I had no time to feel depressed after Rose left on Saturday, for the afternoon brought me more customers than I could well accommodate.
My reputation must have travelled as far as Broadbeck, for the greater number of my patrons are from that town. They consist for the most part of engaged couples, or couples that obviously intend to become engaged; and whether it is the excellence of my productions, or the low charges, or just the fun of being photographed by a woman in a hamlet like Windyridge that attracts them, I have not been able to determine, and it does not very much matter. Mother Hubbard, on the other hand, finds the explanation simple. I am the most talented of artists, with all the indifference of the genuine genius to adequate remuneration.
I was thoroughly tired when tea-time came and my day's labours ended, and was quite ready to be petted and made a fuss of by my dear old lady. By the way, the summer has unfortunately not brought back her old vigour, and I cannot help worrying a little about her, though she is as bright and optimistic as ever.
I got a long letter from Rose on Monday morning. It had been written, of course, on the Sunday, whilst the scent of the moors was still in her nostrils; but though she feels the change pretty badly I am sure she is not so depressed as I am. It must have taken her a heap of time to fill so many sheets of notepaper with her small, business-like handwriting. There were a good many sparkling sentences in the letter, but I cannot say that I felt particularly cheerful when I had finished it.
It appears that the Cynic was travelling by the Midland express, and they were companions all the way from Airlee. He was already in the train, which starts from Broadbeck, and he caught sight of her on the platform. It seems strange that he should have gone round that way, for I remember he told us once that he always travelled by Great Northern, as it is the shorter route.
I fancy he was rather taken with Rose, and I know she liked him very much, for she said so quite openly. It would do the Cynic good to be married, especially as he seems to need comforting, and Rose is one of the dearest girls in existence, and would make him a good wife—at least, I hope she would. And although she has to earn her own living, she is really very well connected, and had a quite superior education. It was simply her father's recklessness that threw her on her own resources, and I should say that her origin is as good as the Cynic's.
And yet I should hardly have thought that she was just his sort. He is a man who will make large demands upon his wife if she is to be a real helpmeet, and he needs to be understood. I am sure Rose did not understand him. But perhaps, after all, she would be very suitable in one way. She is ambitious, and would see that he did not hide his light under a bushel in social circles; though, to be sure, society might turn up its nose ather. It would worry me terribly if anything should come of this chance encounter under my chaperonage, and either party should be unhappy. It may be undue sensitiveness on my part, but I feel rather oppressed with a sense of responsibility.
Of course, looking at the matter quite calmly, it seems ridiculous to be building air-castles like this, but I amvery fondof Rose and I would not for worlds have her marry unsuitably; and I cannot help respecting the Cynic after what he said the other night. It would be just terrible if they were to make a mess of their lives. Marriage is such a very serious undertaking, and lots of really sensible people appear to lose their heads altogether when they come to make the important choice. However, it is none of my business, and I won't refer to it again.
Rose says he was very attentive to her during the journey, and handed her quite a number of illustrated papers, including some ladies' journals. If I were a barrister I should never dream of buying papers which make their appeal to the other sex; but perhaps he finds it necessary to the study of human nature. A man in his profession must have to be as many-sided as a poet.
I conclude that she did not read the magazines, for she says so much about their conversation that it is evident there was little opportunity, and besides, they lunched together in the diner, and that must have taken up a lot of time. She admits that she teased him, and that he seemed to like it, but she does not say what about. He said the other day that she was dangerous. I wonder if he really thought so, and is on his guard against the danger, for Rose has always been somewhat of a flirt, and it would hurt a man like him deeply if he really cared and found she was only playing with him. He is the sort that—— But I said I would not refer to it, and here I am doing so.
He told her he hoped to see something of her occasionally, and she was unconventional enough to hope the same. They are sure to make opportunities easily enough when they are both in London. I feel glad for Rose, for he is the kind of man who will steady her a bit, but I hope she—— Oh, bother it!
Madam Rusty received my kind messages, it appears, with apparent indifference, so Rose waxed eloquent over the Sunday dinner table, and painted a picture of my surroundings in the most brilliant colours from the palette of her imagination. She stimulated the curiosity of the boarders, who showed a great interest in me and my adventures, and were eager to know what kind of fare was provided in the wilderness, and what was the character of the heathen in whose midst I dwelt; to all of which she replied in a strain of subdued enthusiasm which she assured me carried conviction. I was regarded, she informed them, with the same respect as was naturally accorded to the squire of the place, with whom I was on terms of extreme intimacy. Good air and really good food (Rose emphasised this for madam's benefit) had brought to my cheeks the glow of health; and my abilities had secured for me a clientele which would make a West End photographer think sad thoughts. This, goodness knows, was true enough.
She went into ecstasies over Mother Hubbard's cooking, and caused the company to believe that the fatted calf, and all other makes of fatted beasts and birds of the primest and tenderest quality, appeared upon my table regularly during her visit. When I remember the "pot-luck" we had so often laughed over at dinner-time, my admiration for Rose's imaginative faculties assumed huge proportions.
The heathen amongst whom I dwelt were, it appears, Nature's gentlefolk, hating unreality and humbug as they hated the devil. I think this was really rather clever of Rose, for it hits off some of my neighbours exactly, though the devil with whom they are on speaking terms might possibly seem a mild and blunt-horned personage to some of my London acquaintances.
There was a good deal more to the same effect, and having driven the Rusty one to the verge of apoplexy, Rose retired to her own room and penned her epistle. Seclusion evidently induced reaction, and she confessed to the depression I have hinted at. I don't wonder, poor girl. I should hate to be going to work in the crowded city after having tasted the freedom of the moors. All the same, there are compensations if you look for them. If you have friends who are congenial you have more opportunities of seeing them in a place like London. Everybody goes to London. Perhaps the Cynic will take her to see the new play at the St. James's Theatre. I shall be very glad, I am sure, if they become firm friends. My only doubt is of Rose. She is so thoughtless and flighty, and might do harm without meaning it....
