Withthe spring the steady application of paint in Harbour Lane burst into a fury. Everywhere the houses and the flagstaffs and the fences took new coats of many colours, changing as the season went, and the paint-pot traffic fell into a vaster confusion. As tops were “in” among the boys, the smell of paint grew day by day, and when the marble season began little else could be smelt. With July came Fairlop Friday, and Bessy wondered at the passing of a great model of a rigged ship on wheels, drawn by horses, and filled with jubilant shipwrights on their way to Epping Forest, in accord with yearly custom. She had grown to consider the forest as a place so far off (though indeed she knew the distance in mere miles) that it came almost as a surprise to see people starting out to drive there in a few hours with so slow a vehicle, and to return the same night.
Bob Smallpiece had written once or twice (he kept an eye on the empty cottage, and looked out for a tenant), but he had never made a visit, as Nan May had asked him. The last news was that his bedridden old mother was worse, and not expected to live.
The trade went well—better than ever, indeed, and scarce a month passed but Nan May put a sovereign or two in the post-office savings bank; and Uncle Isaac began secretly to look upon the shop in Harbour Lane as a convenient retreat for his later years. Already he took as many meals there as possible, for, as he said, he could get no proper attention in his new lodgings. Of his old friend Mr. Butson he had seen nothing for months. For Butson, he knew, had lost his berth on the steamboat, and had fallen on evil times—and Uncle Isaac never intruded on private griefs of this description.
But late in the year, when the anniversary of Johnny’s apprenticeship was nearing, and when Johnny himself was near a head taller—for he grew quickly now—Uncle Isaac saw Butson from afar as he crossed the docks, and Butson saw him. There was no escape, but Uncle Isaac, with a grin and a wave of the hand, tried to pass on hurriedly, as though urgent business claimed his time. But Mr. Butson rose from his bollard—bollards had been his most familiar furniture for months now—and intercepted him.
“You’ve ’ad about a year now to git that ’urry over,” he said, with something not unlike a sneer. “If you’re goin’ that way, I’ll come along too. Got any ’bacca?”
Uncle Isaac, with a bounteous air that scarce covered his reluctance, pulled out a screw of paper, and Mr.Butson filled his pipe. For some little way he smoked in silence, for tobacco was an uncommon luxury with him just now, and he enjoyed a succession of puffs with no interruption. Then he said, “Workin’ at Turton’s now?”
“No,” Uncle Isaac replied, with a slight cough. “I—no, I ain’t workin’ there.”
“Thought not. Looked out for y’ often. An’ you moved too.” Butson smoked again for a space, and then went on. “I’ve ’ad a pretty awful year,” he said. “Why I was very near goin’ stokin’ once or twice.” (He had not quite gone, because the chief engineer always sent him ashore.) “Nice thing, that, for a man o’ my bringin’-up.”
They walked on. Truly the bad year had left its marks on Mr. Butson. The soles were three-quarters gone from his boots, and the uppers were cracked. He wore a mixture of ordinary and working clothes, frayed and greasy and torn, and he shivered under a flimsy dungaree jacket, buttoned so close to the neck as to hint an absence of shirt. His bowler hat was weather-beaten and cracked, and the brim behind was beginning to leave the crown because of rain-rot.
Presently Uncle Isaac, impelled to say something, asked, “Bin out all the time?”
“Very near. Got a job on a ’draulic, but the chapbegan jawin’ me about somethin’. I wasn’t goin’ to stand that, so I just walked out.”
“Nothin’ else?”
“Not much. One or two things I got on to, but they didn’t last. Know the laundry over the Cut? Well they took me on there to run the engine, an’ sacked me in a week. Said I was asleep! Measly swine. Much the same at other places. Seemed to want to treat me like—like any common feller. But I showed ’em different to that!”
“Ah!” commented Uncle Isaac absently. He was wondering which way to lead the walk, and how to take leave of his companion. But his invention was at a stand, and presently the other went on.
“Well,” he said, “you ain’t got so much to say as you used. Know any job you can put me on to?”
“No, I don’t,” replied Uncle Isaac with gloomy simplicity. “Trade’s bad—very bad. I bin workin’ short time meself, an’ standin’ auf day after day. Stood auf to-day.”
“Well then, lend us a bob.”
Uncle Isaac started, and made the space between them a foot wider. “Reely, Mr. Butson, I—”
“All right, make it two bob then, if you’d rather. You’ve ’ad more ’n that out o’ me one time an’ another.”
“But—but I tell you I’m unfort’net meself. I bin standin’ auf day after day—”
“Seems to me you’re tryin’ to stand auf as much as ye can now. Look ’ere.” Mr. Butson stood and faced Uncle Isaac. “I’m broke, clean broke, an’ worse. I’m ’ungry.”
“It’s—it’s very bad,” said Uncle Isaac. “But why not go t’ yer rich relations?”
Butson frowned. “Never mind them,” he said. “I’d rather try an’ tap your small property. What am I to do? I’m at the end of me tether, an’ I’ve tried everything.”
“Ah—Enterprise is what you want,” Uncle Isaac said, being at a loss what else to recommend. “Enterprise. I’ve recommended Enterprise before, with wonderful results—wonderful. An’—an’ ’ow about marryin’? There’s the lan’lady at the Mariner’s Arms. She was alwis very friendly, an’ that’s a life as ought to suit ye.”
