Part 10

He heard voices in the adjoining room--men’s voices, and Betty’s; then the tread of feet walking in unison. The little stairs creaked; the heavy footfalls now tramped in the room overhead, then descended again, and crossed the kitchen. Now the folks were leaving the house; he could hear them clattering down the path, and caught the swing of the gate.

“It’s all over,” he said to himself, “they’ve carried the poor chap upstairs.”

A sudden numbness came upon him: it was true, then, and not a bad dream. Poor Jim Whittle was dead, and he, Dick, had killed him; and now Betty would give him up to the police, and he would be tried and convicted and hanged.

Dick was not very learned in the statutes of his country, and had no manner of doubt that since the keeper had been killed in struggling with him--by his hand, it might be said, for the gun had gone off owing to Dick’s endeavour to wrench it away--he would have to pay the full penalty of the law. To be hanged by the neck until he was dead. He put his hand to his throat, and drew a long sobbing breath.

After what seemed an interminable time, he heard once more the sound of voices in the kitchen--a man’s voice and Betty’s--then a quick firm step crossing the room to the house-door, and finally the retreating sounds of a horse’s feet. Then there was a scraping and bumping of furniture; the rim of light which had been perceptible but half-way down the door suddenly lengthened, the bolt grated in its hasps, and in another moment Betty stood before him.

Dick had been so long imprisoned in the darkness that at first he could hardly bear the flood of wintry light which burst upon him. And there, in the midst of it, was the woman, with so bright a face that he could scarce credit his eyes. She stretched out both hands to him and cried:--

“He be to live! Doctor says he be to live!” Her voice faltered and broke, the tears leaped from her eyes. “Thank God!” she cried. “Oh, thank God! He’ll live! My Jim’s to live!”

Dick came staggering forth from his cell. His brown face was blanched to a sickly pallor; he trembled in every limb. Choking back her sobs, Betty again extended her hand to him, and he wrung it; but, turning from her, he leaned against the wall, hiding his face. His shoulders were heaving.

“Doctor says he’ll not die,” pursued Betty betwixt laughing and crying. “He’s young and strong, he says, and he’ll get over it. ‘We’ll get as much lead as we can out of him,’ says doctor, ‘and he’ll carry the rest quite comfortable, as many another has done before him.’”

She laughed a feeble, wavering laugh that ended in a sob. “He said we’d best get him upstairs and put him to bed,” continued Betty. “Stubbs and another man come up from the village, so they carried him up; and doctor’s been with him a long time, and he’s sleepin’ now.”

She told her tale brokenly, with a little gasp between each word; but Dick made no comment. Presently he turned round again, his face still working.

“Mrs. Whittle,” he said unsteadily, “I’d like ye to hear me say so solemn as I can, as I’ll never lay another finger on any creature in the woods. I’ll never touch another feather----”

“Oh, it’s all right, it’s all right!” interrupted she quickly. “I’d like ye to hear _me_ say summat too. I was mad last night, but I bain’t so hard-hearted as I made out. Even if my Jim had died I wouldn’t never ha’--I wouldn’t ha’ made a widow of your poor wife, nor yet an orphan o’ the baby.”

THE WOLD STOCKIN’.

Farmer Hunt stood leaning over his farmyard gate with the reflective, and at the same time pleasantly expectant, expression of the man who awaits at any moment a summons to dinner. To him, picking her steps cautiously down the muddy lane which led to his premises, came old Becky Melmouth, her skirts tilted high and an empty basket on her arm. Farmer Hunt nodded at her good-humouredly, and hailed her as soon as she was within hearing.

“What!” cried he. “Have ye brought me another of ’em?”

“I’ve a-brought ye two,” returned Becky triumphantly. “But maybe you’re too busy to attend to me just now,” she added, with a glance that was half apologetic and half appealing.

“Oh, I can spare a minute for that,” said the farmer good-naturedly. “Brewery hooter’s not gone yet, and we don’t have dinner till one. Step in, Mrs. Melmouth.”

