The Project Gutenberg eBook ofStepping WestwardThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Stepping WestwardAuthor: M. E. FrancisRelease date: November 28, 2021 [eBook #66833]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STEPPING WESTWARD ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Stepping WestwardAuthor: M. E. FrancisRelease date: November 28, 2021 [eBook #66833]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler
Title: Stepping Westward
Author: M. E. Francis
Author: M. E. Francis
Release date: November 28, 2021 [eBook #66833]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Credits: This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STEPPING WESTWARD ***
This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler
In a North Country Village
The Story of Dan
A Daughter of the Soil
Maime o’ the Corner
Frieze and Fustian
Among the Untrodden Ways
Miss Erin
The Duenna of a Genius
Yeoman Fleetwood
Fiander’s Widow
The Manor Farm
Christian Thal
Lychgate Hall
Dorset Dear
Wild Wheat
Simple Annals
BY
M. E. FRANCIS
(MrsFRANCIS BLUNDELL)
METHUEN & CO.36 ESSEX STREET W.C.LONDON
First Published in 1907
TOMY DEAR FRIENDELINOR, LADY D’OYLYKNOWN AND BELOVED BY DORSET FOLK OF ALL GRADES,AND ALL AGES
“Write me as one who loves his fellow-men.”
“Write me as one who loves his fellow-men.”
PAGE
Tranter Sally
1
“Lwonesome Lizzie”
17
Jess Domeny on Strike
47
“Jarge’s Little ’Ooman”
70
Ann-Car’line
86
One Another’s Burdens
105
How Ned Blanchard Emigrated
120
Farmer Barnes’ Dilemma
150
The Missus’s Chair
172
The Rules o’ The House
187
Lady Lucy
209
APrisoner of War
244
Through the Cottage Window
257
April Fools
277
Thewayside hedgerow, gay with its autumn tints, stretched its undulating length beside the rather stony lane that wound upwards from the high road, and lost itself amid a multiplicity of sheep-tracks on the down.
It was one of those mild days that here in the south country cheat the fancy with their likeness, not merely to spring, but to summer. The sky was blue and cloudless; the birds were singing; the banks were still starred with many flowers: crane’s-bill, mallow and scabious. Here and there the gorse was blooming afresh, and new blossoms of guelder-rose surmounted, incongruously enough, twigs with claret-coloured leaves that dropped at a touch. Here, indeed, the finger of autumn had left its trace, and all along the hedge were tokens of its magic. Such miracles of colour as the conjurer had wrought this year are rarely to be seen: such goldens and ambers, such scarlets and crimsons; stretching away beyond the hedge were fields still silvery with night-dews, and woods shining with the incomparable burnish of the season.
Sol Bowditch, the hedger, had no eyes for any of these beauties, however; under the strokes of thatuncompromising bill-hook of his the glories of the hedge were shorn. Bending his vigorous young body backwards, he threw all his strength into the task, and with each rhythmical swing of his sturdy arm a fresh victim fell. Now a branch of maple that seemed to shower stars as it dropped; now a jagged wild-rose, heavily laden with ruby provender which later on might have made many a starving bird happy; now a hazel-twig with a few belated nuts still clinging to their shrivelled wrappings; now, with quick sharp strokes, making short work of hawthorn and privet; again tearing, rather than cutting with his hook, long-tufted tendrils of jewelled bryony or hoary traveller’s-joy.
Thus was beauty laid low and nature’s kindly forethought set at nought. Farmer House cared little for the poetical aspect of things, and still less for the wants of the singing-birds; being apt, indeed, to speak of all wild creatures in a lump as “dratted varmint.” It was Sol Bowditch’s duty to please Farmer House, and so between them the birds’ winter store was trampled under foot or scattered to the winds.
Sol Bowditch was a stranger, having recently tramped hither all the way from Bridport in search of work; but though he had travelled on foot and carried his worldly goods in a small bundle, he was unquestionably an honest and respectable young fellow. No one who looked at his brown face and clear eyes could doubt that fact, and as for the manner in which he wielded his bill-hook it was, as the farmer said, a treat to see him.
It wanted yet an hour or two of dinner-time when Sol, having paused a moment to finish tearing away an obstinate tangle of bryony, was startled by the approaching sound of wheels; and, looking up, saw the rim of the green hood of a carrier’s cart slowly rounding the corner of the lane from the point where it descended from the down. The horse was apparently very old, for it proceeded slowly; and the vehicle creaked and jolted as if it too were ancient. As it jogged nearer Sol saw that it contained but a single occupant, that of the girl-driver, and when it came nearer yet he observed that she was young and pretty; her face, with its clear, yet delicate colouring, framed in curling brown hair, standing out against the background of the old green “shed” like a picture, as he said to himself. The girl’s eyes rested on him for a moment as she jogged past, and he jerked his head at her sideways in a manner which implied as plainly as words: “Good day.” She nodded back at him brightly, yet modestly, and the vehicle, which was, as Sol observed, filled with packages of various sizes, went rattling on its downward way, the horse stumbling and sliding every now and then, and being admonished in a high, clear treble.
Dinner-time came, and rest, and then work again, and finally, with a suddenness proper to the time of year, dusk. Sol was just in the act of putting on his coat preparatory to leaving the scene of his labours, when he caught sight, in the far distance, of a wavering light, and presently heard the creaking and rattling of an ancient vehicle whichhe inwardly decided to be the carrier’s cart returning.
It was indeed the only cart of any kind which had passed his way that day. As he picked up his bill-hook and walked slowly to meet it, for his homeward path must perforce take him past it, he could see the outline of the girl’s figure, and observe that it was bent forward; her voice at the same time was uplifted as if in anxiety or distress.
“Dear, to be sure! Whatever must I do now? Come up, Di’mond, you’re shammin’. No, he bain’t, poor beast.”
Just as Sol was a pace or two away she threw the reins on the horse’s back and leaped to the ground, the animal immediately halting.
“What be the matter here?” enquired Sol, as she lifted the lantern from its place and ran round to the other side.
“Oh, I don’t know. He mid ha’ picked up a stone or summat, or he mid only be lazy—you never can tell wi’ he. Hold up, Diamond. That’s all right; hold up again.”
“There’s a stone,” cried Sol eagerly, “and wedged so tight as anything. ’Tis so big as a happle—I wonder it didn’t throw en.”
“Stand!” cried the girl, still in an exasperated tone, as she deposited the lantern on the ground, and hunted about for a larger stone wherewith to dislodge the pebble which was indeed jammed in Diamond’s hind hoof.
“Here, let me,” said Sol. “Keep your fingers out o’ the way else I’ll be a-hammerin’ o’ they.”