“G-r-r-r!” Mr. Butson turned his head with a growl and took to walking again, Uncle Isaac by his side. “She’d want to make a potman of me, an’—an’—well that ain’t much catch, any’ow. If you won’t lend me a bob, stand me a feed o’ some sort. Ain’t ’ad yer tea, ’ave ye?”
Plainly something must be sacrificed to Butson, and it struck Uncle Isaac that the cheapest article would be some of Nan May’s bacon. So he said, “Well, I was thinkin’ o’ poppin’ round to my niece’s to tea. I’m sure she’d make ye very welcome.”
“Awright. Same niece as give us tea over in the Forest that time?”
“Yus. She’s round in ’arbour Lane.”
The lamplighter scuffled past into the thickening dusk, leaving his sparse trail of light-spots along the dock wall. The two men came through streets where little sitting-rooms, lighted as yet by fires alone, cheered Butson with promise of the meal to come; and when at last he stood in Nan May’s shop, now no place of empty boxes, but ranged close with bacon, cheese, candles, sausages, brawn, spiced beef, many eggs and a multitude of sundries, there was some shadow of the old strut and sulky swagger, hanging oddly about the broken-up Butson of these later days.
Uncle Isaac did it with an air, for an air was an inexpensive embellishment that won him consideration. “Good-evenin’, Nan. I’ve took the liberty (which I’m sure you’ll call it a pleasure) to introduce a of friend to tea which we well remember with ’appier circumstances. Mr. Butson is come to see you.”
Duller eyes than Nan May’s would have seen Butson’s fallen condition at a glance, and it afflicted her to know that while fortune had favoured her it had stricken him so sorely. She led them in, offering Butson a cordiality in some sort exaggerated by her anxiety not to seem to see his poor clothes, nor to treat him a whit the worse for his ill-luck. As for Mr. Butson, he found a goodfire and a clean hearth, with an armchair beside it, in a better room than he had seen for long. Old Mr. May’s photograph hung over the mantelpiece, and below it was the sole remaining butterfly trophy, a small glass case, set when the old man was young. The ragged books that were Bessy’s solace stood on a sideboard top, and Bessy herself, disturbed in reading, was putting one of them carefully in its place. The kettle sang on the hob. And when Johnny came from work he was astonished to find a tea-party of great animation.
Johnny was a big lad now (though he was scarce sixteen years of age), and Mr. Butson condescended to shake hands with him, to condole with him on the choice of the wretched trade that had so ill supported himself, and to exchange a remark or two on the engineering topics of the week.
But chiefly Mr. Butson attended to the meal. Nan May had never seen two men together eat such a meal as his. Plainly he was famished. She was full of pity for this unfortunate, so well brought up (thought the simple soul), so cruelly neglected by his well-to-do relations. She cut more slices of bacon, and more, and still more of bread and butter, quietly placing them to his hand, till at last he was satisfied.
Mr. Butson was refreshed, filled his pipe again from Uncle Isaac’s paper, and gave some attention to the conversation. But the conversation took to itself the propertyof rarely travelling far from Mr. Butson and his troubles. He had no false modesty about them. He had parted with almost all his clothes, and hadn’t a shirt to his back. His tools were in pawn, and a man felt discouraged from looking for a job when his tools were “put away,” and he had no money to redeem them. But he would starve sooner than apply to his unnatural relations; he would take the help of strangers first.
When at last Mr. Butson took leave, and went shivering into the gusty night, Uncle Isaac was careful to let him go alone, and to remain, himself, in the shop parlour till his friend was clear away. But Nan May ran down the street after her departed guest. There were a few hurried words of entreaty in the woman’s voice: “Here, Mr. Butson. Do! you really must!”—and she scurried back breathless and a trifle shamefaced. She reached across the counter and shut the till ere she came into the shop parlour.
Uncle Isaac Iooked up sharply in her face as she entered, but went on with his pipe.
Thisvisit was but the first of many from Mr. Butson: until after a very few months he came as regularly as Uncle Isaac himself. He recovered his old appearance a little at a time, one new article of clothing coming after another; but he seemed to have no luck in his quest for a job—or very little. What small success he found was ever brought to naught by the captiousness—even the rudeness—of those in direction, or their unreasonable exactions in the way of work. To simple Nan May he seemed the most shamefully ill-used of exemplars.
Johnny and Bessy were less enthusiastic. Bessy said nothing, but avoided Mr. Butson as much as possible, sitting in the shop when he was in the back parlour. Johnny went for walks in the evening, and grumbled, wondering why his mother encouraged this stranger—“cadging suppers,” as he uncivilly put it. Nan May was hurt at the expression, and feared that the workshop was spoiling Johnny’s manners.
News came from Bob Smallpiece that his poor old mother was dead at last, and buried in the highchurchyard where Johnny’s grandfather lay. Also that Bob would come to London now, for a visit, at the first opportunity. Now it was a fact that Bob Smallpiece, for a year or two, had been inclined to marry; though it was a thing he might never have thought of if he had seen less of Mrs. May. But he was a man of practical temperament, making up in his commonsense for a great lack of agility of mind. There were certain obstacles, he saw—obstacles that must remove of themselves or not at all. First, his old mother. It would not seem fair to bring a wife to nurse a bedridden old woman—at anyrate it was scarce an attraction. More, the old woman herself had a dread of it. She feared the chance of being thought a burden by a newcomer, and would often beg Bob not to marry till she were gone; sometimes with the assurance that she would not be long now. Then—to say nothing of old Mr. May—there had been the children, who, familiar as he was with them, afflicted him, in this particular matter alone, with an odd shyness. Again, when the old man died, the May family must needs come to London, if only that Johnny might go to his trade; while Bob Smallpiece must stay at the forest. But he was ever patient and philosophical.
