Dame Winburn was not long after her son, and they sat down
together to breakfast in their best Sunday clothes--she, in a
plain large white cap which covered all but a line of grey hair,
a black stuff gown reaching to neck and wrists, and small silk
neckkerchief put on like a shawl; a thin, almost gaunt old woman,
whom the years had not used tenderly, and who showed marks of
their usage--but a resolute, high-couraged soul, who had met hard
times in the face, and could meet them again if need were. She
spoke in broad Berkshire, and was otherwise a homely body, but
self-possessed and without a shade of real vulgarity in her
composition.
The widow looked with some anxiety at Harry as he took his seat.
Although something of a rustic dandy, of late he had not been so
careful in the matter of dress as usual; but, in consequence of
her reproaches, on this Sunday there was nothing to complain of.
His black velveteen shooting coat, and cotton plush waistcoat,
his brown corduroy knee-breeches and gaiters, sat on him well,
and gave the world assurance of a well-to-do man, for few of the
Englebourn labourers rose above smock-frocks and fustian
trousers. He wore a blue bird's-eye handkerchief round his neck,
and his shirt, though coarse in texture, was as white as the sun
and the best laundress in Englebourn could manage to bleach it.
There was nothing to find fault with in his dress, therefore, but
still his mother did not feel quite comfortable as she took
stealthy glances at him. Harry was naturally a reserved fellow,
and did not make much conversation himself, and his mother felt a
little embarrassed on this particular morning.
It was not, therefore, until Dame Winburn had finished her first
slice of bread and butter, and had sipped the greater part of her
second dish of tea out of her saucer, that she broke silence.
"I minded thy business last night, Harry, when I wur up at the
Rectory about the washin'. It's my belief as thou'lt get t'other
'lotment next quarter-day. The Doctor spoke very kind about it,
and said as how he heer'd as high a character o' thee, young as
thee bist, as of are' a man in the parish, and as how he wur set
on lettin' the lots to thaay as'd do best by 'em; only he said as
the farmers went agin givin' more nor an acre to any man as
worked for _them_; and the Doctor, you see, he don't like to go
altogether agin the vestry folk."
"What business is it o' theirs," said Harry, "so long as they get
their own work done? There's scarce one on 'em as hasn't more
land already nor he can keep as should be, and for all that they
want to snap up every bit as falls vacant, so as no poor man
shall get it."
"'Tis mostly so with them as has," said his mother, with a half
puzzled look; "Scriptur says as to them shall be given, and they
shall have more abundant," Dame Winburn spoke hesitatingly, and
looked doubtfully at Harry, as a person who has shot with a
strange gun, and knows not what effect the bolt may have. Harry
was brought up all standing by this unexpected quotation of his
mother's; but, after thinking for a few moments while he cut
himself a slice of bread, replied:--
"It don't say as those shall have more that can't use what
they've got already. 'Tis a deal more like Naboth's vineyard for
aught as I can see. But 'tis little odds to me which way it
goes."
"How canst talk so, Harry?" said his mother reproachfully; "thou
know'st thou wast set on it last fall, like a wasp on sugar. Why
scarce a day past but thou wast up to the Rectory, to see the
Doctor about it; and now thou'rt like to get th'lotment thou'lt
not go anyst 'un."
Harry looked out at the open door, without answering. It was
quite true that, in the last autumn, he had been very anxious to
get as large an allotment as he could into his own hands, and
that he had been for ever up towards the Rectory, but perhaps not
always on the allotment business. He was naturally a
self-reliant, shrewd fellow, and felt that if he could put his
hand on three or four acres of land, he could soon make himself
independent of the farmers. He knew that at harvest-times, and
whenever there was a pinch for good labourers, they would be glad
enough to have him; while at other times, with a few acres of his
own, he would be his own master and could do much better for
himself. So he had put his name down first on the Doctor's list,
taken the largest lot he could get, and worked it so well that
his crops, amongst others, had been a sort of village show last
harvest-time. Many of the neighboring allotments stood out in sad
contrast to those of Harry and the more energetic of the
peasantry, and lay by the side of these latter only half worked
and full of weeds, and the rent was never ready. It was worse
than useless to let matters go on thus, and the question arose,
what was to be done with the neglected lots. Harry, and all the
men like him, applied at once for them; and their eagerness to
get them had roused some natural jealousy amongst the farmers,
who began to foresee that the new system might shortly leave them
with none but the worst labourers. So the vestry had pressed on
the Doctor, as Dame Winburn said, not to let any man have more
than an acre, or an acre and a half; and the well-meaning,
easy-going invalid old man couldn't make up his mind what to do.