Oh, bother it again! I'm going to bed.
I have not been sleeping very well lately, and my dreams have given me the creeps and left me so irritable that if I had only a considerate and philanthropic employer like the one Rose patronises I am sure I should have been sent away somewhere for a change. Being my own employer, I stay on and make Mother Hubbard look worried. And the worst of it is she does not discuss my state of health as a sensible woman should, but just pets me and tells me it "will all come right in the end." When I ask her what it is that is to come right she smiles and relapses into silence. If she were not so gentle and loving and altogether sweet I should feel inclined to shake her.
Did I not say that the devil had his intimates in Windyridge? I nod to him myself just now, but Simon Barjona Higgins has gone into business with him on quite a large scale, and my friend Maria must surely be casting longing backward glances in the direction of widowhood. It makes one feel that matrimony is a snare which women are fools to enter with their eyes open; though I suppose all men are not given up to Satan.
Fancy Rose saying there were no humbugs about here, when such a man as Barjona flourishes unabashed! But when I come to think of it, she didn't quite say that: she simply said that my neighbours hated humbug as they hate the devil, and Barjona loves them both. The thought of him makes me sick, and when I found out what an old Shylock the man is I went into the studio with a hammer and smashed his negatives into a hundred pieces, with as much zest as if I had been a militant suffragette breaking windows in Regent Street under the eyes of a scandalised policeman.
If nature had been clothed in drab on Wednesday afternoon when the report of unusual occurrences in the village drew me to the little group of excited people who were discussing them it would have been appropriate to the occasion. But she wasn't—she was dressed in her gayest and most captivating summer clothing.
I think that in itself is vexing. Why should nature look so pleased and happy when people are miserable, and so emphasise the contrast? If I am grumpy to begin with it makes me feel ever so much worse to know that nature is laughing at me, and is just as bright and optimistic as I am wretched. And, contrariwise, if I do wake up one morning determined to "bid dull care begone"—who was it used that expression recently?—and be merry and cheerful, the skies are sure to be like lead, and the ram is certain to drip, drip, in that sullen, persistent fashion that would drive Mark Tapley himself to pessimism. There is a law of cussedness, I am convinced, and I believe I have discovered it. Mother Hubbard says it is my liver, and prescribes pills!
When I joined the group there were so many eager to tell me the story that it was some time before I could make out its purport. By the way, I ought to point out that I amnotbecoming a gossip, but I am interested in the news of the village. We have noDaily Mailto chronicle our doings, and our methods are therefore necessarily primitive. Besides, to hold aloof from one's neighbours is a sign of what Rose calls "snorkiness."
One of the dearest little cottages in the village is inhabited by a man called Carrier Ted. I had never been inside it, but its picturesqueness appeals to me every time I pass it, and you may often see visitors leaning over the low wall of the garden and enthusing about it. It is just a little one-storeyed, two-roomed cot, not nearly so big as some gentlemen's motor garages, but large enough for one occupant, or even for two if their tastes are simple.
The ground rises steeply behind it, and tall trees cover the hill from base to summit, so that the little white house is quite overshadowed by them. I call it a white house, but the walls are almost concealed by green and yellow and crimson, where the canary creeper and climbing roses stretch forth their slender arms to embrace the brown, thatched roof.
The garden is evenly divided into two parts by the flagged footpath which leads straight to the door, and it is always ablaze with colour in the summer time; but the arrangement is more orderly than in some of our Windyridge gardens, for Carrier Ted, albeit old-fashioned in his tastes, is an epicure in horticulture. Only a few days ago Rose and I had stopped to admire his bloom, and especially the wonderful moss roses which were his especial pride, and to have a word with the old man whose skill and industry had aroused my friend's enthusiasm.
When I first came to the village I took him to be of weak intellect, principally, I believe, because he always wore a tall silk hat of antiquated pattern. It was a very rough silk of uncertain colour, and gave one the impression that it was constantly brushed the wrong way; but whether working in the garden or walking along the road, Carrier Ted might always be recognised by his peculiar headgear.
But there is no daftness about him really. He is just a quiet, even taciturn old man, who is alone in the world and has saved sufficient money to enable him to spend the evening of life in comfort, and who finds in his home and garden both business, recreation and religion. He is a little, bent man, round-faced and ruddy in spite of his eighty odd years, with thick grey eyebrows, and a half-circle of beard stretching from ear to ear beneath his chin. When you praise his flowers he pauses for a moment, draws his sleeve across his brow in a confused sort of way, as if to remove perspiration, and smiles. The smile and the action always remind me of a bashful child who would like to be friendly but dare not all at once. The smile lights up his face and reveals the angel within him; but he answers only in monosyllables, and seems relieved when you pass on your way. It was this man and his cottage who were the subject of excited conversation.
"It's a burnin' shame, Miss 'Olden, that's what it is!" exclaimed Widow Smithies, "an' if I'd my way I'd wring that old heathen of a Barjona his neck for 'im, that I would; the good-for-nowt, graspin' old money-lender 'at he is."
"He wants hoss-whippin'," said Sar'-Ann's mother, "an' if I were a man I'd do it! But our men fowk are no more use nor two penn'orth o' cowd gin, an' I'll be bound ther' isn't one on 'em 'at'll lift a little finger agen 'im."
