxes and the
crash of the rough rubble stones of their old home followed their slow
and lingering steps over the new pasture, and down the hillside towards
Botfield.