Now that some difficulties were gone, another arose. Nan May, all unaware of his slow designs, was settled in London, with ties of business. But perhaps, after all, the business was not flourishing—might be a burdenbetter laid down. And as to Johnny—he was earning wages of some sort now, and at most his apprenticeship would be out when he was twenty-one.
Bob Smallpiece had reserved one piece of news till he could deliver it in person. This was that at last he had let the cottage, at three-and-sixpence a week, to a decent woodman and his wife. And so, wearing a new neckcloth, and with three weeks’ rent in his pocket, Bob Smallpiece appeared in Harbour Lane one spring morning, a vast astonishment of leather and velveteen, such as had never before brought a Blackwall housewife to attention in the midst of her dusting and sweeping. No name was painted over the shop, but no stranger could pass its red and blue and green without stopping to look; least of all Bob Smallpiece, in quest of the place itself. Nan May saw him, and ran to the door; and Bessy, with her crutch and her book, met him half-way to the back-parlour, gay and laughing.
Bob regarded the well-filled shop, the neat room, with some mixture of feelings. Prosperity was excellent in its own way, but it made the new obstacle more formidable. Further, Mrs. May, though she was pleased to hear that the cottage was let, and grateful enough for his trouble in letting it, was not so overjoyed as she might have been if the weekly three-and-sixpence had come at a time of pinching; more, she handled the half-sovereign almost as disrespectfully as the sixpence, anddropped it into a part of her purse where it fell among other gold. Poor Bob saw the obstacle not only bigger, but double. Not merely was Nan May tied to London by her trade and by Johnny’s apprenticeship, but she was a well-to-do tradeswoman, with whom a poor forest-keeper could expect no more than respectful acquaintance. He half feared she might even offer to pay him for his trouble with the cottage, and grew red and hot with the apprehension. But this affliction was spared him though Nan did venture to ask if his care of her property had involved out-of-pocket expenses; a suggestion which Bob repudiated desperately.
Neither Bessy nor her mother could understand why their visitor’s manner was so constrained and awkward, nor why he announced that he “must be going” after sitting for twenty minutes. But that, of course, was not to be allowed. Johnny would be home in half an hour, and there would be some dinner. So Bob Smallpiece, who wanted to get away somewhere by himself and think things over, remained, and made his part of the conversation as well as he could.
Johnny came, smudgy and hungry, surprised to find that his old friend, big man as he was, seemed to be scarcely so big as when he saw him last, eighteen months ago. For Johnny himself was grown surprisingly, and seemed like to stand as high as Bob Smallpiece’s shoulder by his seventeenth birthday. Bob found moreto talk of now that Johnny had come, and he ate even better than Johnny himself, for nothing spoiled the keeper’s appetite. When could they all come to the forest again for a day? Nan May shook her head. She had no days free but Sundays—she might come some day, perhaps; some Sunday in the vague future. But Johnny might get a day off at a slack time, and he and Bessy would come. Bessy brimmed over with delight at the prospect. Every day, since she had left it, the forest had seemed a more wonderful and a more distant dream; every day some forgotten circumstance, some moment of delight, some long-dead bunch of wildflowers, trifles all, and daily commonplaces once, had come back to lend one more touch to the fairy picture her memory made ever more radiant as the simple facts fell farther into the past. And Johnny, little burdened with pictures of fancy (for he put his imagination away from him now, as a childishness unworthy an engineer), nevertheless thought that as soon as a certain large job was completed at Maidment and Hurst’s the gaffer would doubtless let him lose a day. So it was settled. And when Johnny hurried off to his work, Bob Smallpiece took the opportunity to leave too; for he must go and see his sister, he said.
He went, and saw his sister, and took tea with her; and his sister found him even duller than Nan May had done. For in truth Bob Smallpiece was in a mire ofdoubt and hesitation. In a frame of mind so foreign to his simple habit he grew fretful, and left things to chance and impulse. With no definite design in the world, he wandered back to Harbour Lane after tea, and there met, for the first time, Uncle Isaac and Mr. Butson. This company proved uncongenial; and indeed the distinguished Butson was indisposed to be cordial with an Essex bumpkin in a velveteen uniform. So, though Nan May was all kindness, Bob Smallpiece soon took himself off to the train, where his savage moodiness might not be seen. The whole thing was past hope now; though he might have found it hard to tell precisely what had occurred since midday to worsen the look of affairs.
Notfor six weeks, at least, Johnny judged, could he beg the day’s holiday that was to take him and Bessy back to the forest; and it might be more. That would be in July—or even August—and probably the weather would be more trustworthy then. As for Bessy, she counted the days on the almanack, and tapped the yellow-faced old barometer that had been gran’dad’s, a dozen times a day. Johnny laughed at her impatience, and invented endless weather prophecies “just from America” putting the weather for the whole of July at every possible shade of unpleasantness, from blizzards to floods and thunderstorms.