"An' I'm sure anyone 'at can find it in their 'eart to do ought wrong to poor old Ted isn't fit to bide in t' village," said Martha Treffit; "an' one 'ud ha' thought wi' 'avin' been in t' same trade, like, Barjona 'ud never ha' tried to 'urt Ted."
"They may have been in t' same trade, Martha," interposed Susannah, "but Ted comes off a better pastur' nor ivver Barjona wa' raised on. 'E's as keen as mustard, is Barjona, an' 'ud mor'gage his soul for owt he took a fancy tul."
"He's as 'ard as iron in his 'eart," snapped Mrs. Smithies, "but as soft as a boiled turnup in his 'ead. I'd like to put 'im through t' wringin' machine, an' squeeze 'im for once, as is so ready to squeeze other fowk. 'Ere comes Reuben. What'll Reuben 'ave to say about it, I wonder?"
Reuben shook his head. "It's a sad job, neighbours, but law's law, an' we shall have to make t' best on 't."
"Hark to him!" said Sar'-Ann's mother; "didn't I tell you there isn't a man in t' village wi' as mich sperrit as a kitlin'? If Reuben won't do nowt ye can go bail 'at t' rest 'll noan stir."
"Right's right, an' law's law, all the world over," said Reuben, shaking his head; "an' it'll be no manner o' use tryin' to persuade Barjona ought different. I could easy throw him on t' midden, but that wouldn't mend matters. 'Ye can take t' horse to t' water, but ye can't make 'im drink,' as t' Owd Book says. It'll be a trial to t' owd man, but Ted 'll have to make up 'is mind to flit."
Reuben walked home with me and gave me a connected account of what had happened. "You see, Ted's lived i' yon cottage ever sin' I can remember, Miss 'Olden. I mind him bringin' his wife to it, maybe forty year sin', though I were just a lad at t' time, an' it'll be 'appen five year sin' she died. They were neither on 'em chickens when they were wed, an' they never 'ad any childer; but they allus seemed to get on right enough, an' I don't know 'at I ever 'eard tell of 'em 'aving a wrong word wi' one another, or wi' anyone else, for that matter. They lived peaceable wi' all men, as t' Owd Book puts it, an' kept theirselves to theirselves. But they never really made any friends, as you may say. If you looked in you were welcome, but you were never asked to stop, an' they never called in to see t' neighbours. His missis wasn't one o' t' gossipin' sort, an' 'e were away a good deal wi' his cart; an' so we got into t' 'abit o' leavin' 'em alone.
"She must have been seventy—ay, more than seventy—when she died (I believe it tells on t' stone, but I never took that much notice), an' one or two o' t' neighbours did look in during t' time 'at she were ill, an' did what they could for 'em both, and he were very grateful. But he made no fuss, an' when they put her away 'e just wiped 'is sleeve across 'is face, an' walked back an' started diggin' a trench in t' garden.
"Well, it come out this mornin' 'at Barjona's bought t' cottage, an' it appears he gave Ted notice to quit last week-end, an' his time 's up on Saturda'. They say he's goin' to live there himself, an' I daresay it's likely enough. It belonged to a young chap down i' Fawkshill, an' Barjona has a 'old on him somehow, an' he's forced 'im to sell. I've been to see t' chap just now, but Barjona has got it right enough, deeds an' everything, an' law's law all the world over. Ted's fair rooted in t' soil o' that land, but he'll 'ave to shift, an' quick too. 'E's as hard as nails, is Barjona, an' Ted 'll have to clear out on Saturda'."
"But what a shame!" I remarked; "could not someone be induced to buy it from Barjona? Perhaps he would sell at a profit."
"I'm goin' to see him in t' mornin'," replied Reuben, "but I durst bet a five-pun note to a toothpick 'at he won't sell at any figure. I know Barjona. There's good wheat i' all men, but it's so lost among t' chaff i' Barjona's case 'at only t' Day o' Judgment 'll find it."
Reuben called the next day to report the fruitlessness of his mission.
"It's no use," he said, and for once the cheerful farmer had become gloomy; "I haven't got a right hang o' t' words, but t' Owd Book says summat, if I'm not mista'en, about ye can crush a man's 'ead up in a mortar wi' a pestle, an' if he's a fool at t' start, he'll be a fool at t' finish. Barjona says he's stalled o' livin' down yonder i' Maria's house in t' Gap, an' he's set 'is 'eart on yon cottage o' Ted's ever sin' he thought o' gettin' wed again. He's shut his teeth, an' ye couldn't prize 'em open wi' a chisel an' hammer."
"Could the squire do anything if I wrote him?" I asked.
"Mr. Evans? What can 'e do? T' cottage isn't his. Law's law, an' Barjona has t' law on his side. Ye can't fight agen law. Ted 'll have to shift. It's a pity, but it's no killin' matter, an' 'e'll get over it i' time."
"Not if he's rooted to the soil," I said; "old plants often die when transplanted."
"Now look 'ere, Miss 'Olden," he replied kindly; "don't you take on over this job. You're too fond o' suppin' sorrow. We all 'ave our own crosses to carry, an' it's right 'at we should 'elp to carry other folkses. But it's no use carryin' theirs unless you can lighten t' load for 'em. Frettin' for owd Ted 'll none make it any easier for 'im. You want to learn 'ow to be sorry i' reason, without frettin' yourself to death. Why aren't ye sorry for Barjona?"
"The miserable old fox!" I exclaimed.