So here was May again, and the neglected lots were still in the
nominal occupation of the idlers. The Doctor got no rent, and was
annoyed at the partial failure of a scheme which he had not
indeed originated, but for which he had taken much credit to
himself. The negligent occupiers grumbled that they were not
allowed a drawback for manure, and that no pigstyes were put up
for them. "'Twas allers understood so," they maintained, "and
they'd never ha' took to the lots but for that." The good men
grumbled that it would be too late now for them to do more than
clean the lots of weeds this year. The farmers grumbled that it
was always understood that no man should have more than one lot.
The poor rector had led his flock into a miry place with a
vengeance. People who cannot make up their minds breed trouble in
other places besides country villages. However quiet and out of
the way the place may be, there is always some _quasi_ public
topic, which stands, to the rural Englishman, in the place of
treaty, or budget, or reform-bill. So the great allotment
question, for the time, was that which exercised the minds of the
inhabitants of Englebourn; and until lately no one had taken a
keener interest in it than Harry Winburn. But that interest had
now much abated, and so Harry looked through the cottage door,
instead of answering his mother.
"'Tis my belief as you med amost hev it for the axin'." Dame
Winburn began again when she found that he would not re-open the
subject himself. "The young missus said as much to me herself
last night. Ah! to be sure, things'd go better if she had the
guidin' on 'em."
"I'm not going after it any more, mother. We can keep the bits o'
sticks here together without it while you be alive; and if
anything was to happen to you, I don't think I should stay in
these parts. But it don't matter what becomes o' me; I can earn a
livelihood anywhere."
Dame Winburn paused a moment before answering to subdue her
vexation, and then said, "How can 'ee let hankerin' arter a lass
take the heart out o' thee so? Hold up thy head, and act a bit
measterful. The more thow makest o' thyself, the more like thou
art to win."
"Did you hear aught of her last night, mother?" replied Harry,
taking advantage of this ungracious opening to speak of the
subject which was uppermost in his mind.
"I heer'd she wur goin' on well," said his mother.
"No likelihood of her comin' home?"
"Not as I could make out. Why, she hevn't been gone not four
months. Now, do 'ee pluck up a bit, Harry; and be more like
thyself."
"Why, mother, I've not missed a day's work since Christmas; so
there ain't much to find fault with."
"Nay, Harry, 'tisn't thy work. Thou wert always good at thy work,
praise God. Thou'rt thy father's own son for that. But thou
dostn't keep about like, and take thy place wi' the lave on 'em
since Christmas. Thou look'st hagged at times, and folk'll see't,
and talk about thee afore long."
"Let 'em talk. I mind their talk no more than last year's wind,"
said Harry, abruptly.
"But thy old mother does," she said, looking at him with eyes
full of pride and love; and so Harry, who was a right good son,
began to inquire what it was that was specially weighing on his
mother's mind, determined to do anything in reason to re-place
her on the little harmless social pinnacle from which she was
wont to look down on all the other mothers and sons of the
parish. He soon found out that her present grievance arose from
his having neglected his place as ringer of the heavy bell in the
village peal on the two preceding Sundays; and, as this post was,
in some sort the corresponding one to stroke of the boat at
Oxford, her anxiety was reasonable enough. So Harry promised to
go to ringing in good time that morning, and then set about
little odds and ends of jobs till it would be time to start. Dame
Winburn went to her cooking and other household duties, which
were pretty well got under when her son took his hat and started
for the belfry. She stood at the door with a half-peeled potato
in one hand, shading her eyes with the other, as she watched him
striding along the raised footpath under the elms, when the sound
of light footsteps and pleasant voices, coming up from the other
direction, made her turn round and drop a curtsey as the rector's
daughter and another young lady stopped at her door.