The days went quietly—they were even dull. Mr. Butson did what he could to make himself agreeable, and several times praised a set of callipers that Johnny had made—a set of callipers that Johnny, in fact, thought very well of himself. So that he seemed not such a bad fellow, perhaps, after all, though a bit of a sponge.
There was nothing to cause it, to all seeming, but it was a fact that just now Nan May grew thoughtful andabsent of manner. She would pause in the midst of needlework, as though to think; and more than once at such a time, Bessy, looking up from her own work, saw that her mother’s troubled gaze was fixed on herself. Nan May put away the anxious look as well as she might, and bent to her work again; but Bessy wondered.
Johnny, too, fancied that his mother was scarce so cheerful as was her wont, though he thought of it less than Bessy. But one Sunday afternoon, meeting her by her bedroom door, he took her cheeks between his palms, and looked hard in her face. “Mother,” he said, “I believe you’ve been crying! What’s up?”
She put a hand on each of his wrists, and made a shift to smile. “That’s nonsense,” she said, and tried to pull his hands down. “You’re gettin’ too strong for your poor old mother to keep you in order!”
But she brightened, always, when Mr. Butson came in the evening; though Mr. Butson’s conversation scarce seemed of so inspiriting a character as to account wholly for the change. Still, it interested her. It was mostly about his grievances at the hands of the world; and Nan May was a ready sympathiser.
It was very near to the day (at last fixed) for the excursion, when Bessy woke in the night at the striking of a match. Her mother was lighting a candle, her back toward the bed. She took the candle and passed out, into Johnny’s room at the back. Bessy listened, but sheheard no talk; heard nothing, indeed, but Johnny’s heavy breathing, so still was the night. Presently her mother returned, and stood over her, still with the candle; gazing on her face, it seemed to Bessy—as well as she could see through her half-closed eyes—much as she had gazed when she paused in her needlework, though now her cheeks were wet with tears. With that Bessy opened wide her eyes, and “Mother!” she said. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”
Nan May turned and blew out the light. “No, Bess, no; I’m all right,” she said, and crept into bed. “It’s not—not much. I woke up, that’s all—with a bad dream.” She kissed the girl, and put her arm about her neck. “You’ve always been a good girl, Bessy,” she went on. “You wouldn’t turn against me, would you?”
“Why no, mother! But—”
“Not whatever happened?”
“No—of course not,” she kissed her mother again. “But why?”
“It’s nothing. Only the dream—just the dream, Bess. Go to sleep.”
Thelonged-for holiday came with a fine Monday morning, and Bessy, in a muslin frock that her mother had helped to make for the occasion, was impatient, an hour too soon, because Johnny lingered in bed; enjoying the luxury of “losing a quarter” without paying the penalty.
But Johnny was ready for breakfast before eight, and, seeing the shop-door open, ran to take down the shutters, a thing his mother commonly did herself, because of his absence at work. “I always put ’em up, and for once I’ll take ’em down,” he said, prancing in with the first. “Look out, mother, or I’ll bowl you over!”
“O no, Johnny,” she said, “leave ’em. I’ll only have to—” and at that she stopped.
“Only have to what?” Johnny asked, going for another. “Only have to serve the customers, eh, ’cause the shop’s open? Of course you will—it ain’tyourholiday, you know—it’s ours! Look out again! Shoo!”
Bessy rattled at the old barometer still, though for half an hour it had refused to move its hand a shade;and she asked Johnny for the fiftieth time if he were perfectly sure that the proper train wasn’t earlier than they were supposing. And when at last Johnny admitted that it was time to start, Nan May kissed them and bade them good-bye with so wistful an earnestness that Johnny was moved to pleasantry. “All right, mother,” he said, “we’re coming back some day you know!”
They were scarce half-way to the railway-station when Bessy said: “Johnny, I don’t think mother’s been very well lately. There’ll be another train soon; shall we go back an’—an’ just see if she’s all right, first?”
Johnny laughed. “That’s a good idea!” he said. “An’ then I s’pose we’d better miss the next, an’ go back to see how she’s getting on then, an’ the one after that, eh? Mother’s all right. She’s been thinking a bit about—you know, gran’dad an’ all that; and because we’re goin’ to the forest it reminds her of it. Come on—don’t begin the day with dumps!”
There was interest for both of them in the railway journey. They changed trains at Stepney, and after a station or two more came in distant sight of a part of the road they had traversed, on Bank’s cart, when they came to London, two winters back. There was the great, low, desolate wilderness, treeless and void of any green thing, seen now from nearer the midst, with the roadbounding it in the distance; and here was the chemical manure-factory, close at hand this time, with its stink at short-hitting range, so that every window in the train went up with a bang, and everybody in the long third-class carriage coughed, or grimaced, or spat, or swore, according to sex and habit.
Then, out beyond Stratford, through Leyton and Leytonstone, they saw that the town had grown much in twenty months, and was still growing. Close, regular streets of little houses, all of one pattern, stared in raw brick, or rose, with a forlorn air of crumbling sponginess, amid sparse sticks of scaffolding. Bessy wondered how the butterflies were faring in the forest, and how much farther they had been driven since she left it. Then the wide country began to spin past, and pleasant single houses, and patches of wood. The hills about Chigwell stood bright and green across the Roding valley, as the low ground ran away between, and the high forest land came up at the other side of the line. Till the train stood in Loughton Station.