"I dunno but what he's more to be pitied nor Ted," replied Reuben thoughtfully. "Now you just study a minute. Don't ye think the Lord 'll be more sorry to see Barjona's 'eart shrivelled up like a dried pig-skin, so as it can't beat like other people's, nor what 'E will for Ted, what's as 'armless as a baby? If I read t' Owd Book right 'E allus seemed t' sorriest for them 'at were t' worst. 'E wept over Lazarus, I know, but 'E didn't fret about him an' his sisters in t' same way as 'E fret over t' city when 'E wept over it. You see, Lazarus 'adn't gone wrong, an' t' city had. Lazarus an' t' girls had suffered i' their bodies an' their minds, same as we all 'ave to do, an' same as Ted is doin', but t' city 'at rejected 'Im was sufferin' in its soul.
"No, I pity Ted, but I pity Barjona more. It's t' sick 'at need t' physician, as t' Owd Book says, an' Barjona's got t' fatal disease o' greed an' selfishness an' covetousness an' 'ard-'eartedness, wi' all sorts o' complications, an' it doesn't make me pity 'im any less 'at 'e doesn't know 'at 'e ails ought. You never found the Lord ought but kind to them 'at 'E drave t' devils out of. Now you think it over, an' keep your sperrits up."
I have thought it over. Just now, perhaps, I am not in the mood to view the case philosophically. My own feelings reflect the mood of the village generally. I don't doubt Barjona's sickness, but my prescription would be a drastic one, and whipping with scorpions would be too good for him. There are some people whom kindness does not cure, and I imagine Barjona to be one of them.
I would go over to see Maria, but Farmer Goodenough is emphatic that I ought not to interfere. "It's ill comin' between married fowk," he says. He is sure I should make trouble, and he is very likely right. I was astonished when I heard that Barjona had left his lodgings and gone to live in the Gap, for it certainly seems out of the way for his business; but he has no right to disturb poor old Ted for his own convenience. I hope judgment will overtake him speedily.
Did I not say I had a nodding acquaintance with the devil?
Soon after breakfast on Saturday a furniture cart stopped at Carrier Ted's gate, and the village turned outen masse. There had been a heavy downpour of rain during the night, but the sun struggled through the clouds at breakfast time, and by nine o'clock had gained the mastery. It was dirty on the roadway, so the half-dozen neighbourly men who were piling the household effects on to the cart had to be careful not to rest them in the mud.
Not that Carrier Ted cared anything about it. He stood in the garden with the old silk hat pushed deep down over his brow, and looked abstractedly at his peonies. He seemed oblivious to the busy scene that was being enacted about him: of all the spectators he was the least moved: he, the most interested of all, was less interested than any.
By and by Barjona drove up and was greeted with scowls and muttered imprecations. Two or three of the women went a step beyond muttering, and expressed their views in terms that lacked nothing of directness.
"You ought to be ashamed o' yerself, Barjona Higgins!" said one; "yes, you ought! To turn the old man out of his 'ome at his time o' life. You'd turn a corpse out of its coffin, you would!"
Barjona's cold eyes contracted. "What's wrong now, eh?" he jerked; "house is mine, isn't it? .... Paid good money for it.... Can do as I like wi' my own, can't I? ... You mind your business; I'll mind mine."
He walked up the path to the house, merely nodding to Ted as he passed; but Ted did not see him.
After a while he returned and went up to the old man, and shouted in his ear as though he were deaf, so that we all could hear:
"There'll be a bit o' plasterin' to do ... your expense ... an' there's a cracked winda-pane ... ye'll pay for that, Ted?"
The old man looked up and passed his sleeve across his brow, then rubbed his knuckles in his eyes as though awaking from sleep.
"Owt 'at's right, Barjona; owt 'at's right, lad."
Reuben Goodenough's eldest son was passing at the time, with a heavy fender over his shoulder. Hearing these words he stopped, and I thought for a moment that he was going to bring it down on Barjona's head, but with an angry gesture he moved on and deposited his burden on the cart. Then he went up to the new owner and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. How I admired the strong, well-set man, and the man within him.
"Mr. Higgins," he said, "you can see for yourself 'at Ted isn't fit for business. If you've ought to say, say it to me. I'm actin' for 'im."
There had been no such arrangement, of course, but this provisional government met with the approval of the crowd.
"That's right, Ben lad, you tak' both t' reins an' t' whip!" shouted Sar'-Ann's mother; "I'm fain to see there's one man in t' village."
"Now, you look here, Mr. Higgins," continued Ben, thus encouraged, "ought 'at it's right for Ted to pay shall be paid, but you send your list an' bill in to me, an' if my father an' me passes it ye'll be paid, an' if we don't ye won't; so you can put that in your pipe an' smoke it."
"Keep cool, Ben, keep cool!" said Barjona, who himself was not in the least ruffled; "only want what's right, you know ... only what's right.... You or Ted, Ted or you ... all the same to me."
"I feel dead beat, lad," said Ted, who still seemed dazed; "I'll go inside an' lie down a bit."
Ben motioned to me, and I stepped through the gate and joined them.
"Ted's tired," he said, "and wants to lie down. Would you mind taking him across to Susannah's and askin' her to let 'im rest on t' sofa a bit?" Then turning to the old man he said: "Go with this lady, Ted: go with Miss Holden. We've nearly finished packing all your stuff on t' cart, you know. But Susannah 'll get you a sup o' something warm, an' you can lie down on her sofa, an' Miss Holden 'll talk to you a bit." He spoke soothingly, as to a child, and the old man turned his eyes upon me.
"Shoo's a stranger, Ben?"
"Nay, she's lived here a twelvemonth, Ted. Now come, you go with 'er. She'll look after you nicely."
He suffered himself to be led away, but when we reached the group about the gate he would go no farther, but suddenly found tongue, and began to speak in a ruminating way, looking first at one and then another, but keeping fast hold of my arm.