"Good morning, Betty," said the former; "here's a bright Sunday
morning at last, isn't it?"
"'Tis indeed, miss; but where hev'ee been to?"
"Oh, we've only been for a little walk before school-time. This
is my cousin, Betty. She hasn't been at Englebourn since she was
quite a child; so I've been taking her to the Hawk's Lynch to see
our view."
"And you can't think how I have enjoyed it," said her cousin; "it
is so still and beautiful."
"I've heer'd say as there ain't no such a place for thretty mile
round," said Betty, proudly, "But do'ee come in, tho', and sit'ee
down a bit," she added, bustling inside her door, and beginning
to rub down a chair with her apron; "'tis a smart step for
gentlefolk to walk afore church." Betty's notions of the walking
powers of gentlefolk were very limited.
"No, thank you, we must be getting on," said Miss Winter; "but
how lovely your flowers are! Look, Mary, did you ever see such
double pansies? We've nothing like them at the Rectory."
"Do'ee take some," said Betty, emerging again, and beginning to
pluck a handful of her finest flowers; "'tis all our Harry's
doing; he's 'mazing partickler about seeds."
"He seems to make everything thrive, Betty. There, that's plenty,
thank you. We won't take many, for fear they should fade before
church is over."
"Oh, dwont'ee be afeard, there's plenty more; and you be as
welcom' as the day."
Betty never said a truer word; she was one of the real
open-handed sort, who are found mostly amongst those who have the
least to give. They or anyone else were welcome to the best she
had.
So the young ladies took the flowers, thanked her again, and
passed on towards the Sunday-school.
The rector's daughter might have been a year or so older than her
companion; she looked more. Her position in the village had been
one of much anxiety, and she was fast getting an old head on
young shoulders. The other young lady was a slip of a girl just
coming out; in fact, this was the first visit which she had ever
paid out of leading strings. She had lived in a happy home, where
she had always been trusted and loved, and perhaps a thought too
much petted.
There are some natures which attract petting; you can't help
doing your best to spoil them in this way, and it is
satisfactory, therefore, to know (as the fact is) that they are
just the ones which cannot be so spoilt.
Miss Mary was one of these. Trustful, for she had never been
tricked; fearless, for she had never been cowed; pure and bright
as the Englebourn brook at fifty yards from its parent spring in
the chalk, for she had a pure and bright nature, and had come in
contact as yet with nothing which could soil or cast a shadow.
What wonder that her life gave forth light and music as it glided
on, and that every one who knew her was eager to have her with
them, to warm themselves in the light and rejoice in the music!
Besides all her other attractions, or in consequence of them for
anything I know, she was one of the merriest young women in the
world, always ready to bubble over and break out into clear
laughter on the slightest provocation. And provocation had not
been wanting during the last two days which she had spent with
her cousin. As usual she had brought sunshine with her, and the
old doctor had half forgotten his numerous complaints and
grievances for the time. So the cloud which generally hung over
the house had been partially lifted, and Mary, knowing and
suspecting nothing of the dark side of life at Englebourn
Rectory, rallied her cousin on her gravity, and laughed till she
cried at the queer ways and talk of the people about the place.
As soon as they were out of hearing of Dame Winburn, Mary began--
"Well, Katie, I can't say that you have mended your case at all."
"Surely you can't deny that there is a great deal of character in
Betty's face?" said Miss Winter.
"Oh, plenty of character; all your people, as soon as they begin
to stiffen a little and get wrinkles, seem to be full of
character, and I enjoy it much more than beauty; but we were
talking about beauty, you know."