He preceded her into the house, and led the way to a small parlour, empty save for a large yellow cat which lay curled up on the hearthrug. With a mysterious air which assorted with the cautious glance thrown round by Becky as she closed the door, he proceeded to unlock a large oak chest, and thrusting in his hand, drew forth a faded worsted stocking. As he handed this to the old woman the contents chinked with a portentous sound. Mrs. Melmouth’s eyes glistened, and her rosy wrinkled face wreathed itself with smiles, as she slowly undid the knot at the upper end, and thrust in her hand. A further chinking sound ensued, and she looked jubilantly up at the farmer.

“There be a lot on ’em now,” she remarked.

“Ah, sure!” he agreed. “An’ you be bringin’ two shillin’ more, you do say?”

“Two shillin’ an’ a thruppenny bit,” corrected Becky gleefully. “I be doin’ uncommon well wi’ my eggs an’ chicken jist now.”

“Dear heart alive! Keep the thruppence, ’ooman!” cried Mr. Hunt, with a certain amount of impatience. “It ’ull maybe buy you a relish of some sort as ’ull make ye fancy your victuals more. I reckon you do scrimp too much.”

Becky pursed up her lips and shook her head.

“I’d sooner save it,” said she. “Can I have the book, sir.”

“Ah, sure ye can,” returned the farmer, and, after rummaging a moment in the chest, he produced a small account-book with a pencil attached to it by means of a much-worn bit of string.

Becky meanwhile had been fumbling for her spectacles, and having now assumed them, she proceeded to enter the sum she had so proudly mentioned, to her banking account.

“How much does that make?” she added, peering up at Mr. Hunt through her glasses; her toothless gums parted in a smile which was already rapturous.

“Let me see,” returned he, taking the book from her hand; “last time I reckoned it up there was forty pound in it, an’ you’ve a-been here twice since--and again to-day. You’ve got in that there wold stockin’, Mrs. Melmouth, forty pound four shillin’ an’ ninepence. It do do ye credit,” he added handsomely; “ah! that it do. ’Tisn’t many a hard-workin’ body same as yourself would put by half so much. Ye’ve put in over nine pound since I took charge of it for ye.”

“An’ that’s ten year ago come Michaelmas,” said Becky, with modest pride. “But Melmouth an’ me had been savin’ for thirty year afore that.”

“An’ you yourself ’ull go on savin’ for another thirty year, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Mr. Hunt, with a jovial laugh. “There ye be so strong upon your legs as ever you was, an’ never sick nor sorry, be ye?”

“Well, not to speak on, thanks be,” responded Becky. “But I could feel a deal easier-like in my mind if I could settle who it’s all to go to when I be gone. I be puzzled what to do--ah! that I be. Thicky wold stockin’ do lay upon my heart jist same as a lump o’ lead.”

“It didn’t ought to be such a trouble to ye,” said Mr. Hunt. “Divide it, Mrs. Melmouth. Divide it fair and square among your nevvies and nieces.”

“No,” cried Mrs. Melmouth, shaking her head vehemently and sucking in her breath at the same time. “No-o-o, sir, ’twouldn’t never do, that wouldn’t. It must go all in a lump. Melmouth and me settled it that way years an’ years ago. He’d save a shillin’, d’ye see, an’ I’d scrape together another to put to it, an’ so we’d go on--for a rainy day, he’d say--but no rainy day ever did come----”

“And what a good thing that was,” chimed in the farmer; “there isn’t many folks can say the same.”

“Very like there bain’t. Thanks be, as I do say, Mester Hunt; thanks be for all mercies! But there ’tis, d’ye see.” Here her face assumed an anxious expression and she dropped her voice cautiously. “Who’s it to go to? Rector do tell I, I ought to be makin’ my will.”

“True enough,” said Mr. Hunt judiciously; “so you ought, Becky, so you ought.”