"Ye'll none o' ye mind my mother? No, no, ye're ower young, all o' ye. It'll be seventy year an' more sin' she died, an' I wor only a lad at t' time. That wor her rockin'-chair 'at they're puttin' on t' cart, an' when I browt my missis 'ome, shoo hed it. First my mother, neighbours, an' then t' missis; an' t' owd chair lasts 'em both out, an' 'll last me out. I nivver thowt but it 'ud stand there aside o' t' chimley till they carried me out o' t' door, feet for'most. T' old chair 'll feel kind o' lonesome, neighbours, kind o' lonesome, in a strange kit chin."
"Nivver 'eed, lad," said one of the older women; "ye'll be varry comfortable down i' t' Clough."
"Aye, happen so," he replied, "but lonesome, neighbours, lonesome. There isn't a crack i' t' beams but what looked friendly-like, for we've grown old together; an' all t' furnitur' spake to me abaht old times, for I niwer shifted 'em out o' their places. An' them two chaney orniments o' t' chimley-piece, they wor allus comp'ny, too—Duke o' Wellington an' Lord Nelson they are. My mother wor varry proud on 'em i' her time, an' t' missis wor just t' same; an' sin' shoo went they've allus felt to be comp'ny like. I doubt they'll nivver look t' same on another chimley-piece."
"It's a shame 'at 'e's turned ye out, Ted," said Susannah, "an' I 'ope 'e'll 'ave to suffer for it, I do."
"Aye, lass," he replied, "I could ha' liked well to ha' drawn my last breath i' t' old cottage, I could, for sure. I think Barjona mud ha' let me live on i' t' old 'ome. I shouldn't ha' troubled 'im so long—not so long."
"Come inside, Ted," said Susannah, whose eyes were filling with tears, "an' lie down while I get you a sup o' tea."
He appeared not to hear her, however, but stared fixedly at the flagged footpath and muttered, as he slowly shook his head:
"I shouldn't ha' troubled 'im so long—not so long."
Somebody fetched him a stool, and he sat down outside the gate with his back against the wall, whilst the women sympathised volubly, arms akimbo.
It was very pathetic, but no words of comfort came to my lips, though my heart ached for the silent old man who was leaving behind everything that counted in life, and who was sure to feel keenly the loss of familiar faces and friendly looks, even though he had not shown himself neighbourly. I said something of the sort to Mother Hubbard, who had now joined us, but she was doubtful.
"Well, love, I don't know. Ted has never shown much feeling. I have known him nearly all his life, and I don't think he has very deep feelings, love. He always seemed friendly with his wife, but not what you would call affectionate, you know, love. Of course, one doesn't know what he really felt when she died, but it didn't seem to trouble him very much."
"That proves nothing," I replied, with the emphasis born of observation; "the proverb says that 'still waters run deep,' and it is never more true than in this connection. The wailing widower is usually easily consoled."
"Yes, love, but I have discovered that you are very imaginative, though at one time I didn't think so, and you may read your own feelings into Ted's, you know. I really do think, love, that he has not very deep feelings."
Soon everything was piled upon the cart, and Ben Goodenough came up to the old man to inform him that they were ready to leave.
"Now, Ted!" he said, with an assumption of cheerfulness; "we've got everything on nicely, an' we'll step down with you to t' Clough an' get 'em into their places at t' other end. You'll want to have a look round, 'appen, before we leave."
"Aye, Ben lad, I tak' it varry kindly 'at ye're givin' yerself all this trouble. It's friendly, lad, friendly. Aye, I sud like to hev a look round for t' last time afore we start."
He rose wearily and accompanied Ben up the path. Barjona was standing at the door, and all three went in. They came out before long, and there were no traces of emotion on Ted's ruddy face. But as he looked up and down the garden his lips quivered, though he mastered himself with an effort. The gladioli and hollyhocks made a brave show amid the humbler sweet-williams and marigolds, but they would have to be left. He stopped opposite the rose-bush.
"Ben, lad," he said, "ye'll do me one more favour, willn't ye? Get me a spade off o' t' cart, will ye? I've left it till t' last minute, for I can 'ardly bide to root it up, but I munnut leave that tree be'ind."
One of the men had darted off at the mention of the word "spade," and the beloved implement—the old man's faithful friend—was placed in his hand.
"Thee an' me's hed monny a grand time together, lad," he said, apostrophising the spade, "but nivver such a sad job as this afore. A sad job, aye, a sad job. But we've got to do it, lad, ye an' me."
He put his foot upon it and prepared to dig up the tree, when Barjona interposed. Every word was clearly heard by the group in the roadway.
"Steady there! ... what ye goin' to do?"
"Nobbut just dig t' tree up, Barjona."
"Leave t' tree alone ... that tree's mine."
Ted looked at him and his hands began to tremble. "Ye don't meean, Barjona, 'at ye won't let me tak' t' rose-tree away wi' me?"
"Ye tak' nowt out of t' garden ... all what's rooted in t' soil belongs to me ... paid good money for it.... Put yer spade away."
"Look 'ere, Mr. Higgins," interrupted Ben, "do you mean to tell me 'at you're going to prevent Ted takin' a bit of a rose-tree with him? If you do, you're a harder-'earted old wretch than I took you for."
Angry murmurs arose from the crowd, but Barjona's jaw stiffened and there was no hint of yielding in his tone.
"Right's right," he said ... "that rose-tree's mine ... took a partic'lar fancy to it ... won't part with it for nob'dy."
Ted fumbled in his pocket and produced a wash-leather bag, the neck of which was tied round with string. With shaking fingers he felt for a coin and drew out a half-sovereign.
"I'll pay ye for't, Barjona. Sitha, I'll give ye ten shillin' for t' plant."