Through the village Bessy, flushed and eager, stumped and swung at a pace that kept Johnny walking his best. Staple Hill was the nearest corner of the forest, and for Staple Hill they made direct. Once past the street-end it rose before them, round and gay, deep and green in the wood that clothed it. Boys werefishing in the pond at its foot, and the stream ran merrily under the dusty road.
“Come, Johnny!” Bessy cried. “Straight over the hill!” Nor did she check her pace till the wide boughs shaded them, and her crutch went softly on the mossy earth among old leaves. Then she stood and laughed aloud, and was near crying. “Smell it, Johnny!” she cried, “smell it! Isn’t it heavenly?”
They went up the slope, across tiny glades, and between thick clumps of undergrowth gay with dog-roses, Bessy’s eyes and ears alert for everything, tree, bird, or flower; now spying out some noisy jay that upbraided their intrusion, now standing to hark for a distant woodpecker. Johnny enjoyed the walk too, but with a soberer delight; as became an engineer taking a day’s relaxation amid the scenes of childish play now half forgotten.
Down the other side of the hill they went, and over the winding stream at the bottom. Truly it seemed a tiny stream now, and Johnny wondered that he should ever have been proud of jumping it. He found a bend where the water rushed through a narrow channel by the side of a bed of clean-washed gravel, and got Bess across, though she scrambled down and up with little help, such was her enthusiasm.
Then the trees grew sparser, and over the deep-grown flat of Debden Slade Bessy stopped again andagain to recognise some well-remembered wild-flower; and little brown butterflies skimmed over the rushes and tall grass, the sun mounted higher, and everything was brisk and bright and sweet-smelling. Brother and sister climbed the hill before them slowly, often staying to look back over the great prospect of rolling woodland, ever widening as they rose. Till at last they stood at the point of the ridge, in the gap through the earthwork made by ancient Britons.
This beyond all others was the spot that Bessy had loved best. This ragged ring of crumbling rampart and ditch, grown thick with fantastic hornbeams, pollarded out of all common shape; its inner space a crowded wonder of tall bracken, with rare patches of heather; its outer angles watching over the silent woods below, and dominating the hills that ranked beyond; this was the place where best an old book from the shelf would fill a sunny afternoon. For the camp was a romance in itself, a romance of closer presence than anything printed on paper. Here, two thousand years ago, the long-haired savages had stood, in real fact, with spears and axes, brandishing defiance to foes on the hillside. Here they had entrenched themselves against the Roman legions—they and their chief, fierce Cassivellaunus: more, to her, than a name in an old history-book. For had not she seen the wild prince a hundred times in her day-dreams, stalking under theoaks—with the sheeted Druids? Till the wood grew alive with phantoms, and she hid her face in her book.
And now she sat here again, in the green shade, and looked out over the thousand tree-tops, merry with the sunlight. How long had she left it all? What was that fancy of a ride to London, of ship-yards, and of a chandler’s-shop? But Johnny whistled to a robin on a twig, and she turned and looked at him, to see that here was the engineer, indeed, and the painter of the chandler’s-shop. Still, which was the dream, that or this?
Left alone, Bessy would have sat here all the day. But there were other places not to be forgotten, as Johnny reminded her. Over the heather they went, then, to Monk Wood, where the trees were greater and the flowers were more abundant than anywhere else in the forest; and they did not leave it till Johnny insisted on dinner. Now this dinner was a great excitement; for at setting out Johnny had repelled every suggestion of sandwiches in a bag, and now dauntlessly marched into an inn on the main road and ordered whatever was ready, with two glasses of beer. Bessy, overwhelmed by the audacity of the act, nevertheless preserved her appetite, and even drank a little of the beer. And the adventure cost Johnny four shillings.
“Mother’s having her dinner alone,” said Bessy in aflutter of timid delight. “She doesn’t guess we’re having ours at the Red Deer!”
Hence it was not far, by the lanes, to the high churchyard, for the flowers gathered in Monk Wood were for gran’dad’s grave, and it was a duty of the day to mark the condition of the little headstone. All was well with it, and it surprised them to find the grass cut neatly, and a little clump of pansies growing on the mound. Bessy suspected Bob Smallpiece.
And so went a perfect day. Their tea they took in Bob Smallpiece’s lodge. The keeper admitted having “gone over” old Mr. May’s grave with the grass shears—just once or twice. He avoided making any definite reply to Johnny’s and Bessy’s invitations to come to Harbour Lane again. Perhaps he’d come again, he said, some day. Meanwhile, had they seen the cottage? As they had not, they set out all three together, and looked at it.
The new tenancy had made little change. Down the glen the white walls first peeped from among the trunks, and then the red tiles, just as ever. The woodman was at work mending the old fence—it was always being mended somewhere. The turbulent little garden still tumbled and surged against it, threatening to lay it flat at any moment. Very naturally, the woodman and his wife, though perfectly civil, took less personal interest in Johnny and Bessy than Johnny and Bessy took inthem and the cottage, so that it was not long ere a last look was taken at the old fence, and Bob Smallpiece went off another way on his walk of duty.
Shadows grew long, and thickets dark. To revisit every remembered nook had been impossible, but they had seen and lingered in all them that had most delighted Bessy in old times—all but Wormleyton Pits. Johnny had turned that way once, thoughtlessly; but “No,” Bessy said—almost whispered—with her hand on his arm, “not that way, Johnny!”