"Betty's son is the handsomest young man in the parish," said
Miss Winter; "and I must say I don't think you could find a
better-looking one anywhere."
"Then I can't have seen him."
"Indeed you have; I pointed him out to you at the post office
yesterday. Don't you remember? He was waiting for a letter."
"Oh, yes! now I remember. Well, he was better than most. But the
faces of your young people in general are not interesting--I
don't mean the children, but the young men and women--and they
are awkward and clownish in their manners, without the quaintness
of the elder generation, who are the funniest old dears in the
world."
"They will all be quaint enough as they get older. You must
remember the sort of life they lead. They get their notions very
slowly, and they must have notions in their heads before they can
show them on their faces."
"Well, your Betty's son looked as if he had a notion of hanging
himself yesterday."
"It's no laughing matter, Mary. I hear that he is desperately in
love."
"Poor fellow! that makes a difference, of course. I hope he won't
carry out his notion. Who is it, do you know? Do tell me all
about it."
"Our gardener's daughter, I believe. Of course, I never meddle
with these matters; but one can't help hearing the servant's
gossip. I think it likely to be true, for he was about our
premises at all sorts of times until lately, and I never see him
now that she is away."
"Is she pretty?" said Mary, who was getting interested.
"Yes, she is our belle. In fact, they are the two beauties of the
parish."
"Fancy that cross-grained old Simon having a pretty daughter. Oh,
Katie, look here! who is this figure of fun?"
The figure of fun was a middle-aged man of small stature, and
very bandy-legged, dressed in a blue coat and brass buttons, and
carrying a great bass-viol bigger than himself, in a rough baize
cover. He came out of a footpath into the road just before them,
and, on seeing them, touched his hat to Miss Winter, and then
fidgeted along with his load, and jerked his head in a
deprecatory manner away from them as he walked on, with the sort
of look and action which a favorite terrier uses when his master
holds out a lighted cigar to his nose. He was the village tailor
and constable, also the principal performer in the church-music
which obtained in Englebourn. In the latter capacity he had of
late come into collision with Miss Winter.
For this was another of the questions which divided the
parish--The great church music question. From time immemorial, at
least ever since the gallery at the west end had been built, the
village psalmody had been in the hands of the occupiers of that
Protestant structure. In the middle of the front row sat the
musicians, three in number, who played respectively a bass-viol,
a fiddle, and a clarionet. On one side of them were two or three
young women, who sang treble--shrill, ear-piercing treble--with a
strong nasal Berkshire drawl in it. On the other side of the
musicians sat the blacksmith, the wheelwright, and other
tradesmen of the place. Tradesmen means in that part of the
country what we mean by artisan, and these were naturally allied
with the laborers, and consorted with them. So far as
church-going was concerned, they formed a sort of independent
opposition, sitting in the gallery, instead of in the nave, where
the farmers and the two or three principal shopkeepers--the great
landed and commercial interests--regularly sat and slept, and
where the two publicans occupied pews, but seldom made even the
pretence of worshipping.
The rest of the gallery was filled by the able-bodied male
peasantry. The old worn-out men generally sat below in the free
seats; the women also, and some few boys. But the hearts of these
latter were in the gallery--a seat on the back benches of which
was a sign that they had indued the _toga virilis_, and were
thenceforth free from maternal and pastoral tutelage in the
matter of church-going. The gallery thus constituted had
gradually usurped the psalmody as their particular and special
portion of the service; they left the clerk and the school
children, aided by such of the aristocracy below as cared to
join, to do the responses; but, when singing time came, they
reigned supreme. The slate on which the Psalms were announced was
hung out from before the centre of the gallery, and the clerk,
leaving his place under the reading-desk, marched up there to
give them out. He took this method of preserving his
constitutional connection with the singing, knowing that
otherwise he could not have maintained the rightful position of
his office in this matter. So matters had stood until shortly
before the time of our story.