The rays of the lantern, striking upwards, revealed a flashing smile which belied the seeming gruffness of tone and words.
The girl straightened herself and stood back:—“Don’t be long about it, that’s all!” said she. “I’m late as it is—and tired just about!”
“Why, what be you a-doin’ travellin’ the roads so late?” enquired Sol, as he struck at the recalcitrant pebble.
“I do travel the road every day,” returned she. “I do get my livin’ by it. I’m a tranter.”
Sol was so much astonished by the announcement that he was obliged to look up, whereupon Diamond immediately jerked away his hoof.
“I never did hear of a maid bein’ a tranter afore!” remarked the hedger with a grin.
“An’ what ’ud ye say to a old ’ooman of seventy-five bein’ a tranter then?” returned she triumphantly. “My grammer have only just left off a-drivin’ o’ this ’ere cart, an’ now I do do it. E-es, we’ve done all the trantin’ in our place for nigh upon fifty year, I mid say.”
“There! well now,” commented Sol, as he recaptured the hoof, and resumed his labours.
“E-es, my granfer begun it, an’ then when he died my father kept it on, an’ when he died my grammer took it up, an’ now I do do it. Can’t ye shift that stone?”
“He be coming,” returned Sol. “’Tis queer work for a maid, an’ lwonesome too.”
“’Tis a bit lwonesome just about here,” she agreed. “I do generally have company part of the time, but nobody comes our ways much, an’ this ’ere bit o’lane an’ the track over the down is lwonesome, once it do get so dark.”
“There he goes!” exclaimed Sol, as the stone, yielding to an especially vigorous tap, dropped into the road. “I’ll walk a bit alongside of ’ee in case the harse should go lame or anything.”
“Oh, no need to come so far out of your road,” returned she. “I’ll not trouble you.”
Sol, without heeding this protest, picked up the lantern, and restored it to its place, and then extended a hand to assist the girl to mount. She accepted his help, seated herself, and gathered up the reins once more.
“Good night, and thank ye,” said she.
“I’m comin’ part o’ the road wi’ ye,” said Sol, exactly as if he had made no such suggestion before.
She chirruped to the horse and it plodded on, Sol’s tall figure keeping pace with it. Presently he rested one hand upon the shaft, the lantern-light revealing how strong it was, and brown.
“My name’s Solomon Bowditch,” he remarked.
“Oh, an’ be it?” she returned faintly.
“E-es. What be yours?”
“Sally Roberts.”
“Tranter Sally,” remarked Sol with a laugh.
“They call me that sometimes,” she conceded. “Here we be at the top of the hill, Mr Bowditch. I be goin’ to make en trot now.”
“I can trot too,” said Sol, and indeed his long legs carried him along at a pace that shamed the shambling efforts of poor Diamond.
Sally protested, scolded, and finally laughed: Soltook no notice of any of these modes of procedure, his tall figure jogged along at the same steady pace, just a little in front of the hood, so that the light fell full on his honest good-humoured face, and broad-shouldered frame. The cart went bumping and jolting over the uneven down track, now threading its way between patches of firs, now rounding a copse of stunted trees. At last a few twinkling lights came in view, shining fitfully from a not far distant hollow.
“That’s our place,” said Sally, pointing with her whip.
“You’re safe now, then,” returned Sol. “They’d hear ye if ye was to holler. Good night.”
And with that he turned, and disappeared into the dusk, before she had time to thank him.
On the following day, at the same time, Tranter Sally jogged past Hedger Sol, and Sol looked up with a friendly word, and Sally smiled down rather shyly. When dusk came and the van was jogging home again, a tall, dark figure suddenly loomed beside it.
“I be a-goin’ to keep ye company along the lwonely bit,” remarked Sol.
“’Tis too much trouble, I’m sure,” returned Sally, but she made no further protest.
The next day the same order of procedure held good, but on the following morning no Sol appeared in the lane, for the hedge which bordered it was shorn as close as a stubble-field. Sally looked about her eagerly, but detecting no signs of life, continued her journey with somewhat depressed spirits.
Nevertheless, in the evening, as the van slowly mounted the hill, she heard the sound of hasty steps behind her, and was presently overtaken by Sol.
“Did ye think I wasn’t comin’?” he enquired.
“I didn’t think anything about you,” returned Sally, mendaciously.
“Well, I’ve come, an’ what’s more I be a-goin’ to go on comin’ so long as it be so dark. It bain’t fit for a maid to go travellin’ alone so late.”
“I can take care o’ myself, thank ye,” returned Sally.
“No, no,” cried Sol with conviction, “no maid can do that. They was meant to be took care on, an’ I be a-goin’ to take care o’ you.”
Sally tossed her head.
“Perhaps I’ve other folks to take care o’ me if I choose to call ’em,” she remarked.
Indeed it would not have been in girlish nature to submit to the masterful manner in which Sol took possession of her.
“Be you a-keepin’ company wi’ somebody?” enquired Sol with some anxiety. “Because there’s no use my comin’ so far out o’ my road if ye be. I be workin’ over t’other side o’ the farm now that this ’ere job’s finished, an’ I’ve gone into a new lodgin’-there’s no use my wastin’ my time, my maid, if—”
“Oh, I’m sure I don’t want ye to waste no time on my account!” cried Sally.
Her voice was unsteady, and she blinked hard to keep back the tears. No maid, she saidto herself, would like to be courted after such a fashion.
Sol sighed impatiently. As a practical man he was anxious to ascertain his position.
“Be there?” he enquired, with a self-restraint that was palpable and exasperating, “Be there another chap a-lookin’ arter ye, or bain’t there?”
As a matter of fact there was not, but Sally was not the girl to admit it. She remained, therefore, obstinately mute.
“Now look ’ee here, my maid,” resumed Sol, after a full minute’s pause. “I must have a answer to this ’ere question afore things get any forrarder. I’ll give ’ee till to-morrow to think it over, and then it must be ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ If ye’ve got a young man of your own then ye may cry ‘hands off,’ an’ I’ll let ’ee alone. If ye haven’t—there bain’t no reason in life why you an’ me shouldn’t start keepin’ company reg’lar. So think it over, maidie.”
Having now reached the top of the slope, Sally whipped up Diamond, and the horse proceeded at its usual trot, Sol jogging beside it according to his custom. When Sally’s home came in sight he disappeared into the darkness with a cheery good night, leaving Sally disconcerted, angry, and sorely perplexed.