"Put yer brass back, Ted ... brass willn't buy it ... took my fancy, that tree has ... you mun buy another."
Sar'-Ann's mother pushed her way through and strode up to the stubborn, grasping man, and shook her fist in his face.
"You miserable old devil!" she cried. "Oh, if I were only a man I'd thrash ye while ever I could stand over ye. Yes, I would, if they sent me to gaol for 't. I wish the earth 'ud open an' swalla' ye up. But t' varry worms 'ud turn at ye."
Barjona thrust his hands deep into his trousers' pockets and assumed an air of weariness.
"Isn't there a man among ye?" continued the infuriated woman. "Ben, haven't ye spunk enough to fell 'im to t' ground? Eh, these men! God forgive me 'at I call 'em men!"
She fell back, and burst into hysterical tears, and Ben made another attempt.
"What the hangment do ye mean by it, Mr. Higgins? Have ye no 'eart at all? Ye'll never miss t' tree. I'll give you two just as good out of our own garden, hanged if I won't. Let him take t' tree, an' we'll be going."
"He—leaves—that—tree—where—it—is," replied Barjona with emphasis; "an' ye can all clear out o' this garden.... That tree's mine."
Ben took Ted's arm, but the old man refused to move. A tear forced its way out of the corner of his eye, and he drew a red cotton handkerchief from his trousers' pocket and wiped it away.
"Barjona, lad," he pleaded tremulously, "only just this one tree—nowt else; just this one tree, there's a good lad."
"I've said my say," replied Barjona.
"Take no notice of him, Ted," said Ben. "I'll give you one o' t' grandest rose-trees i' Yorkshire. Let t' old skinflint have his tree."
"Nay, but I mun hev it, I mun hev it," moaned the old man. "I mun hev it, lad; I mun hev it."
I wondered if I could influence Barjona, and I stepped up to him.
"Mr. Higgins, you see how distressed Ted is. Surely you will not make the parting more bitter for him. Think how unpleasant it will be for you to live among us if you make us all your enemies."
"Much obliged, Miss 'Olden.... If you mind your business ... I'll mind mine."
"But why are you so set upon it, Mr. Higgins?"
"'Cos I am ... that's enough ... that plant's mine, an' mine it's goin' to be."
I turned to Ted. "Cannot you make up your mind to do without it?" I asked. "Do you want it so very much?"
He nodded, and the tears now followed each other fast down his cheeks. "I mun hev it; I mun hev it," he moaned.
We were all gathered round now; not a soul was left in the roadway, and the flower-beds were suffering.
"But why?" I persisted. "What makes you so very anxious to have it? You shall have another just as fine. Why do you want this particular one so badly?"
He shook his head, and raised his sleeve to his brow with the old nervous, familiar action.
"Cannot you tell me?" I asked.
Then the answer came, low but clearly heard by everybody: "Shooliked it!"
The shame of the confession made him shake from head to foot, but the revelation of unsuspected deeps thrilled us, every one, and set us on fire with indignation and contempt.
"You heard him!" I said, turning to Barjona. "Now listen! I will give you five pounds for that rose-bush."
"That—tree—will—bide—where—it—is," replied Barjona doggedly.
There was a movement in the crowd as a raging woman forced her way through. She was hatless, like the rest of us, but her arms were bare to the elbows. Until I noticed the tightly-coiled hair I did not recognise Barjona's wife, for the usually pleasant face was clouded in storm.
She strode up to her husband and seized him by the collar of his coat with both hands.
"You heartless rascal!" she hissed in his ears; "so this is your blessed secret 'at you've kept for a surprise, is it? I'll surprise ye, ye good-for-nowt old Jew. What do ye mean by it, eh?" She shook him as if he had been a lad of ten, and he was helpless in her grip.
"You leave me alone!" he threatened, but all the brag was gone from him.
"Leave—you—alone!" she hissed between her clenched teeth; "I wish to God I had; but I took ye for better or worse, an' it isn't goin' to be all worse, I can tell ye! I hearkened to ye while I could 'earken no longer. The Lord gi' me grace to keep my 'ands off o' ye!"
It was a remarkably futile prayer, seeing that she was holding him as in a vice, and shaking him at intervals.
"D'ye think I'd ever live 'ere, an' let a poor old man like Ted fend for hisself anywhere? What do ye take me for? Ye knew better than to tell me while ye'd gotten yer dirty work done, but thank the Lord I was just in time. 'Ere, get away! I'm stalled o' talkin' to ye!"
She pushed him away roughly, but he made one more sulky struggle for mastery.
"Are ye t' boss 'ere, or am I?" he growled; "I've bought it ... an' I'll live in it."
"Will ye?" she said with scorn, "then ye'll live by yersen. But I'll show ye who's t' boss. You may thank the Lord 'at ye've got a wife wi' a bit o' gumption. Ye shall be t' master when ye can master yersen. I'm fair shamed o' ye! We'll 'appen live 'ere when owt 'appens Ted, but never as long as 'e wants it; so that's flat!"
The crowd cheered, and Maria brightened visibly. "Nay, to be sure, Miss 'Olden, an' friends," she said, "to think 'at any 'usband o' mine should disgrace hisself an' me i' this fashion! I never knew a word, believe me, while 'alf an hour sin' when I chanced across young Smiddles, an' he let into me right an' left. I can tell you I didn't let t' grass grow under my feet afore I set off 'ere. Don't you fret, Ted, lad! Turn ye out? Not we! Sitha, Barjona's fair shamed of hisself, an' well he might be. Nay, to be sure, I stood at back on ye all an' hearkened while my blood boiled. He must ha' been wrong i' his 'ead, Barjona must. Come, friends, get out o' t' gate, an' we'll carry t' furnitur' in agen, an' soon hev t' place to rights. Now you can stop that mutterin', Barjona, an' just get into t' trap out o' t' road!"