The present curate, however, backed by Miss Winter, had tried a
reform. He was a quiet man, with a wife and several children, and
small means. He had served in the diocese ever since he had been
ordained, in a hum-drum sort of way, going where he was sent for,
and performing his routine duties reasonably well, but without
showing any great aptitude for his work. He had little interest,
and had almost given up expecting promotion, which he certainly
had done nothing particular to merit. But there was one point on
which he was always ready to go out of his way, and take a little
trouble. He was a good musician, and had formed choirs at all his
former curacies.
Soon after his arrival, therefore, he, in concert with Miss
Winter, had begun to train the children in church-music. A small
organ, which had stood in a passage in the Rectory for many
years, had been repaired, and appeared first at the schoolroom,
and at length under the gallery of the church; and it was
announced one week to the party in possession, that, on the next
Sunday, the constituted authorities would take the church-music
into their own hands. Then arose a strife, the end of which had
nearly been to send the gallery off, in a body, headed by the
offended bass-viol, to the small red-brick little Bethel at the
other end of the village. Fortunately the curate had too much
good sense to drive matters to extremities, and so alienate the
parish constable, and a large part of his flock, though he had
not tact or energy enough to bring them round to his own views.
So a compromise was come to; and the curate's choir were allowed
to chant the Psalms and Canticles, which had always been read
before, while the gallery remained triumphant masters of the
regular Psalms.
My readers will now understand why Miss Winter's salutation to
the musical constable was not so cordial as it was to the other
villagers whom they had come across previously.
Indeed, Miss Winter, though she acknowledged the constable's
salutation, did not seem inclined to encourage him to accompany
them, and talk his mind out, although he was going the same way
with them; and, instead of drawing him out, as was her wont in
such cases, went on talking herself to her cousin.
The little man walked out in the road, evidently in trouble of
mind. He did not like to drop behind or go ahead without some
further remark from Miss Winter, and yet could not screw up his
courage to the point of opening the conversation himself. So he
ambled on alongside the footpath on which they were walking,
showing his discomfort by a twist of his neck every few seconds,
and perpetual shiftings of his bass-viol, and hunching up of one
shoulder.
The conversation of the young ladies under these circumstances
was of course forced; and Miss Mary, though infinitely delighted
at the meeting, soon began to pity their involuntary companion.
She was full of the sensitive instinct which the best sort of
women have to such a marvellous extent, and which tells them at
once and infallibly if any one in their company has even a
creased rose-leaf next their moral skin.
Before they had walked a hundred yards she was interceding for
the rebellious constable.
"Katie," she said softly in French, "do speak to him. The poor
man is frightfully uncomfortable."
"It serves him right," answered Miss Winter in the same language;
"you don't know how impertinent he was the other day to Mr.
Walker. And he won't give way on the least point, and leads the
rest of the old singers, and makes them as stubborn as himself."
"But look how he is winking and jerking his head at you. You
really mustn't be so cruel to him, Katie. I shall have to begin
talking to him if you don't."
Thus urged, Miss Winter opened the conversation by asking after
his wife, and when she had ascertained "that his missus wur
pretty middlin," made some other commonplace remark, and relapsed
into silence. By the help of Mary, however, a sort of disjointed
dialogue was kept up till they came to the gate which led up to
the school, into which the children were trooping by twos and
threes. Here the ladies turned in, and were going up the walk
towards the school door, when the constable summoned up courage
to speak on the matter which was troubling him, and, resting the
bass-viol carefully on his right foot, calling out after them,
"Oh, please marm! Miss Winter!"
"Well," she said quietly, turning round, "what do you wish to
say?"
"Why, please mann, I hopes as you don't think I be any ways unked
'bout this here quire singin', as they calls it--I'm sartin you
knows as there ain't amost nothing I wouldn't do to please ee."
"Well, you know how to do it very easily," she said when he
paused. "I don't ask you even to give up your music and try to
work with us, though I think you might have done that. I only ask
you to use some psalms and tunes which are fit to be used in a
church."