She already liked Sol very much; she would probably like him more when she had time and opportunity to study his character, but to be pressed thus to come to a definite decision at so short a notice—it was unfair—it was cruel! Above all to be forced to own straight out that she had no otherlover—how could she bring herself to make such a humiliating confession?
Very little did Sally sleep that night, and when she looked up in the morning from her untasted breakfast and announced that she had a headache, she was sufficiently pale to alarm her grandmother.
“I don’t think I can ever go joggin’ off in that wold cart to-day,” continued Sally, dismally. “Couldn’t you go, grammer, for once? ’Tis a lovely day, look see, an’ there bain’t so much doin’ of a Tuesday.”
“Well, to be sure,” grumbled the old woman, “’tis a pretty notion. What’s to become o’ the wash if I’m to go a-traipsin’ round the country wi’ the cart?”
“Oh, I’ll manage the wash!” cried Sally, eagerly. “The steam ’ull do me good, I think. ’Tis the neuralgy what be a-troublin’ of I. I’ll finish the washin’, an’ get on wi’ the ironin’, if ye’ll let me, grammer?”
Mrs Roberts assented, after much murmuring and a good deal of sarcastic comment on the “neshness” of the rising generation. There was never no talk of newralgy or oldralgy neither when she was a maid, she said, an’ she was sure she didn’t know what the world was a-comin’ to.
Nevertheless she duly started off, encasing her spare figure in Sally’s warm jacket, and covering her head with an old sailor hat which had once belonged to the girl. Sally, indeed, had pressed these articles upon her grandmother with an exuberance of affection which had somewhat mollified thatold lady, and stood leaning against the door-post as Diamond and the van jogged out of sight. Her face was pink enough to denote that the “newralgy” was not in a very acute stage, and all at once she burst into a fit of laughter, and clapped her hands.
It was darker even than usual when Mrs Roberts, much exhausted after her round, set forth on her return journey. She drew back as far as possible into the shelter of the “shed,” and let the reins drop loosely over Diamond’s back as he crawled slowly up the stony lane so often mentioned. Presently, to her great surprise, a figure leaped out from the shelter of the bank, and accosted her.
“I thought you was never comin’!” cried a man’s voice.
Grammer Roberts checked the exclamation which rose to her lips, and flattened herself yet more against the side of the hood, but she made no audible remark. To herself, however, she observed: “Ho! ho! Miss Sally.”
Diamond continued his progress as though nothing unusual had happened, and the newcomer paced beside him.
“There’s no use your holding your tongue, my dear,” he continued, after a pause, “because I’m going to have an answer, one way or another.”
“A answer!” commented Mrs Roberts to herself. “He’ve a-been makin’ the maid a offer.”
“It must be ‘yes’ or ‘no,’” continued Sol firmly. “If ye don’t say nothin’ I’ll take that for a answer. Now listen to I—”
Grammer Roberts was not very quick of hearing, but she strained her ears to the utmost.
“I’ll give ’ee till we get to the top of the lane, an’ if by that time ye haven’t spoke I’ll take it ye’re willin’ to keep company wi’ I. If there’s another chap about ye, ye must make up your mind to say so.”
“There bain’t no other chap as I know on,” reflected Mrs Roberts, “but I’d like to know a bit more about this one.”
As though in obedience to her unspoken wish, Sol, after another pause, proceeded to set forth his circumstances.
“I bain’t much of a match for ’ee, I dare say—”
Grammer shifted uneasily on her seat: she was sorry to hear that.
“But you mid go further an’ fare worse. I’m earnin’ sixteen shillin’ a-week wi’ the promise of a rise at Lady Day.”
The battered sailor hat nodded approvingly in the shadow.
“I’ve not got no dibs save—”
“That’s bad,” commented Grammer inwardly; “a few dibs ’ud ha come in handy.”
“In fact I tramped here from Bridport wi’ just the clothes on my back.”
“I don’t like that,” said Mrs Roberts to herself; “there were never no tramps in our family.”
“’Twas my mother’s long sickness what cleared out all my savin’s. I couldn’t deny the poor wold body anythin’.”
Here Mrs Roberts’ countenance assumed a benignexpression: it spoke well for the young man that he should be so considerate to the old and weak.
“I’m young, I’m strong,” summed up Sol energetically; “I’ll look after you so kind as I can if you’re willin’ to keep company wi’ I, an’ I’ll make ye a lovin’ husband when the time comes for us to be married. Here we be at the top of the lane now, and as ye haven’t spoke, I d’ ’low ye’re willin’ to take me.”
Mrs Roberts jerked at the reins, but she was not quick enough for Sol, who in a moment leaped into the cart, and took up his position beside her.
“Now then, my maid,” he cried jubilantly, “we’re sweethearts.”
And with that he flung his arm round her waist, and endeavoured to plight his troth in the usual way.
But to his surprise, not to say stupefaction, a shrill cackle of laughter fell upon his ears, and his advances were repelled by a vigorous thrust of a hand that was certainly not Sally’s.
“Dear, to be sure!” cried a quavering voice. “Did ever anybody hear the like? There now! well, well! Dear heart alive! I d’ ’low you don’t know your own mind, young man.”
Still crowing with uncanny laughter, she stretched out her wrinkled hand, detached the lantern from its hook, and held it up to her face.
“Well, I’m—I’m dalled!” exclaimed Sol, utterly dumbfounded.
“Ho! ho! ho!” cackled grammer. “Shall I speak out now, or be it too late? I d’ ’low ’tis too late an’ we be sweethearts.”
“Here! wait! whoa!” cried Sol, distractedly. “Let me out!”
“Nay, now,” returned grammer, clutching him by the arm, “bide a bit, bide a bit. Don’t be in sich a hurry. P’raps there’s a little mistake.”
“There’s a mistake, an’ not such a very little one,” replied Sol, indignantly.
“You was a-lookin’ for another tranter, I reckon,” resumed grammer, archly. “Maybe you was a-lookin’ for Tranter Sally.”
“Maybe I was,” admitted Sol, relaxing.
“She’s my granddarter,” remarked the old lady.
“Oh!” said Sol, stiffening again. “She needn’t ha’ served me sich a trick then,” he added somewhat inconsequently. “She needn’t ha’ made a fool o’ me! Any man mid be made a fool on that way.”
“True,” agreed Mrs Roberts soothingly, “you was made a fool on, jist about!”
“I d’ ’low I’ll get out now,” announced Sol for the second time, with sulky dignity.
“No, no, bide a bit. ’Tis lwonely here, an’ ye know ye did promise to take care of I—he, he, he!”
After a moment’s struggle Sol, too, broke forth into irrepressible laughter, and as the cart jolted over the downs the mingled sounds of their mirth astonished the sleepy wild things.