Many willing hands made the task a light one, and in an hour's time the cottage had assumed its old aspect, and the women had swept and dusted and given the finishing touches to everything. Mrs. Higgins was critical, but expressed herself satisfied at last. Then she climbed into the trap and seated herself beside her husband.
"Good-bye, friends," she shouted, as they drove off. "Don't ye worry. He can drive t' owd mare, but 'e can't drive me. I'll bring 'im to 'is sops!"
"Gosh!" snapped Sar'-Ann's mother, "now that's some bit like! Gi' me a woman for mettle an' sperrit I Lord 'elp us, but I reckon nowt o' such a white-livered lot o' men as we hev i' Windyridge. She'll mak' a man o' yon old rascal yet, will Maria!"
As I looked back on my way home I saw that Ted had fetched his rake, and was busy getting the garden into order again.
Excitements tread upon each other's heels. After Barjona, the Cynic. He appeared unexpectedly on Monday morning, and I took the long-promised photographs, which have turned out very badly; why, I don't know. He was not in his Sunday best, so the fault did not lie there; and his expression was all right, but I could not catch it on the plate, try as I might. He was very much amused, and accused me of looking haggard over the business, which was absurd. Every photographer is anxious to secure a satisfactory result, or if he is not he does not deserve to succeed. I think really I was afraid of his waxing sarcastic over my attempts at portraying his features. He is not a handsome man, as I may have remarked before, but he is not the sort that passes unnoticed, and I wanted to secure on the plate the something that makes people look twice at him; and I failed. I took several negatives, but none of them was half as nice as the original; and yet we are told that photography flatters!
He professed an indifference which I am afraid he felt, and Mother Hubbard assured him over the dinner-table that there was not the slightest ground for anxiety. It will be a long time, I fear, before he gets the proofs. He stayed to dinner on his own invitation, and Mother Hubbard prepared one of her extra special Yorkshire puddings in his honour. Fortunately, we had not cooked the beef on the Sunday, or he would have had to be content with the remains of the cold joint; and though I should not have minded, I know Mother Hubbard would have been greatly distressed.
He spoke quite naturally about Rose, and appeared to have enjoyed her company immensely, but he had not seen her again up to then.
When the meal was over we went out into the garden and sat down, and somehow or other the sense of quiet and the beauty of the view soothed me, and I felt less irritable than for days past. I never get tired of the dip of green fields and the stretch of moor on the far side of the wood.
"Can you spare me a full hour, Miss Holden?" he asked. "I have come down specially to see you, principally because I have had a letter from Mr. Evans which in some measure concerns you, and also because I want to continue the discussion of the parable of the marbles which we were considering the other evening."
How pretty the landscape looked from our garden! Cloud shadows were racing each other across the pastures as I lay back and watched them, and I thought the view had never been bonnier.
"I am not overworked," I replied, "and I can give up a whole afternoon, if necessary. What is the news from the squire? Nothing serious, I hope; and yet it must be important to bring you down here specially."
"I hardly know what to say. Something in his letter conveys the impression that he is far from well again, though he does not definitely say so. But it appears that he has asked you to go out to him if he becomes seriously ill. That is so, isn't it?"
"Yes," I answered, "and I have promised to go. It touches me deeply that he should want me."
"I don't wonder," he said; but whether at my emotion or the squire's proposal did not transpire.
"If and when he sends for you," he continued, "he wishes you to communicate with me, and he asks me to make all the business arrangements for you. I need hardly say that it will afford me much pleasure to do whatever I can. I will give you my Broadbeck and town addresses, and if you will wire me whenever you need my services I will reply at once. Please don't feel obliged to look anything up for yourself, as I will see to every detail, and provide all that is necessary for the journey in accordance with my old friend's instructions."
"It is extremely good of you," I said, "and very thoughtful on the squire's part. I accept your offer gratefully. But do you think there is much likelihood of my being sent for?"
"Candidly, I think there is; equally candidly, I hope the necessity may not arise. If the end comes whilst he is abroad, a man ought by all means to be present, for there will be no end of difficulties, and it will be absolutely necessary for someone to go out. But that takes time, and meanwhile the position would not be a pleasant one for you. I would go to him myself now but for two insuperable difficulties, one being that certain important duties keep me in London at present, and the other that Mr. Evans most distinctly does not want me."
"I quite see what you mean," I said; "but if the worst happens, and I am there at the time, I shall do my best and not mind the unpleasantness."
"I am sure of that," he returned, "but you don't at all realise what is involved. However, we won't discuss this further. On his account I should be heartily glad for you to go, and I am relieved that he has had the good sense to suggest it."
"I regard him very highly," I said.
"You do more: you love him," he remarked, with a sharp, keen glance at my face.
"Yes, I think I love him," I replied without confusion. "I could easily be his daughter; we have much in common."
He said nothing for quite a long time, during which he threw his cigarette away and lit a pipe. Then he turned to me:
"Now for my parable."
"Yes," I said; "tell me about it."
"You guessed, of course, that it is a matter that affects me deeply and seriously?"
"I was afraid so. I could not be certain, of course, but I felt that it was much more than an ethical conundrum."
"God knows it was, and He knows, too, that I am grateful to you for the clear lead you gave, suspecting, as you must have done, that it meant much to me."
Had I suspected? I suppose I did, for my heart, I remember, beat painfully; yet I had not thought much more of it since. I looked at him, and saw that his face was white but resolute, and I said hesitatingly:
"I am sorry if you are in trouble, but Farmer Goodenough thinks that troubles are blessings in disguise. I wish I could give you more than second-hand comfort."