"To be sure us ool. 'Taint we as wants no new-fangled tunes; them
as we sings be aal owld ones as ha' been used in our church ever
since I can mind. But you only choose thaay as you likes out o'
the book? and we be ready to kep to thaay."
"I think Mr. Walker made a selection for you some weeks ago,"
said Miss Winter; "did he not?"
"'Ees, but 'tis narra mossel o' use for we to try his 'goriums
and sich like. I hopes you wun't be offended wi' me, miss, for I
be telling nought but truth." He spoke louder as they got nearer
to the school door, and, as they were opening it, shouted his
last shot after them, "'Tis na good to try thaay tunes o' his'n,
miss. When us praises God, us likes to praise un joyful."
"There, you hear that, Mary," said Miss Winter. "You'll soon
begin to see why I look grave. There never was such a hard parish
to manage. Nobody will do what they ought. I never can get them
to do anything. Perhaps we may manage to teach the children
better, that's my only comfort."
"But, Katie dear, what _do_ the poor things sing? Psalms, I
hope."
"Oh yes, but they choose all the odd ones on purpose, I believe.
Which class will you take?"
And so the young ladies settled to their teaching, and the
children in her class all fell in love with Mary before
church-time.
The bass-viol proceeded to the church and did the usual
rehearsals, and gossiped with the sexton, to whom he confided the
fact that the young missus was "terrible vexed." The bells soon
began to ring, and Widow Winburn's heart was glad as she listened
to the full peal, and thought to herself that it was her Harry
who was making so much noise in the world, and speaking to all
the neighborhood. Then the peal ceased as church-time drew near,
and the single bell began, and the congregation came flocking in
from all sides. The farmers, letting their wives and children
enter, gathered round the church porch and compared notes in a
ponderous manner on crops and markets. The labourers collected
near the door by which the gallery was reached. All the men of
the parish seemed to like standing about before church, until
they had seen the clergyman safely inside. He came up with the
school children and the young ladies, and in due course the bell
stopped and the service began. There was a very good congregation
still at Englebourn; the adult generation had been bred up in
times when every decent person in the parish went to church, and
the custom was still strong, notwithstanding the rector's bad
example. He scarcely ever came to church himself in the mornings,
though his wheelchair might be seen going up and down on the
gravel before his house or on the lawn on warm days, and this was
one of his daughter's greatest troubles.
The little choir of children sang admirably, led by the
schoolmistress, and Miss Winter and the curate exchanged
approving glances. They performed the liveliest chant in their
collection, that the opposition might have no cause to complain
of their want of joyfulness. And in turn Miss Winter was in hopes
that, out of deference to her, the usual rule of selection in the
gallery might have been modified. It was with no small annoyance,
therefore, that, after the Litany was over, and the tuning
finished, she heard the clerk give out that they would praise God
by singing part of the ninety-first Psalm. Mary, who was on the
tiptoe of expectation as to what was coming, saw the curate give
a slight shrug with his shoulders and lift of his eyebrows as he
left the reading-desk, and in another minute it became a painful
effort for her to keep from laughing as she slyly watched her
cousin's face; while the gallery sang with vigour worthy of any
cause or occasion--
"On the old lion He shall go,
The adder fell and long;
On the young lion tread also,
With dragons stout and strong."
The trebles took up the last line, and repeated--
"With dragons stout and strong;"
and then the whole strength of the gallery chorused again--
"With _dra-gons_ stout and strong;"
and the bass-viol seemed to her to prolong the notes and to gloat
over them as he droned them out, looking triumphantly at the
distant curate. Mary was thankful to kneel down to compose her
face. The first trial was the severe one, and she got through the
second psalm much better; and by the time Mr. Walker had plunged
fairly into his sermon she was a model of propriety and
sedateness again. But it was to be a Sunday of adventures. The
sermon had scarcely begun when there was a stir down by the door
at the west end, and people began to look round and whisper.