Mrs Roberts was the first to compose herself.
“So you be a-earnin’ sixteen shillin’ a week!” she remarked, sitting up and wiping her eyes.
“Yes, sixteen shillin’ a week and the promise of a rise.”
“We’ve a-got a nice little place down yonder,”resumed grammer; “a tidy bit o’ ground, too, but it wants a man to see to’t.”
“Oh, do it?” said Sol, in a non-committal way.
“It do! Ye haven’t got no money saved, I think ye said?”
“Mrs Roberts,” cried Sal desperately, “will ye tell me straight out, or will ye not? Be there another chap a-hanging round Sally?”
“Ye’d best ax her!” chuckled the old woman. “Ax her same as ye did ax me, an’ tell her if she means ‘no’ she must say it. We be just there now.”
The cart, indeed, now began to rattle down the path which led to the hollow, and presently Mrs Roberts pulled up.
“Bide there,” she whispered in Sol’s ear, “bide where ye be, an’ I’ll send her out to ye.”
“Must I unhitch Di’mond?” enquired Sally, appearing at the open door.
The firelight from within turned her fair hair to gold and outlined her slight figure. Sol felt the last trace of resentment melt as he looked at her.
“E-es, you can unhitch, my dear; an’ there’s a bit o’ rubbish in the cart what ye can have if ye fancy.”
“A bit o’ rubbish!” ejaculated the girl, pausing on the threshold.
“E-es, a bit o’ rubbish what was give me, but what I haven’t got no use for—so I make a present of en to you, my dear.”
And with that Grammer Roberts clambered down, and hurried into the house, exploding with laughter as she went.
Though she was discreet enough to leave the young couple to their own devices, she could not wholly conquer her curiosity as to the issue between them, and, pausing just behind the door, listened eagerly.
A startled cry, a man’s voice talking eagerly, a peal of laughter—and then silence.
“Sixteen shillin’ a week!” meditated grammer. “I hope they won’t forget to unhitch the harse!”
Itwas late on a bright spring afternoon when Mrs Caines betook herself to a certain out-of-the-way wood, in the midst of which her mother’s cottage was situated. This wood lay at a considerable distance from the high road, and the nearest approach to it was across a number of ploughed fields, so that Phoebe Caines was hot and somewhat exhausted when she at last reached the longed-for friendly and familiar shade. There was a high wind that March day, and Phoebe’s face had been blistered alike by it and the sun as she toiled along the road proper. Even in the fields the light soil, newly harrowed, had been caught up now and then by the mischievous wind and dashed into eyes and hair.
But here was the wood at length, and the narrow little moss-grown path along which she had so often tripped as a child. Phoebe had been born and bred in that wood, as had her mother before her. The queer little thatched cottage in which the latter dwelt had been the old keeper’s house, and there Mrs Sweetapple had first seen the light. Her father had been keeper in those far-away days, and both her husbands had been keepers too. If she had been blest with a son he would doubtless have followed the family traditions; but Phoebe was her only child, and the grand new two-storied brickhouse which the Squire had built at a quarter of a mile’s distance from the old cottage was inhabited by a stranger.
The Squire had not had the heart to turn out old Lizzie Sweetapple, who was allowed to live on in her tumble-down abode, and to keep cocks and hens in the empty kennels, and even to fancy herself extremely useful by bringing up a certain number of pheasants. No hens were ever so conveniently broody as Lizzie’s, no pens so carefully sheltered, no young broods so well watched or tenderly nurtured.
Mrs Sweetapple—“Lwonesome Lizzie,” as her few acquaintances laughingly called her—was quite a celebrated personage in the neighbourhood, and though her apparently desolate plight won her much commiseration, she herself never complained of her solitude.
But Daughter Phoebe did not approve of the existing state of things, and frequently endeavoured to induce her mother to take up her residence with her. The little pension allowed her by the Squire would more than pay for her keep, and why not tend children, of whom Mrs Caines possessed “a plenty,” as well as cocks and pheasants? It was dangerous for her, living so entirely alone at her age, where nobody could look after her if she were taken ill; and if there were an accident, such as setting the house on fire or breaking her leg, nobody would be the wiser.
Though the old woman had hitherto stoutly refused to contemplate any such possibility as illness or mischance, and resolutely announced herintention of remaining where she was, Phoebe returned to the charge periodically, and the present expedition was undertaken with the view of shaking her mother’s determination.
Being a practical person, she wasted no time in looking about her now, but pressed on with as much speed as she could muster, occasionally repeating over to herself the arguments by means of which she hoped to convince the old woman.
Yet indeed the scene was lovely enough to have tempted a less business-like person to dally on her way. The young grass was springing up beneath the budding trees on one side, while on the other the ground was strewn with fir-needles and last year’s beech-leaves. Grass and moss were alike emerald green, withered leaves and needles copper and gold. These tints were repeated again on the trunks of Scotch firs, on the boughs of the heavily-clothed spruces; while the elders and a few stray thorns had borrowed the living green of the herbage below. The sycamores were brave with little crimson tufts, and the larches most glorious of all at this hour, raising as they did their delicate tracery of pendant twigs against the luminous sky, imprisoning the light, as it were, in a golden cage, the floating bars of which were studded here and there with jewels—emeralds that would soon become tassels, rubies that in course of time would turn into cones. The bank on the right was studded with wild violets, and here and there primroses grew in profusion, their tender young leaves flaming in the evening glow almost like the blossoms they protected.
At the turn of the path Mrs Caines caught sight of the lichen-grown roof of the cottage, and heaved a deep sigh of relief. Increasing her pace she hurried on, unceremoniously bursting into the kitchen, into which the door opened.
“’Tis you, Phoebe, love!” exclaimed old Lizzie, coming forward to meet her, dusting her hands on her apron as she advanced. “You’m welcome, I’m sure, my dear. I scarce looked for ’ee to come so late, though it be a goodish long while since I see’d ye.”
“The children have a-had the whooping-cough,” responded Mrs Caines, dropping into a chair. “Of all the tedious illnesses that be the worst—what wi’ coaxin’ of ’em to eat, an’ a-watchin’ of ’em so as they shouldn’t cough an’ a-make theirselves sick the minute theyhavetook their meals, it do fair wear a body out. Little Isaac, the way he do cough and the way he do choke, many a time I think he’ll bust hisself. He do turn the colour of a turkey-cock, he do!”
“That’s bad,” said the grandmother placidly. “You was never much trouble, Phoebe, I’ll say that for ’ee. Every sickness what come you did take so light as anything. An’ there’s some as ye did never have at all. ’Tis wi’ livin’ so much in the fresh air, I think. I’ll just mix this bit o’ meal an’ take it outside to the little chicken, an’ you mid pop on kettle, my dear, an’ rest yourself a bit. We’ll have tea so soon as I get back.”