And now they turned their backs on the fast darkening forest and took a steep lane for the village below. The sweet smells, that go up at the first blink of the evening star, met them on the breeze; and when they turned for their last look toward the woods, the trees on the hill-top, tall sentinels of the host beyond, barred the red west and nodded them and the sun goodbye.
Out of the stony lane, Loughton was lighted, and at the end of a dusty road was a small constellation of gas-lamps and railway signals. Now it was plain that both were a little tired—Bessy perhaps more than a little. But the train gave a welcome rest, and there were no passengers to see, even if she slept, for they were alone in their compartment. They had passed two stations, when Johnny, who had been standing to look out at the opposite window, turned and saw that hissister was dozing, with her head bent forward and her face hidden by the crutch-handle. It was so wholly her figure as she sat in the cab at the old man’s funeral, that Johnny started, and sat where he stood, though he had never once called the thing to mind since that day. And he took the crutch gently away, to look at her face. But it was calm and untroubled; and he put his hand at the farther side of it and pressed it to his shoulder; for plainly she was tired out, and there were no cushions in the carriage.
It was nearing ten o’clock when at last they turned into Harbour Lane. From a back street came the old watchman’s cry, “Pa-a-ast nine o’clock!” as he went his round in search of orders to wake early risers; and lights in bedroom windows told of early risers already seeking sleep. Nobody was in the shop, but as they came in, Johnny thought he saw his mother’s face vanish from beside the muslin curtain that obscured the glass in the back-parlour door.
They passed through the shop, and into the back parlour. Their mother and Mr. Butson sat facing them, side by side. Mr. Butson had a new suit of clothes, and their mother wore her best, and smiles and tears were in her face. Something had happened. What was it? Bessy and Johnny, scarce within the door, stood and stared.
“Johnny—Bessy—” Nan faltered, looking from one to the other. “Have you—enjoyed your holiday? . . . Won’t you—kiss me, Johnny?”
She rose and made a step toward them. But something struck them still, and they looked, wondering, from Nan to Butson, and back to their mother again. . . . What was it?
Johnny moved first, and kissed his mother, absently, gazing at Mr. Butson the while. Mr. Butson, who was smoking, said nothing, but lay back in his chair and considered the ash of his cigar.
Nan’s anxiety was plain to see. She put a hand on Johnny’s shoulder and an arm on Bessy’s neck. “I,—we—you won’t be vexed because I didn’t tell you, will you?” she said, pale, but trying to smile, “I—we—Mr. Butson . . . Johnny, Bessy—don’t look so!” Tears ran down her cheeks, and she bent her head on Johnny’s other shoulder. “We’ve been married to-day!”
Theshock left Johnny and Bessy numb, and, though Bessy was quicker, the change took Johnny two or three days to realise—even to understand. His first distinct impression was one of injury and resentment. He had been tricked—hoodwinked. His mother—even his mother had deceived him and Bessy. Why? Why not tell them first?
Shewouldhave told them, he was sure; she told them everything. Butson had persuaded her to keep them in ignorance till the thing was done, lest they should rebel, and perhaps bring her to a change of mood. And Johnny’s guess was a good one. . . . Forthwith his resentment became something more; hate, mere hate for this man who had come between him and his mother—this cadger of suppers thrusting himself into their intimate life. . . .
And yet—perhaps this was simple anger at the slight and the deception; jealousy at finding a stranger as dear to his mother as himself was. Butson might turn out none so bad a fellow. He was very decent over the callipers, for instance. . . . Curse the callipers!Johnny’s anger was not to be reasoned down. On Sunday he had his own mother. Now there was nothing but Butson’s wife.
More, the man was his father—his stepfather; chief authority in the house, with respect and obedience due to him. That seemed intolerable. For a moment Johnny had mad notions of leaving home altogether, and shifting for himself—going aboard ship, abroad, anywhere. But that would be to leave Bess alone—and his mother; his mother might need him yet.
He told Long Hicks, as they tramped to work over the locks and bridges in the bright morning, early and still; and it surprised him to see Hicks’s tacit concern at the news. The long man reddened and stuttered, and checked himself suddenly at an imminent outburst of speech. But that was all; he offered no opinion and made no remark; and as he was given to suppressed excitement on small occasion, Johnny presently forgot it.
As for Bessy, her distress, quiet as it was, was beyond telling. Her association with her mother had been so intimate that this change was stark bereavement; and for Butson and his coarse pretence her feeling was sheer repulsion.
Neither boy nor girl had the habit of dissimulation, and though they said little, it needed small discernment to guess something of their sentiments. Poor Nan wasdismayed to perceive that they did not take to Butson instant on the news of the novel relationship. Indeed, it perplexed her. For in her simple view he was a resplendent person of finer mould, sore hit by a cruel world, and entitled to the respectful sympathy, at least and coldest, of the merest stranger. More, nobody could be more completely devoted than he to the interests of Johnny and Bessy; he had most vehemently assured her of it, again and again. But after all, the thing was sudden; they must realise his true worth soon. Though meantime she was distressed extremely.
Butson saw plainly enough, but for the present cared not at all. He had won his game, and for a little time unwonted plenty and comfort satisfied him. Though he was not insensible that this was a place wherein he must do something more to make himself absolute master.