Presently a man came softly up and said something to the clerk;
the clerk jumped up and whispered to the curate, who paused for a
moment with a puzzled look, and, instead of finishing his
sentence, said in a loud voice, "Farmer Groves' house is on
fire!"
The curate probably anticipated the effect of his words; in a
minute he was the only person left in the church except the clerk
and one or two very infirm old folk. He shut up and pocketed his
sermon, and followed his flock.
It proved luckily to be only Farmer Groves' chimney and not his
house which was on fire. The farmhouse was only two fields from
the village, and the congregation rushed across there, Harry
Winburn and two or three of the most active young men and boys
leading. As they entered the yard, the flames were rushing out of
the chimney, and any moment the thatch might take fire. Here was
the real danger. A ladder had just been raised against the
chimney, and, while a frightened farm-girl and a carter-boy held
it at the bottom, a man was going up it carrying a bucket of
water. It shook with his weight, and the top was slipping
gradually along the face of the chimney, and in another moment
would rest against nothing. Harry and his companions saw the
danger at a glance, and shouted to the man to stand still till
they could get to the ladder. They rushed towards him with the
rush which men can only make under strong excitement. The
foremost of them caught a spoke with one hand, but before he
could steady it, the top slipped clear of the chimney, and,
ladder, man, and bucket came heavily to the ground.
Then came a scene of bewildering confusion, as women and children
trooped into the yard--"Who was it?"
"Was he dead?"
"The fire was
catching the thatch."
"The stables were on fire."
"Who did
it?"--all sorts of cries and all sorts of acts except the right
ones. Fortunately two or three of the men, with heads on their
shoulders, soon organized a line for handling buckets; the flue
was stopped below, and Harry Winburn standing nearly at the top
of the ladder, which was now safely planted, was deluging the
thatch round the chimney from the buckets handed up to him. In a
few minutes he was able to pour water down the chimney itself,
and soon afterwards the whole affair was at an end. The farmer's
dinner was spoilt, but otherwise no damage had been done, except
to the clothes of the foremost men; and the only accident was
that first fall from the ladder.
The man had been carried out of the yard while the fire was still
burning; so that it was hardly known who it was.
Now, in answer to their inquiries, it proved to be old Simon, the
rector's gardener and head man, who had seen the fire, and sent
the news to the church, while he himself went to the spot, with
such result as we have seen.
The surgeon had not yet seen him. Some declared he was dead;
others, that he was sitting up at home, and quite well. Little by
little the crowd dispersed to Sunday's dinners; when they met
again before the afternoon's service, it was ascertained that
Simon was certainly not dead, but all else was still nothing more
than rumor. Public opinion was much divided, some holding that it
would go hard with a man of his age and heft; but the common
belief seemed to be that he was of that sort "as'd take a deal o'
killin'," and that he would be none the worse for such a fall as
that.
The two young ladies had been much shocked at the accident, and
had accompanied the hurdle on which old Simon was carried to his
cottage door; after afternoon service they went round by the
cottage to inquire. The two girls knocked at the door, which was
opened by his wife, who dropped a curtsey and smoothed down her
Sunday apron when she found who were her visitors.
She seemed at first a little unwilling to let them in; but Miss
Winter pressed so kindly to see her husband, and Mary made such
sympathizing eyes at her, that the old woman gave in, and
conducted them through the front room into that beyond, where the
patient lay.
"I hope as you'll excuse it, miss, for I knows the place do smell
terrible bad of baccer; only my old man he said as how-"
"Oh, never mind, we don't care at all about the smell. Poor
Simon! I'm sure if it does him any good, or soothes the pain, I
shall be glad to buy him some tobacco myself."
The old man was lying on the bed, with his coat and boots off,
and a worsted nightcap of his wife's knitting pulled on to his
head. She had tried hard to get him to go to bed at once, and
take some physic, and his present costume and position was the
compromise. His back was turned to them as they entered, and he
was evidently in pain, for he drew his breath heavily and with
difficulty, and gave a sort of groan at every respiration. He did
not seem to notice their entrance; so his wife touched him on the
shoulder, and said, "Simon, here's the young ladies come to see
how you be."