Mrs Caines unpinned her shawl, threw back her bonnet-strings, and set the kettle on the fire. Then she heaved a sigh, partly of exasperation, partly of fatigue, and looked about her. The room seemedjust the same as ever, the furniture a little older and a little shabbier than she remembered it of yore. The grandfather’s clock stood in one corner, with the hands pointing to a quarter to twelve, as they had done ever since she could remember; the warming-pan to the right of the fireplace was not quite as bright as usual, perhaps, and the china on the upper shelf of the dresser was distinctly dusty.
“Poor mother, she be gettin’ past her work, I d’ ’low,” said Phoebe to herself; and the reflection strengthened her resolution.
Continuing her survey, she presently gave a little start of surprise. The old oak settle which ever since her childhood had stood with its back against the wall, being but a clumsy piece of furniture and never used, was now pushed forward in comfortable proximity to the blaze. What fancy was this? Surely her mother could not choose to sit on that hard uncomfortable seat, instead of in the cosy elbow-chair in which Phoebe herself was now reposing. The fellow to it which had once been her father’s, now, to her astonishment, was relegated to the place usually occupied by the settle.
When Mrs Sweetapple returned, her daughter at once questioned her on the subject, openly expressing disapproval, for to people of her turn of mind any change in household arrangements, above all any change carried out unauthorised, must necessarily be condemned.
“What in the name o’ goodness ha’ ye gone shiftin’ thik wold settle for?” she exclaimed, in an aggrieved tone. “Sich a great ar’k’ard thing as it be, too heavy for your arms I d’ ’low—an’there’s poor father’s chair set standin’ again’ the wall!”
Mrs Sweetapple blushed all over her wrinkled, kindly old face, and answered confusedly:—
“It be jist a fancy o’ mine—jist a notion! Some folks take some notions, an’ some takes others.”
“Well, but what be itfor?” persisted Mrs Caines.
“Oh, ’tis jist a fancy I tell ’ee—a fancy o’ my own to make the time pass of an evenin’. There, I do make poor Bartlett an’ your own father take turn about to keep I company, an’ this be Bartlett’s week.”
“What in the world d’ye mean?” gasped Phoebe, staring harder than ever, and flushing in her turn.
“Well, there, I’ve a-lived here all my life in this same little place as ye know—all the time I were a maid, an’ when I wed poor Bartlett—scarce a year wi’ he, an’ nigh upon farty wi’ Sweetapple, your father. By daylight I’m bustlin’ about, ye know, workin’ at one thing an’ workin’ at another, an’ I don’t seem to have no time for thinkin’, but at night, when bolt’s drawed an’ window shut, and I do sit here by myself, I do seem to see their shapes an’ hear their voices. It did use to bother I, thinkin’ of ’em both, ye know, an’ sometimes one ’ud seem to be there, an’ sometimes the other. An’ at last I hit upon the notion o’ makin’ ’em take week about.”
She paused, drawing imaginary patterns with her forefinger on the polished seat of the old settle.
“Mother, you’re raving!” exclaimed Phoebe aghast.
“No, my dear, no; I be in my senses right enough, an’ ’tis wonderful how pleasant the time do pass whenI’m fancyin’ I’m havin’ sich company. When I do get the settle out, d’ye see, I do call to mind the time when Bartlett used to come here a-coortin’. Father’d be out on his rounds most like, and mother’d be busy wi’ one thing an’ another, an’ him an’ me’d sit here side by side on thik wold settle—there, I can call to mind as if ’twere yesterday—the very things he used to say, an’ the way he’d put his arm round me.”
She broke off, smiling to herself, her toothless mouth unconsciously assuming something of the archness with which doubtless she had responded of yore to Bartlett’s amorous speeches, her dim eyes looking past Phoebe’s astonished face, and past the smoke-stained wall beyond, to that far, far away past, when she was a maid, and her young lover sate beside her.
“He did use to talk a deal o’ nonsense talk,” she went on. “It do all come back to me now. I do seem to hear what he did say, an’ what I did answer back, and sometimes I do find myself laughin’ out loud, an’ puss’ll get up from the hearth an’ walk over to I quite astonished.”
“Well, to be sure!” ejaculated Mrs Caines, then stopped short, astonishment depriving her for the moment of the power of speech.
“E-es,” continued Lizzie reflectively, “he wer terr’ble fond o’ me—Bartlett were. Even arter we was wed, he did use to say every evenin’ so soon as he comed in from his round: ‘Now then, little ’ooman,’ he’d say, ‘let’s have a bit o’ coortin’ same’s in wold times.’ An’ I’d hurry up wi’ my work an’ pop on a clean apron, an’ squat down aside of enon the wold settle—an’ then he do begin a-talkin’ nonsense talk jist so foolish as ever.”
She drew her withered hand pensively along the back of the settle as she spoke, and presently continued in an altered tone:—
“Thik wold settle. ’Twas here they did lay en when they carried en in arter that there accident wi’ his gun what killed en. An’ I knelt down as it mid be here” (pointing with her hand), “an’ he couldn’t speak nor yet move, but he jist looked at I, an’ I looked back, an’ I took his poor hand an’ kissed it, an’ then when I looked again he wer’ gone.”
“I’m sure ye didn’t ought to be thinkin’ o’ sich things,” burst out Phoebe, with an irritation that was part real, part feigned, to conceal her alarm. “What call have ’ee now to be fetchin’ ’em up arter all they years—fifty year an’ more, I’m sure, what have gone by since. If ye must think o’ anybody why don’t ye think o’ poor father? The best husband as a woman need wish to be tied-to, I’m sure; him as was allus so kind an’ worked for ye so faithful—why, you was his wife for farty year very near.”
“Farty year and ten month,” said Mrs Sweet-apple. “I do think of en, my dear, frequent,” she continued mildly. “There, as I do tell ’ee, him an’ Bartlett takes it week about. I do push back settle to the carner, d’ye see, where it did bide all the years him an’ me lived together. I could never seem to have the heart to leave it in its wold place here arter Bartlett died. So I do push it back to the carner, an’ I do pull out Sweetapple’s chair, an’ I do set it where he did use to like it anigh the fire, an’ I do sit in my own where you be a-sittin’ now, an’ Ido fetch out a wold sock an’ make a purtence o’ darnin’ it. An’ I do look up now an’ again, an’ fancy to myself I do see en a-sittin’ there in his shirt sleeves same as he did use to do, an’ a-smokin’ of his pipe. An’ I do say to en by times: ‘Well, Sweetapple, an’ how be the young birds a-lookin’?’