Uncle Isaac got the news on Tuesday evening, when he came for supper. For a week or ten days he had been little seen at Harbour Lane, because of an urgent job involving overtime, a thing not to be neglected in these lean years. He had suspected nothing, moreover, supposing Butson to be so often attracted to Nan’s by the mere prospect of supper.
Now, when he was told, he was near as astonished as Johnny had been. He sat at random—fortunately on a chair—and opened mouth and eyes. But ere hismouth closed he had resolved on his own course. The thing was done, and past undoing.
He sprang to his feet, and seized one of Butson’s hands—the nearest—in both his own. “Mr. Butson!” he said: “Butson! Me ole friend ’Enery—me dearest ’opes an’ wishes is rewarded. Nan, you’re done most dootiful the confidentialest o’ my intentions. For what was my confidential intentions? ’Ere, I says, confidential to meself, ’ere is my niece, a young woman as I wish every possible good fortun’ to, though I sez it meself: a very sootable young woman o’ some little property with two children an’ a business. Two children an’ a business was my reflection. What’s more, ’ere’s my very respected friend Butson—than which none more so—fash’nable by ’abit an’ connexions, with no children an’ no business. Them considerations bein’ thus what follers? What’s the cause an’ pediment to ’oly matrimony? Far be it from me, sez I, to dictate. But I’ll take ’im in to tea, any’ow. An’ I’ll do whatever else is ne’ssry. Yus, I’ll do it, sez I, as is my dooty.I’llwork it if it’s mortal possible. Whether grateful or notI’lldo it. An’ I done it.”
Uncle Isaac punched his left palm with his right fist, and looked from husband to wife, with the eye of the righteous defying censure. Nan flushed and smiled, and indeed she was relieved. No consideration of her unaccustomed secrecy had given her more doubt thanthat it must shut her off from Uncle Isaac’s advice; loss enough in itself, and probably an offence to him.
“This,” Uncle Isaac went on, taking his chair once more and drawing it up to the table: “this is a great an’ ’appy occasion, an’ as sich it should be kep’ up. Nan, is there sich a thing as a drop o’ sperrits in the ’ouse?”
There was most of a small jar of whisky—the first purchase Mr. Butson had caused on his change of condition. It was brought, with tumblers, and Uncle Isaac celebrated the occasion with full honours and much fragmentary declamation. He drank the health of bride and bridegroom, first separately and then together. He drank the health of the family, completed and adorned by the addition of Butson. He drank success to the shop; long life to all the parties concerned; happiness to each of them. And a certain forgetfulness ensuing, he began his toast-list afresh, in conscientious precaution lest something had been omitted.
“See there, Bess; see there, me gal,” he exclaimed, with some thickness of utterance, turning to Bessy (whose one desire was to remain unnoticed), and making a semicircular swing of the arm in Butson’s direction. “Yer father! Noo s-stepfather! Local p’rentis! As a cripple an’ a burden it’s your dooty to be grateful for the c-circumstance. Bein’ a widderer o’ long ex-experiencemeself I’m grateful for s-surroundin’ priv’leges, which it is your dooty t’ respeck. See? Dooty t’ respeck an’ obey; likewise honour. ’C-cos if shillun don’ ’speck an’ ’bey whash good C-catechism? Eh?” Uncle Isaac’s voice grew loud and fierce. “Whash become C-catechishm I say? Nullavoid. Ca’chishm’s nullavoid.” . . . Here, pausing to look round at Mr. and Mrs. Butson, he lost his argument altogether, and stared owlishly at the wall. . . . “’Owsomedever, the ’casion bein’ the state an’ pediment o’ ’oly matrimony, ’cordin’ to confidential ’tentions, nothin’ remains but ashk you all join me ’n drinkin’—d-drinkin’—er—er—lil’ drop more.”
Uncle Isaac subsided with his face on the table, and his eyes closed. So that it grew necessary for Mr. Butson to shake him and bring him to a perpendicular. Whereupon, being duly invested with his hat, he was safely set in his way on the narrow pavement of Harbour Lane.
Twiceor thrice more Uncle Isaac came to supper, though he was dimly aware that his visits were in some way less successful than had been their wont; insomuch that he took nothing home with him for breakfast, nor even went so far as to hint his desire, in Butson’s presence. For Butson welcomed him not at all, and his manner grew shorter at each meeting, and this with full intent. Because Mr. Butson perceived that, as first step toward being master in his own house, he must get rid of Uncle Isaac.
Mere curtness of manner—even gruffness—would never drive Uncle Isaac from his prey. It operated only to make him more voluble, more strenuously blandiloquent. Till one evening after supper, as he lay back in his chair sucking noisily at lips and teeth, he resolved to venture a step in the matter of the lapsed grants in aid of breakfast. Johnny and Bessy were out of the house (they went out more often now), Nan was serving in the shop, and Mr. Butson sat with his back partly turned, and smoked, in uncivil silence.
“Ah!” quoth Uncle Isaac, with a side-glance at hisungracious host, “that’s a uncommon nice tin o’ spiced beef we just ’ad a cut auf. Uncommon.”
Mr. Butson made no answer.
“It’s a great credit to your business instinks, that tin o’ spiced beef. I almost wish I ’ad took another slice or so, now.” As a fact, Uncle Isaac had not been offered a further helping—perhaps because he had already taken three. “I almost wish I ’ad. . . . Never mind. It’ll do another time. . . . Come now, I’ve ’alf a mind to get Nan to wrop it up for my breakfast!”
The suggestion was made as of a novel and striking idea, but Mr. Butson showed no flash of enthusiasm. He swung his chair slowly round on one leg till he faced Uncle Isaac. Then he put his cigar carefully on the mantelpiece and said:—“Look ’ere, Mr. Mundy!”
The sudden severity of the voice drew Uncle Isaac’s eyes from the ceiling and his feet from under the table simultaneously.
“Look ’ere, Mr. Mundy! You’re bin so very kind as to celebrate this ’ere weddin’ o’ mine with four good ’eavy suppers an’ about a pint o’ whisky at my expense. I’m very grateful for that, an’ I won’t trouble you no more. See? This is the end o’ the celebration. I’m goin’ to eat my supper in future, me an’ my wife,without your assistance; an’ breakfast too. Understand?”
Uncle Isaac’s feet retreated under his chair, and his eyes advanced to an alarming protrusion.
“See what I mean?” Butson went on, with growing offence in his voice. “Jest you buy yer own suppers an’ eat ’em at ’ome, or else go without.”
Speech was denied Uncle Isaac. He blinked and choked. What did it mean? Was it a dream? Was he Uncle Isaac, respected and deferred to, the man of judgment and influence, and was he told, thus outrageously, to buy his own supper?
“Yus,” said Butson, as though in answer to his thoughts. “I mean it!”
Whereat Uncle Isaac, with a gasp and a roll of the eyes, found his tongue. “Mr. Butson!” he said, in a voice of dignified but grieved surprise. “Mr. Butson! I—I think I must ’a ’eard wrong. Otherwise I might put it as you may be sorry for sich words.”
“P’raps,” remarked Butson, cynically laconic.
“In which case,” replied Uncle Isaac the adroit, “it is freely took as auffered, an’ nothin’ more need be said atween of friends after sich ’ansome apologies give an’ took, and reconciliation resooms its ’armony accordin’.”
Butson glared. “G-r-r-r!” he growled. “Apologies! What I say I mean. You’ve done very well at cheapsuppers an’ what not ’ere, and to-night you’ve ’ad yer last.I’mmaster ’ere now. An’ you can git out as soon as ye like.”
“What?”
“Git out. Y’ought to be ashamed o’ yourself,” cried the disinterested Butson indignantly, “comin cadgin’ suppers!”
“Git out? Me? Suppers? Why, ’Enery Butson, I brought you ’ere out o’ the gutter! Out o’ the gutter, an’ fed ye!”
“Ah—a lot you fed me, and mighty anxious to do it, wasn’t ye? You clear out o’ ’ere!”
“O I’ll go! an’ I’ll see about countermandin’ a paper or two ’fore I go to bed, too. An’ my small property—”
“Yer small property!” put in Butson, with slow scorn. “Yer small property! Where is it? What is it? . . . Want to know my opinion o’ you? You’re a old ’umbug. That’s what you are. A old ’umbug.”
Uncle Isaac grew furious and purple. “’Umbug?” he said. “’Umbug? Them words to me, as saved ye from starvation? ’Umbug yerself. You an’ yer connexions, an’ mayors an’ what not! Why, ye dunno yer own trade! I wouldn’t trust ye to grind a cawfy-mill!”
With that the shop-door opened, and Nan stood between them. She had heard high voices, and at the first cessation of custom she came to see. “Uncle!Henry! What is it?” she asked, with alarm in her face.
“This is what it is,” said Butson, now near as purple as Uncle Isaac. “This ’ere uncle o’ yours, Mrs. Butson, or whatever ’e is, ain’t comin’ ’ere cadgin’ ’is grub any more; not so long as I got a say in it ’e ain’t. See? So now you better say good-bye to ’im if ye want to, ’cos ’e’s goin’, quick.”
“O yus,” said Uncle Isaac, speaking to his niece, but glaring at Butson, “I’m goin’, Mrs. Butson. An’ much better may you be for it. After what I done for you an’ all. Sort o’ gratitood I might ’a’ expected!”
“O uncle!” exclaimed the distracted Nan. “Why, whatever’s the matter? I know you’ve always been very good. Henry! What’s it all about?”
“About puttin’ a end to this ’ere bloodsuckin’, that’s all!”
“Bloodsuckin’!” exclaimed Uncle Isaac. “Yus, you know somethin’ about that! Pity ye don’t know yer trade ’alf as well! Then p’raps you’d earn yer livin’, ’stead o’ spongin’ on people an’ deloodin’ a fool of a woman to keep ye lazy!”
“Go on! go on!” commanded Butson, with increasing wrath.
“No, uncle, stop a minute,” entreated poor Nan. “Don’t, Henry, don’t let’s quarrel!”
“Go on!”
“O yus, I’ll go. P’raps you’d like to call the p’lice?”
Butson caught breath at the word, and something crossed his face like a chance reflection from a white screen. But he repeated, “Go on!” with a gesture toward the door.
“Yus, yus!” said Uncle Isaac, with his hat on his head. “I’m goin’! An’ not sorry neither. Ho! You’re a bright sort for a local p’rentis, you are!” (Uncle Isaac may have been at odds with the phrasein loco parentis). “A uncommon neat pattern!” And he walked out into the dark street, a small model of offended dignity.