Simon turned himself round, and winced and groaned as he pulled
off his nightcap in token of respect.
"We didn't like to go home without coming to see how you were,
Simon. Has the doctor been?"
"Oh, yes, thank'ee, miss. He've a been and feel'd un all over,
and listened at the chest on un," said his wife.
"And what did he say?"
"He zem'd to zay as there wur no bwones bruk--ugh, ugh," put in
Simon, who spoke his native tongue with a buzz, imported from
farther west, "but a couldn't zay wether or no there warn't som
infarnal injury-"
"Etarnal, Simon, etarnal!" interrupted his wife; "how canst use
such words afore the young ladies?"
"I tell'ee wife, as 'twur infarnal--ugh, ugh," retorted the
gardener.
"Internal injury?" suggested Miss Winter. "I'm very sorry to hear
it."
"Zummut inside o' me like, as wur got out o' place," explained
Simon; "and I thenks a must be near about the mark, for I feels
mortal bad here when I tries to move;" and he put his hand on his
side. "Hows'm'ever, as there's no bwones bruk, I hopes to be
about to-morrow mornin', please the Lord--ugh, ugh."
"You mustn't think of it, Simon," said Miss Winter. "You must be
quite quiet for a week, at least, till you get rid of this pain."
"So I tells un, Miss Winter," put in the wife. "You hear what the
young missus says, Simon?"
"And wut's to happen to Tiny?" said the contumacious Simon,
scornfully. "Her'll cast her calf, and me not by. Her's calving
maybe this minut. Tiny's time were up, miss, two days back, and
her's never no gurt while arter her time."
"She will do very well, I dare say," said Miss Winter, "One of
the men can look after her."
The notion of anyone else attending Tiny in her interesting
situation seemed to excite Simon beyond bearing, for he raised
himself on one elbow, and was about to make a demonstration with
his other hand, when the pain seized him again, and he sank back
groaning.
"There, you see, Simon, you can't move without pain. You must be
quiet till you have seen the doctor again."
"There's the red spider out along the south wall--ugh, ugh,"
persisted Simon, without seeming to hear her; "and your new
g'raniums a'most covered wi' blight. I wur a tacklin' one of 'em
just afore you cum in."
Following the direction indicated by his nod, the girls became
aware of a plant by his bedside, which he had been fumigating,
for his pipe was leaning against the flower-pot in which it
stood.
"He wouldn't lie still nohow, miss," explained his wife, "till I
went and fetched un in a pipe and one o' thaay plants from the
greenhouse."
"It was very thoughtful of you, Simon," said Miss Winter; "you
know how much I prize these new plants; but we will manage them;
and you mustn't think of these things now. You have had a
wonderful escape to-day for a man of your age. I hope we shall
find that there is nothing much the matter with you after a few
days, but you might have been killed you know. You ought to be
very thankful to God that you were not killed in that fall."
"So I be, miss, werry thankful to un--ugh, ugh;--and if it please
the Lord to spare my life till to-morrow mornin',--ugh,
ugh,--we'll smoke them cussed insects."
This last retort of the incorrigible Simon on her cousin's
attempt, as the rector's daughter, to improve the occasion, was
too much for Miss Mary, and she slipped out of the room, lest she
should bring disgrace on herself by an explosion of laughter. She
was joined by her cousin in another minute, and the two walked
together toward the Rectory.
"I hope you were not faint, dear, with that close room, smelling
of smoke?"
"Oh, dear, no; to tell you the truth, I was only afraid of
laughing at your quaint old patient. What a rugged old dear he
is. I hope he isn't much hurt."
"I hope not, indeed; for he is the most honest, faithful old
servant in the world, but so obstinate. He never will go to
church on Sunday mornings; and, when I speak to him about it, he
says papa doesn't go, which is very wrong and impertinent of
him."