“Wonderful well,’ he d’ say, an’ then us’ll say nothin’ for a bit till by an’ by I’ll maybe tell en about a hen what I think ’ull soon go broody, or a clutch o’ young pheasants what I do think ’ull turn out very well. Why, there’s times when I do actually take en out o’ door to look at the pens. I do light lantern an’ carry it, an’ I do fancy I hear his steps aside o’ mine so plain—”
“Mother,” exclaimed Phoebe, “do you truly mean you do go out at nights wi’ the lantern an’ all? Why, ye’ll be gettin’ lost in the woods so sure as anything, or maybe settin’ the whole place afire.”
Mrs Sweetapple gazed at her, smiling again and rubbing her hands.
“’Tis only a bit o’ nonsense, bain’t it?” queried her daughter anxiously, struck by a sudden thought. “You do jist fancy you do go out-o’-door same as you do fancy you be talkin’ wi’ my father—you don’t truly do sich a thing, do ye?”
Mrs Sweetapple appeared to reflect:—
“Well, I don’t rightly know, my dear,” she replied after a pause. “There’s times when I mid fancy it, and there’s other times when I do truly think I do go out to show father the pens. Last week ’twas—’twas father’s week ye know—I did get my shoes quite wet, an’ I did have a bit of a cold for a day or two. Ithink it must have come along o’ takin’ father out to see the pens.”
Mrs Caines gazed resolutely at her mother, the colour once more overspreading her already sufficiently rosy face.
“It’s time there was an end o’ this,” she announced firmly. “You’ll be tumblin’ down the well some night, or else maybe go wanderin’ off the Lard knows where. No, Mother, there’s no use talkin’, the time’s come for ’ee to shift. Lady Day’s very near, an’ ’twill be so good a time as any other. I’ll speak to Squire about it. He’ll send a waggon to move as many o’ your things as be worth takin’, an’ you can come an’ bide along o’ us. The children ’ull be better company for ’ee nor they crazy notions o’ yours, an’ if ye do want to do a bit o’ mendin’ of a evenin’ ye can darn Caines’ socks.”
“Nay, now, nay Phoebe, nay indeed,” cried the old woman in a shaking voice, her eyes becoming round with alarm, and her lips quivering. “I couldn’t shift, my dear, I couldn’t bide nowhere but in the wold place where I was barn, an’ where I do look to die. The only shiftin’ I’ll do ’ull be then. I’ll shift to the New House, Phoebe, my dear, whenever it be the Lard’s will to take I, but not before.”
“I’ll speak to Squire about it,” persisted Phoebe. “Summat awful ’ull be happenin’ if you do go on this way. ’Tis time that he should see to it.
“No, don’t ’ee go for to speak to Squire,” pleaded Lizzie. “What be the good o’ carryin’ tales to Squire? I be so happy as anything here. I don’t want for nothin’, an’ I do never feel lwonesome. If you do goputtin’ notions in Squire’s head—but you wouldn’t be so unkind, would ye, my dear?”
Phoebe made no answer; the kettle boiled at this juncture, and gave an excuse for rising and rescuing it from the fire. She insisted on making tea for her mother, and, instead of reverting to the vexed topic, chatted throughout the meal so incessantly, and on such a variety of topics, that Lizzie became a trifle bewildered; and, imagining from her daughter’s altered demeanour that the latter had come round to her views, smiled pleasantly, and put in a word now and then whenever she could catch the drift of the conversation. For, if truth be told, her wits had become duller than of yore, and remarks and smiles alike were a trifle vague.
Mrs Caines rose at last to take her departure, straightened her bonnet, donned her shawl, and kissed her mother affectionately.
Lizzie had already washed up and put away the tea-things, and after returning her daughter’s embrace, pulled down her cuffs and shook out her apron with a pre-occupied air. Almost before Phoebe had left the room she had installed herself on the settle, and was gazing expectantly at the door.
“Now don’t go out to-night, whatever happens,” urged Phoebe. “There’s a good soul! I can see ye’ve got a bit of a cold hangin’ about ye still.”
“Nay, my dear,” responded Lizzie, with a small secret smile. “’Tis Bartlett’s night, ye know. I do never ha’ time to think o’ chicken an’ sich when Bartlett be here.”
Phoebe stared; then, taking her umbrella, left the house. She heard Lizzie bolt the door behind her,and walked away, shaking her head and pursing up her lips. After proceeding fifty yards or so she paused, and presently turning retraced her steps as noiselessly as possible. The kitchen window was already shuttered, but Phoebe knew there was a wide chink beneath the hinge, and making her way towards it, peered into the fire-lit room.
Old Lizzie was still seated on the settle, in the far corner, so as to leave plenty of room for the other imaginary occupant. She was smiling, and glancing now up, now down, with that revived coyness of her youth.
Now she stretched out her trembling old hand with a curious little gesture, as though stroking something—the crisp brown locks perhaps which had been so long hidden away in the grave; now she was laughing.
“I never did hear any chap carry on like that,” she said. “Why we be old married folks now—six month wed come Tuesday.”
Phoebe turned away from the window and stepped forth briskly through the twilight. Her mind was irrevocably made up.
A wilful woman must have her way, we are told, and Mrs Caines’ way appeared so very reasonable that even the Squire fell in with it, though reluctantly. That he himself should take active measures to turn old Lizzie out of her cherished little house was certainly a most disagreeable necessity; nevertheless he appeared to have no choice. The old woman’s actual plight was undeniably dangerous, and she would no doubt be more cheerful as well as better looked after amid her daughter’s family.
Somehow or other, Lizzie never quite realised how, it was made clear to her that the Squire wanted her cottage for some important purpose, and moreover wanted possession of it so soon that she must turn out at once. Event succeeded event with such rapidity that she found herself uprooted almost before she had time to grasp the full extent of her misfortune, and was installed by Mrs Caines’ hearth and surrounded by Mrs Caines’ noisy little flock while still pleading and protesting.
“Now here you be, mother,” announced Phoebe, whisking off her parent’s bonnet and shawl, and firmly tying on her black net cap, “here you be so right as anything. Here be your own chair, d’ye see, for ye to sit in, and yonder’s the dresser—how well it do look in the carner, don’t it? Us’ll unpack the china by and by, and wash it and set it out—that’s summat to do, bain’t it? An’ there’s father’s chair opposite yours, same as usual.”
“Ah,” murmured Lizzie vaguely, “this be Sweet-apple’s week. ’Ees, sure—’ees, there be his chair. Where be—”
Her eyes wandered round the unfamiliar room. “Where be,” she was beginning again, when Phoebe adroitly interrupted her.
“This be father’s chair, as you do say, mother, an’ this be his week to be sure. There you can talk to en so comfortable as can be.”
Lizzie glanced round again with a deep sigh.
John Caines, Phoebe’s husband, worked in the Branston brewery, and they lived in consequence in the town. Theirs was a six-roomed semi-detached house with a dusty little yard in the rear, and a tinygrass-plot in front, on which Phoebe sometimes spread out linen to dry. It was situated near the station, and many vehicles passed that way, creating much dust, and making a considerable amount of noise.
Phoebe presently commented on this fact to her bewildered mother.
“’Tis nice an’ cheerful to be so near the road, bain’t it?” she remarked pleasantly, tilting up as she spoke a corner of the muslin blind. “Ye can look out, look-see. That’s the ’bus from the Crown, an’ there’s Sibley’s cart, and look, look—there’s a motor.”
The children all rushed to the window to investigate this wonder, Isaac pausing midway to whoop violently. Lizzie bent a vacant gaze upon the window, and then drew back into her corner.
“’Tis awful lwonesome here,” she said, “terr’ble lwonesome—there, that noise an’ the dust an’ all; it do fair make my head go round.”
Phoebe burst out laughing:—
“Dear, to be sure, that’s a queer notion! How can ye be lwonesome wi’ so many folks about?”
Lizzie rocked herself backwards and forwards in her chair, half moaning to herself.
“I can’t find nothin’ what I’m used to. I can’t seem to hear nothin’—wi’ so much talkin’ an’ that there terr’ble noise outside, an’ I can’t find—”
She broke off suddenly, sitting bolt upright.
“Where be the settle?” she cried, in a loud, anxious tone. “Where be the wold settle? Ye’ve never been an’ left that behind?”
Phoebe was taken aback for a moment: as a matter of fact, she had purposely left it behind, not onlybecause it seemed to her worthless in itself, but because she thought the sight of it would conjure up those crazy notions which she was so anxious to dispel. It was all very well that her mother should dwell on the memory of Phoebe’s own departed father; she might look at his chair as much as she liked, and accomplish a bit of darning for the family, under the impression it was for him; but it was quite a different matter to go on in such a foolish way about a man who had been in his grave for more than fifty years, and to whom she had been wed but for a few months. The neighbours would think Mrs Sweetapple daft indeed if she were to regale them with such tales as she had recently related to her daughter.
“Where be the settle?” repeated Lizzie, with a shrill cry.
“There, don’t ye take on,” said Phoebe soothingly; “there wasn’t room for’t in the cart, d’ye see, an’ us’ll have to send to fetch it. ’Tis so heavy—the poor harse couldn’t ha’ dragged it so far wi’ so many other things.”
“It must be here by end of the week,” said Mrs Sweetapple. “It must be here by Sunday. It’ll be Bartlett’s week, come Sunday.”
“We’ll send for it—we’ll send for it,” exclaimed Mrs Caines. “There now, mother,” returning to an argument which she had before found efficacious, “don’t ye go for to forget as this be father’s turn. Poor father—ye didn’t ought for to forget he.”
“I don’t forget en, my dear, I don’t forget en,” said Lizzie, dropping her head upon her breast. “I do feel a bit confused—I bain’t used to childern, yesee, and—I do feel terr’ble lwonesome; I did ought to be feedin’ chicken now,” she added, half rising, and then dropping back again. “What’s become o’ the chicken, Phoebe?”
“Why, don’t ye know?” responded Phoebe, cheerfully. “Mr Foster—Keeper Foster, ye know, he did take ’em all off your hands. He’ll see to the little pheasants right enough, and he did pay money down for the chicken. I’ve got it safe for ’ee. I did tell ’ee all about that.”
“So ye did, so ye did,” murmured Lizzie. “I was forgettin’—it do seem strange to ha’ no chicken to see to. I d’ ’low father ’ull miss ’em so well as me.”
“Eh?” said Mrs Caines, staring.
“I d’ ’low father’ll miss ’em,” repeated Lizzie. “He’ll be lookin’ to go out wi’ me last thing to see how they be a-comin’ on.”
“My dear ’ooman,” exclaimed Phoebe, “you can’t go walkin’ out in the street o’ nights here, fancy or no fancy. Ye mid be runned over an’ killed straight-off.”
“Runned over!” exclaimed Lizzie. She looked about her vaguely, and then sank into silence.
Mrs Caines drew her John into the privacy of the back kitchen as soon as he appeared, and, with many shakes of the head, explained to him the state of affairs.
“Poor mother be queerer nor ever to-night. Us mustn’t lose sight of her for a minute; there’s no knowin’ what she mid do. There, she’ve been carryin’ on about takin’ father out to see the pens and about bein’ so lwonesome—lwonesome here in thetown, ye know. She says the noise an’ the voices an’ all do make her feel lwonesome.”
John Caines removed his pipe in order to grin at ease, and then put it back again; he was a man of few words.
“So I was thinkin’,” continued Phoebe, “you’d best keep an eye to her while I’m gettin’ childern to bed, an’ then so soon as I do come down I’ll look after her. She’d best get early to bed herself, poor wold body, she be fair wore out.”
Caines removed his pipe again: “But what must I do if she should take a notion that I’m the wold gentleman—your father, I mean?” he enquired in some alarm.
Phoebe caught at the idea. “That wouldn’t be a bad thing at all,” said she. “I d’ ’low that ’ud keep her so quiet as anything. Jist you go an’ sit down in father’s chair an’ if she do say anything ye mid jist nod back or say a word or two—my father was never a man of much talk. I d’ ’low if anything ’ull pacify her that will, but mind you don’t let her take up wi’ any notion o’ gettin’ out o’ door. Here, wait a minute, I’ll come wi’ ye.”
She ran upstairs, presently returning with two or three socks, and preceding John to the kitchen, held her mother in play while he seated himself in old Sweetapple’s chair.
“Here, mother,” she cried, “here be some socks what want mendin’ awful bad. See, I’ll light lamp an’ set it behind ye. They be father’s socks, ye know—Sweetapple’s socks.”
Lizzie’s face lit up. “Ah, sure,” she replied, “Sweet-apple’s socks—this ’ere be Sweetapple’s week.”
She endeavoured to look past Phoebe towards the chair, but her daughter’s portly figure blocked the way.
“Here be the needle, look-see, an’ here be the mendin’. The socks be terr’ble broke at heel, bain’t they?”
Turning towards the light the old woman threaded the needle, and Phoebe taking advantage of the opportunity thus created, stepped towards her husband:—
“Don’t ye offer to talk to her,” she whispered, “without she speaks first.”
He nodded in reply, and going towards the window she pulled down the blind and jerked the curtains across. As she left the room she paused to gaze at the two; John was leaning back in his chair, placidly smoking, and Lizzie, who did not seem to perceive his presence, was intent on her work.
Some minutes after her departure he bent forward and tapped his pipe upon the hob, and his mother-in-law looked up, gazing towards him through the semi-darkness with a pleasant smile.
“Ye’ve got your baccy pouch handy, Sweetapple, haven’t ye?” said she.
John nodded, and she dropped her eyes on her work again.
Presently a heavy waggon went lumbering past without, and Lizzie looked up again.
“Wind blows hard,” she said. “D’ye think there’s a starm coming?”
“Shouldn’t wonder,” murmured John, indistinctly. Lizzie picked up her sock once more, but presently paused.
“I’m not sure if I covered the pens,” she said. “Shall us go out an’ cover the pens, Sweetapple?”
John stared in alarm. What was he to do now? Phoebe had not given him any instructions as to what he should say if her mother suggested going out to see to the pens.
“They young pheasants,” went on Lizzie, talking rapidly to herself, “they be terr’ble nesh. If a heavy starm of rain was to come on they mid all be dead in the marnin’. Where be the lantern?”
She rose hurriedly, looking round her with a startled air. John rose too, thoroughly frightened.
“Missis!” he shouted, “Phoebe! come down this minute! Here be the old lady a-wantin’ to go out!”
Phoebe hurried down with all speed, finding her husband planted with his back against the door for safety’s sake, while Lizzie, also standing, was staring at him piteously.
“Sweetapple!” she gasped, “Richard—what be gone wi’ Richard? I can’t think where I can be! What’s this strange place—and who’s this man?”
“Why ’tis John, mother. Don’t ye know John? You be here in our house. You’ve a-come to bide along o’ we. Don’t ye mind—Squire settled it.”
“Squire?” echoed Lizzie. “Ees, I mind it now. I mind it.”
She came back to her chair without another word, and said no more until her daughter presently took her up to bed.
“I don’t know as we’ve done so very well to toll mother here,” remarked Phoebe, when she came down again. “She do seem to be frettin’ quitesensible by times, an’ at others she’ll carry on wi’ nonsense same as ye heard.”
“I don’t think ’tis such a very good notion, to go playin’ games wi’ her,” responded John. “I’ll not do it no more. I couldn’t think what was comin’ next.”
Lizzie seemed comparatively tranquil on the morrow, however, though she had slept but ill and was very low in spirits. She looked at the children with the same bewildered air as on the previous day, and started at the noises in the street, but she made no complaint, except once when her daughter asked her to repeat some phrase which she had murmured to herself.
“I only said there don’t seem to be no birds here,” said Mrs Sweetapple, half apologetically. “It do feel lwonesome wi’out no birds.”
“Ye don’t look for birds in a town, do ye?” retorted Phoebe, sharply.
“Of course not,” agreed her mother. “I’m not used to towns.”
Towards evening she became restless again, and Mrs Caines despatched her family to bed earlier than usual in order that she might keep guard herself; her lord and master found it more convenient to keep out of the way.
“Father’s chair” was duly set forth, and Mrs Sweetapple sat and watched it, making an occasional remark; whenever these disjointed phrases were of a dangerous tendency Phoebe took care to recall her mother to the sense of her actual situation.
No catastrophe occurred that evening therefore, and as the days passed Mrs Sweetapple seemedgradually to accustom herself to her surroundings; towards the end of the week, indeed, she became as silent during the evening hours as since her arrival at Branston she had proved herself throughout the day.
When Sunday came, however, all was different. She went to church in the morning, and behaved as well as even her daughter could wish; she seemed pleased and interested, and as much excited as a child. She had not been to church for many years, and all was new to her.
The unwonted exertion tired her, and she was even more quiet than usual all that afternoon, dozing in her chair for the most part. Towards evening, however, she woke up with a start.
“What’s gone wi’ the settle?” she cried. “Wherever be the settle? Bartlett ’ull be here in a minute an’ he’ll not ha’ nowheres to sit.”
The children began to giggle, and even John could not repress a smile. Before the perplexed Phoebe had time to formulate any soothing rejoinder, Lizzie started from her chair.
“I’m fair dathered among ye,” she cried out. “Where be the settle, I say? The settle what my father did make wi’ his own hands and what poor Bartlett did always sit on. I’ll not be robbed on’t.”
“Robbed! Dear, to be sure, sich a notion! Who’d ever go for to steal such a thing. We did leave it in the wood, don’t ye mind? ’Tisn’t worth shiftin’—there, I’d ha’ thought ye’d ha’ forgot about it by now.”
“Nay, I’ve not forgot—an’ Bartlett, he’ve notforgot, I’ll go warrant. He’ll be that vexed when he do come. There, Phoebe, I never thought you’d go for to play I sich a trick. You did promise I sure as anything, I should have it by the week-end, and here be Sunday, an’ Bartlett ’ull be comin’, an’ he’ll not find it ready.”
“Well, ye shall have it to-morrow, we’ll send for it sartin sure to-morrow. Ha’ done, childern (in a fierce aside to the youngsters), I’ll not ha’ ye makin’ a mock o’ your grammer. Stop that, or I’ll gie ye summat as ’ull make ye laugh wrong way round. There, mother, ye’d best come upstairs and get to bed. ’Twill make to-morrow come all the sooner. An’ I’ll see en fetch the settle by then.”
“But Bartlett ’ull be comin’,” murmured poor Lizzie, who was shaken with the pitiful dry sobs of the old. “He’ll come an’ he’ll not find I here, an’ he’ll not find settle here.”
“Nay now, mother, nay now. He’ll not come—he could never find his way to our place. These houses warn’t built in Bartlett’s time. Why so like as not,” she continued soothingly, struck by a sudden inspiration, “as like as not he’s waitin’ for ye down in the wood—at the wold place, ye know. Don’t ye think so, John?”
“Ees,” said John, controlling his features, “’Tis better nor likely he’m waitin’ there.”
“Bidin’ there all alone,” sighed Lizzie. “The house be empty now, and everything be changed. But the settle’s there.”
“Ees, the settle’s there,” responded Mrs Caines briskly. “An’ he’ll set on’t jest so comfortable as can be. Now you come along o’ me, mother, an’get to bed. Don’t you bother yourself no more about Bartlett—he’s all right.”