"I am going to tell you exactly where I stand," he said, "and you must not allow your woman's instinct of comfort to cloud or bias your judgment. Goodenough may be right, but if I take the step I contemplate it will not be because I expect good to result to myself—though there may be, no doubt, a certain spiritual gain—but because it is the only course possible to me if I am to retain my self-respect.
"You will hardly have heard of a rather prominent case in which I figured recently as counsel for the plaintiff."
"LessinghamversusMainwaring?" I queried.
"You have heard of it then? Do you know the details?"
"Not at all. I simply read in the paper that you had won the case for your client."
"I see. Well, it would take too long, and would be too uninteresting to you to explain everything, but put briefly the case was this. Mainwaring had got hold of a considerable sum of money—over £7,000, as a matter of fact—which Lessingham claimed belonged to him. There were a great many points which were interesting to lawyers, and when the plaintiff's brief was offered to me I jumped at it. A barrister has often to wait a long time before any plums fall to his share, but this was a big one, for the other side had engaged two of the most eminent counsel in the land; and I had a big figure marked on my brief.
"We had a tremendous fight, and in the heat of the forensic duel I lost sight of everything except the one goal of triumphant and overwhelming victory. I have no desire to speak of my accomplishment in terms that may sound egotistical, but I may say without affectation that I found all the weak places in the defence and used every talent I could command to crush my opponents, and I succeeded, and became for a week one of the most talked-of men in London. Outwardly collected, I was inwardly exalted above measure, for I knew what the winning of the case meant for me.
"I say I knew. I should have said I thought I knew. All I realised was that briefs would now be showered upon me, as they have been—as they are being. What I failed to realise was that I should have to stand at the bar of my own conscience, and be tried by the inexorable judge whose sentences are without mercy. That came to pass quickly, and I was condemned, and on appeal you confirmed the judgment."
"I? Oh, Mr. Derwent!"
"During the course of the trial I became convinced, or at any rate I had grave reasons for suspecting that my client was a scoundrel, and had no right to a penny of the money. The conviction came in part from what was revealed to me in conversation with him, and in part from what came out in evidence, but at the moment I did not care. I was paid to win my case, not to secure justice. That was for the judge and jury. There was more than that, however. It was not the lust of gain, but the lust of glory that obsessed me. I, Philip Derwent, was going to defeat Ritson and Friend at whatever cost.
"But, Miss Holden, I have inherited certain qualities which are likely to put awkward obstacles in the path of ambition. My father was a good man. He was scrupulously, fastidiously honest. He believed that the principles of the Sermon on the Mount could and should be practised in everyday life. Consequently he never made much money, and was terribly disappointed when his only son adopted the law as a profession. Some—not all, but some—of his qualities are in my blood; and the voice of conscience is always telling me that the father was a better man than the son, and that, unless I am careful, I shall sell my life for power and possessions; and I have made up my mind to be careful.
"Well, I have made inquiries—carefully and without hurry—and I now know for a fact that Mainwaring had every right to that money, and that Lessingham is a fraud, so that my course is clear. I have seen Lessingham, and he laughs in my face. 'You knew it at the time, old man!' he said; 'and a jolly good thing you've made out of it.' There was no chance of putting things right from that quarter."
"But, Mr. Derwent," I interrupted, "surely in your profession this is an everyday occurrence. Both sides cannot be right, and both need legal assistance."
"True," he replied, "and you must quite understand my attitude. I am not judging any of my brethren: to their own master they stand or fall. But for myself, I am not going to support any case, in the future, which I am not convinced is a just one. If, after accepting a brief, I have reason to believe that I am espousing an unjust cause I will throw it up at whatever sacrifice."
"I am afraid it will meangreatsacrifice," I murmured.
"Would you recommend me not to do it?" he asked.
"You must obey your Inner Self, or suffer torment," I replied.
"I must, and I will," he said firmly. "Now listen to me. My father was not, as I have said, a wealthy man, and on his death I inherited little beyond good principles and good books. The waiting period for financial success was long, but latterly I have made money. I have £7,000 in the bank, and a good income. And my judgment agrees with yours: I must part with my marbles."
"Oh, Mr. Derwent," I exclaimed; "think well before you take so serious a step! What is my hasty decision worth? It was given on the spur of the moment: it was the immature judgment of an inexperienced woman!"
"It was the spontaneous expression of pure, instinctive truth," he replied. "Yet do not feel any sense of responsibility. I had already reached the same conclusion: you merely confirmed it, and in doing so helped and strengthened me—though the decision set back a hope that had arisen within me."
"But, Mr. Derwent"—I was groping around vainly for a loophole of escape—"this Mr. Mainwaring, is he poor? does he need the money? will he use it well?"
"What does that matter?" he replied. "His wealth or poverty cannot affect the question of right or wrong. The money is his by right.Irobbed him of it by forensic cunning and rhetoric, and I will repay him. As a matter of fact he is fabulously wealthy, and £7,000 is to him a mere drop in an ocean. And he spends his money on horses and dissipation. He is a bigger scoundrel than Lessingham, and that is saying much."
"But what a shame, Mr. Derwent! It does not seem right."
"It can never be wrong to do right. Besides, I misled you at the outset of our conversation—misled you purposely. I could not change my mind now if I wished to do so, for I posted Mainwaring a cheque for the full amount this morning."
I felt ready to cry, but there was as much joy as sorrow in my breast. I believe I smiled, and I held out my hand, which he grasped and retained a moment.
At that instant a telegraph boy pushed open the gate and advanced towards me.
"Miss Holden?" he inquired.
I took the envelope and tore it open. It contained only a brief message: