Daddy Darwin had made the first breach in his solitary life of his own
free will, but it was fated to widen. The parson's daughter soon heard
that he had got a lad from the workhouse, the very boy who sang so well
and had climbed the walnut-tree to look at Daddy Darwin's pigeons. The
most obvious parish questions at once presented themselves to the young
lady's mind. "Had the boy been christened? Did he go to Church and
Sunday School? Did he say his prayers and know his Catechism? Had he a
Sunday suit? Would he do for the choir?"
Then, supposing (a not uncommon case) that the boy _had_ been
christened, _said_ he said his prayers, _knew_ his Catechism,
and _was_ ready for school, church, and choir, but had not got a
Sunday suit--a fresh series of riddles propounded themselves to her busy
brain. Would her father yield up his everyday coat and take his Sunday
one into weekday wear? Could the charity bag do better than pay the
tailor's widow for adapting this old coat to the new chorister's back,
taking it in at the seams, turning it wrong-side out, and getting new
sleeves out of the old tails? Could she herself spare the boots which
the village cobbler had just re-soled for her--somewhat clumsily--and
would the "allowance" bag bear this strain? Might she hope to coax an
old pair of trowsers out of her cousin, who was spending his Long
Vacation at the Vicarage, and who never reckoned very closely with
_his_ allowance, and kept no charity bag at all? Lastly would "that
old curmudgeon at the Dovecot" let his little farm-boy go to church and
school and choir?
"I must go and persuade him," said the young lady.
What she said, and what (at the time) Daddy Darwin said, Jack never
knew. He was at high sport with the terrier round the big sweet-brier
bush, when he saw his old master slitting the seams of his
weather-beaten coat in the haste with which he plucked crimson clove
carnations as if they had been dandelions, and presented them, not
ungracefully, to the parson's daughter.
Jack knew why she had come, and strained his ears to catch his own name.
But Daddy Darwin was promising pipings of the cloves.
"They are such dear old-fashioned things," said she, burying her nose in
the bunch.
"We're old-fashioned altogether, here, Miss," said Daddy Darwin, looking
wistfully at the tumble-down house behind them.
"You're very pretty here," said she, looking also, and thinking what a
sketch it would make, if she could keep on friendly terms with this old
recluse, and get leave to sit in the garden. Then her conscience smiting
her for selfishness, she turned her big eyes on him and put out her
small hand.
"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Darwin, very much obliged to you
indeed. And I hope that Jack will do credit to your kindness. And thank
you so much for the cloves," she added, hastily changing a subject which
had cost some argument, and which she did not wish to have reopened.
Daddy Darwin had thoughts of reopening it. He was slowly getting his
ideas together to say that the lad should see how he got along with the
school before trying the choir, when he found the young lady's hand in
his, and had to take care not to hurt it, whilst she rained thanks on
him for the flowers.
"You're freely welcome, Miss," was what he did say after all.
In the evening, however, he was very moody, but Jack was dying of
curiosity, and at last could contain himself no longer.
"What did Miss Jenny want, Daddy?" he asked.
The old man looked very grim.
"First to make a fool of me, and i' t' second place to make a fool of
thee," was his reply. And he added with pettish emphasis, "They're all
alike, gentle and simple. Lad, lad! If ye'd have any peace of your life
never let a woman's foot across your threshold. Steek t' door of your
house--if ye own one--and t' door o' your heart--if ye own one--and then
ye'll never rue. Look at this coat!"
And the old man went grumpily to bed, and dreamed that Miss Jenny had
put her little foot over his threshold, and that he had shown her the
secret panel, and let her take away his savings.
And Jack went to bed, and dreamed that he went to school, and showed
himself to Phoebe Shaw in his Sunday suit.
This dainty little damsel had long been making havoc in Jack's heart.
The attraction must have been one of contrast, for whereas Jack was
black and grubby, and had only week-day clothes--which were ragged at
that--Phoebe was fair, and exquisitely clean, and quite terribly tidy.
Her mother was the neatest woman in the parish. It was she who was wont
to say to her trembling handmaid, "I hope I can black a grate without
blacking myself." But little Phoebe promised so far to out-do her
mother, that it seemed doubtful if she could "black herself" if she
tried. Only the bloom of childhood could have resisted the polishing
effects of yellow soap, as Phoebe's brow and cheeks did resist it. Her
shining hair was--compressed into a plait that would have done credit to
a rope-maker. Her pinafores were speckless, and as to her white Whitsun
frock--Jack could think of nothing the least like Phoebe in that, except
a snowy fantail strutting about the Dovecot roof; and, to say the truth,
the likeness was most remarkable.
It has been shown that Jack March had a mind to be master of his fate,
and he did succeed in making friends with little Phoebe Shaw. This was
before Miss Jenny's visit, but the incident shall be recorded here.
Early on Sunday mornings it was Jack's custom to hide his work-day garb
in an angle of the ivy-covered wall of the Dovecot garden, only letting
his head appear over the top, from whence he watched to see Phoebe pass
on her way to Sunday School, and to bewilder himself with the sight of
her starched frock, and her airs with her Bible and Prayer-book, and
class card, and clean pocket-handkerchief.
Now, amongst the rest of her Sunday paraphernalia, Phoebe always carried
a posy, made up with herbs and some strong smelling flowers.
Countrywomen take mint and southernwood to a long hot service, as fine
ladies take smelling-bottles (for it is a pleasant delusion with some
writers that the weaker sex is a strong sex in the working classes). And
though Phoebe did not suffer from "fainty feels" like her mother, she
and her little playmates took posies to Sunday School, and refreshed
their nerves in the stream of question and answer, and hair oil and
corduroy, with all the airs of their elders.
One day she lost her posy on her way to school, and her loss was Jack's
opportunity. He had been waiting half-an-hour among the ivy, when he saw
her just below him, fuzzling round and round like a kitten chasing
its tail. He sprang to the top of the wall.
"Have ye lost something?" he gasped.
"My posy," said poor Phoebe, lifting her sweet eyes, which were full of
tears.
A second spring brought Jack into the dust at her feet, where he
searched most faithfully, and was wandering along the path by which she
had come, when she called him back.
"Never mind," she said. "They'll most likely be dusty by now."
Jack was not used to think the worse of anything for a coating of dust;
but he paused, trying to solve the perpetual problem of his situation,
and find out what the little maid really wanted.
"'Twas only Old Man and marygolds," said she. "They're common enough."
A light illumined Jack's understanding.
"We've Old Man i' plenty. Wait, and I'll get thee a fresh posy." And he
began to reclimb the wall.
But Phoebe drew nearer. She stroked down her frock, and spoke mincingly
but confidentially. "My mother says Daddy Darwin has red bergamot i' his
garden. We've none i' ours. My mother always says there's nothing like
red bergamot to take to church. She says it's a deal more refreshing
than Old Man, and not so common. My mother says she's always meaning to
ask Daddy Darwin to let us have a root to set; but she doesn't often see
him, and when she does she doesn't think on. But she always says there's
nothing like red bergamot, and my Aunt Nancy, she says the same."
"_Red_ is it?" cried Jack. "You wait there, love." And before
Phoebe could say him nay, he was over the wall and back again with his
arms full.
"Is it any o' this lot?" he inquired, dropping a small haycock of
flowers at her feet.
"Don't ye know one from t'other?" asked Phoebe, with round eyes of
reproach. And spreading her clean kerchief on the grass she laid her
Bible and Prayer-book and class card on it, and set vigorously and
nattily to work, picking one flower and another from the fragrant
confusion, nipping the stalks to even lengths, rejecting withered
leaves, and instructing Jack as she proceeded.
"I suppose ye know a rose? That's a double velvet.[4] They dry sweeter
than lavender for linen. These dark red things is pheasants' eyes; but,
dear, dear, what a lad! Ye'd dragged it up by the roots! And eh! what
will Master Darwin say when he misses these pink hollyhocks And only in
bud, too! _There's_ red Bergamot: smell it!"[5]
[Footnote 4: Double velvet, an old summer rose, not common now It is
described by Parkinson.]
[Footnote 5: Red Bergamot, or Twinflower; _Monarda Didyma_.]
It had barely touched Jack's willing nose when it was hastily withdrawn.
Phoebe had caught sight of Polly and Susan Smith coming to school, and
crying that she should be late and must run, the little maid picked up
her paraphernalia (not forgetting the red bergamot), and fled down the
lane. And Jack, with equal haste, snatched up the tell-tale heap of
flowers and threw them into a disused pig-sty, where it was unlikely
that Daddy Darwin would go to look for his poor pink hollyhocks.