“Well, but,” resumed Mrs. Melmouth, “who’s to have it? Melmouth, he wer’ set on its going in a lump. Says he often an’ often, ‘Let it go in a lump, Becky, whatever you do do. Settle it as you do like’--he did say--‘for the dibs belongs to both on us equal. Let Simon (that’s my nevvy) have ’em, or let ’em go to Rosy’--Rosy be his sister’s oldest maid--‘but don’t divide ’em,’ says he; ‘let ’em go in a lump.’”

Here Becky paused, and the farmer looked at her in silence, scratching his jaw in a non-committal manner.

“Sometimes,” resumed Becky, “it do seem as if ’twould be right to leave it to Simon, him bein’ a man an’ my own flesh an’ blood. That there bit o’ money--’twas me first had the notion o’ puttin’ it by, and, as Melmouth did often use to say, there couldn’t be no savin’ done in the house wi’out I put my shoulder to the wheel. But, there! Rosy--Melmouth was oncommon fond o’ Rosy’s mother, and o’ Rosy herself when she was a little maid.”

“Ah! you haven’t seen Mrs. Tuffin an’ her family since they shifted to Sturminster?” put in the farmer as she paused.

Mrs. Melmouth shook her head.

“I often wish I could,” she said; “but ’tis so far.”

“An’ have ye seen Simon?” inquired the farmer. “He be a dairy chap, bain’t he?--’tis some time since he went to service.”

“Ah! he’ve a-got a very good place t’other side o’ Darchester. He do write beautiful letters to my sister at Christmas. There, they be jist same’s as if they come out of a book.”

“P’r’aps they are out of a book,” suggested Mr. Hunt. “There did use to be a book about letter-writin’ when I was a young chap; but what it wanted to say was never same as what I wanted to say, and my mother--poor soul! couldn’t spell the long words, so I did give up using it. But since ye haven’t seen either of these two young folks for so long, Mrs. Melmouth, why not ax ’em both to come and stop wi’ ye, an’ see which ye do like the best? You’d soon find out then what they was both made on, an’ I’d pick out the one as did please ye most to leave the stockin’ to.”

“Well, there, that’s a notion,” said Becky reflectively. “I mid do that, I mid very well do that. Easter week, Simon mid very well get a holiday--an’ Rosy--I mid ask her mother to spare her to me at the same time.”

“Do!” said Farmer Hunt encouragingly. “I’ll reckon ye’ll find ’tis a very good notion.”

“I reckon I will--and thank you, Farmer, for puttin’ it into my mind. There, I should never ha’ thought on’t.”

“Two heads is better than one, ye see,” said Mr. Hunt.

And then he locked up the stocking again, handed Mrs. Melmouth her basket, and betook himself to his midday meal with the comfortable sensation which follows on a good-natured act that has cost nothing.

Mrs. Melmouth left the house and trudged homewards, revolving the new idea in her mind. Simon could have the back bedroom, and Rosy could sleep with her; ’twas a very good notion to have ’em both together; a man always gave a deal o’ trouble in a house, and Rosy could help a bit. Not but what Simon must make himself useful too. His aunt privately resolved to hold over the setting of the potatoes until he came; the bit o’ work he might do then would go a good way towards his keep, reflected the thrifty soul.

With much thought and care she penned her invitations that afternoon; they were brief and to the point, intimating in each case the writer’s wish to become better acquainted with the young relative in question.

Rosy’s answer came by return of post, written in a beautiful, round, clear hand which did credit to her schooling, and accepting with rapture. Simon’s reply did not come to hand for two or three days. It was ill-spelt and ill-written on a somewhat dirty piece of ruled paper, which looked as if it had been torn off the bottom of a bill:--

“Dear Ant,” it said, “i don’t know if i can be spaired, but if the bos is willin i will cum. Yours truly nevew, S. FRY.”

His aunt pursed up her lips as she perused this document.

“He mid ha’ taken a bit more pains,” she said to herself; “he ha’n’t got this out of a book, anyhow.”

It was possible, indeed, that even _The Complete Letter-Writer_ did not contain a missive from a young man who had been asked to spend his holidays with an aunt in the country, and that Simon, in consequence, was thrown on his own resources.

“But he don’t seem so very anxious to come,” she thought. “He mid ha’ said ‘Thank ye,’ too--Rosy did seem to be far more thankful. But Simon--p’r’aps he means better nor what he says.”

With this charitable reflection Becky laid aside the letters and went to feed her chickens.

Rosy, who was living at home, and in consequence not tied down to any particular date, arrived a day before the other guest. She was a pretty girl of the dark-haired, clear-skinned type so often to be seen in Dorset; her eyes were brown like her hair, and her complexion matched her name to a nicety. The carrier dropped her and her tin box at the corner of the lane which led to Mrs. Melmouth’s cottage, and she came staggering down to her aunt’s door bent in two beneath the weight of her belongings. Mrs. Melmouth stood on the threshold and watched her.

“That’s right,” she remarked, as the girl set down her trunk and straightened herself, breathless and laughing, “I be main glad to see ye. Ye be sich a handy maid, my dear. There, I declare ye’ve just come in nice time to get the tea.”

Now Rosy, who was tired and thirsty after her long jolting in the carrier’s van, had half-expected to find tea ready. She felt a little bewildered and slightly annoyed on being sent first to the well and then to the woodshed, and then having to reach down the best china from the top shelf, and, moreover, to dust it, conscious all the time of wearing her best frock with sleeves too tight at the wrist to turn up comfortably. It was a very crestfallen Rosy indeed who finally sat down to partake of that particularly well-earned cup of tea.

But Mrs. Melmouth was radiant.

“To-morrow,” said she, “I’ll get ye to make that there back room ready for my nevvy.”

“Your nephew?” echoed Rosy, somewhat taken aback.

It had been well enough surmised by the Tuffin family that Aunt Becky had a tidy sum put by, though they were as ignorant of the precise amount as of the receptacle in which she had stored it. The invitation to Rosy had awakened certain half-formed hopes in the girl’s own breast, as well as in those of her parents, and she looked very blank at the announcement that a rival aspirant was so soon to come upon the scene.

“Ah!” said Mrs. Melmouth, stirring her tea vigorously, “my nevvy, Simon Fry. He be comin’ to spend his hollerday here. That room ’ull want a good doin’ out,” she continued placidly, “an’ there’s a lot o’ wold things there as ’ull have to be shifted afore you can get to work. But ye can get up pretty early--it’ll be ready time enough, I dare say. He’ll not be here much afore tea-time.”

Rosy had formed certain private plans as to the disposal of her Good Friday; there were friends of her mother’s to visit, old playmates of her own to look up--these, being of the same age as herself, would doubtless have some little jaunt in view. And now the whole day was to be spent in cleaning up for Simon Fry. Simon, who was nephew by blood to Aunt Becky, while she was only niece by marriage--there could not be much doubt as to who would prove the favourite. Rosy felt she had been inveigled from her home on false pretences; it was not out of affection that Mrs. Melmouth had sent for her, but simply to secure her help with the housework and to make her wait upon Mr. Simon Fry.

Her aunt glanced at her sharply as she flushed and bit her lip, but made no remark; and presently Rosy regained her good humour.

For was it not the sweetest of spring evenings, and were not the thrushes singing in the wood just behind the cottage, and were there not primroses in bloom on either side of the path that led to the gate? Rosy could see them through the open door and fancied she could smell them, and the breeze that lifted her curly hair from her brow was refreshing after her stuffy drive and recent labours. She had come from a back street in Sturminster, where the air was not of the same quality, and the surroundings far less inviting.

“’Tis nice to live in the country, aunt,” said she with a bright smile.

Next morning she rose with the lark, and being strong and capable had got Mr. Simon’s room into excellent order before breakfast. As she made the bed she could not resist giving a vicious thump or two to the pillow.

“Set ye up, indeed,” she murmured. “Ye may make your own bed arter this, Mr. Dairy Chap!”

If she had hoped that her matutinal labours would leave her free for the remainder of the day she was disappointed. Mrs. Melmouth gave her a pressing invitation to assist her at the wash-tub, having, as she informed her with an engaging smile, expressly saved up the dirty linen for her that week.

“To wash on Good Friday!” exclaimed Rosy, aghast. “Dear, to be sure, aunt, ’tis the unluckiest thing you can do.”

“Unlucky? Fiddlesticks!” retorted Mrs. Melmouth. “A good day for a good deed--so say I.”

Rosy therefore remained immersed in suds during the greater part of that day; and though at first she could have cried with vexation, she soon found herself amused by the old woman’s talk; and with every fresh excursion to the hedge her spirits went up. The air was so fresh, the sunshine so bright, the clean, wet linen smelt quite nice, she thought, here in the country. Then the hedge itself, with its little red leaf-buds gaping here and there so as to show the crumpled-up baby leaves within--it had an attraction of its own; and she could never be tired of looking at the primroses that studded the bank beneath.

As she stood by the hedge on one occasion after having tastefully disposed the contents of a basket on its prickly surface, she was hailed by a voice from the road.

“Be this Widow Melmouth’s?”

The girl peered over the hedge at the speaker, her curly hair flapping in the breeze, her cheeks pinker than ever, partly from her recent exertions, partly from excitement. There stood a stalwart young countryman in corduroys and leggings, a bundle in one hand, a stout stick in the other. He had a brown, good-humoured face, with twinkling blue eyes, and a smile that displayed the most faultless teeth in the world.

“This be Widow Melmouth’s, bain’t it?” he repeated, altering the form of his question.

“It be,” returned Rosy; then she nodded towards the house. “My aunt’s inside,” said she.

Both, from opposite sides of the hedge, directed their steps towards the gate.

“Your aunt?” said the young man. “Then we be cousins, I suppose?”

And thereupon as each paused beside the gate, and before Rosy had time to realise his intentions, he leaned across and kissed her.

“How dare you!” cried Rosy, springing back and rubbing her cheek vigorously, while tears of anger started to her eyes. “How dare you, Mr. Fry? Cousins, indeed! We be no such thing, and I’ll trouble you not to take liberties. You’ll find your aunt indoor.”

With that she stalked back to her wash-tub.

“He’s come,” she announced as she passed Mrs. Melmouth, who was engaged in rinsing out a few fine things in a crock.

“Who? Simon! I’m glad to hear it. Ye’d best come out a minute and make acquaintance.”

“I’ve made quite acquaintance enough,” retorted Rosy, plunging her arms into the suds. “He’s an impudent chap!”

“I’ll go warrant you are a bit jealous,” said Mrs. Melmouth, and with a chuckle she went forth to greet her guest.

Indeed, from the very first it seemed evident that Rosy had good cause for jealousy. Mrs. Melmouth seemed never tired of commenting on Simon’s likeness to her family, prefacing her remarks with the assertion that she had always been dearly fond of Sister Mary. She further observed two or three times during the course of the evening that blood was certainly thicker than water, and that a body should think o’ their own afore lookin’ round for other folks. Poor Rosy, hot and tired after her exertions at the wash-tub, took these hints in rather evil part; not, indeed, that she was of a grasping nature, but that she had an indefinable feeling of having been unfairly dealt with.

Simon, however, saw nothing amiss; it was apparent that he looked upon his visit solely and wholly as an “outing,” and had no ulterior views as to his aunt’s testamentary dispositions. If he had ever heard of her savings he had evidently forgotten about them; he had left home young, and, except for the wonderful epistolary effort which he sent to his mother each Christmas, corresponded little with his family. He admired Rosy very much, and could not understand why she was so short in her speech and stand-off in her manner. It was perhaps her repellent tone and evident moodiness which caused Mrs. Melmouth to lay so much stress on Simon’s various good qualities.

During the course of the evening young Fry remarked with a yawn and a stretch that he intended to have a good sleep on the morrow.

“Jist about,” he added emphatically. “Ah! ’twill be summat to hear clock strikin’ and to turn over warm an’ snug thinkin’ I needn’t get up to drive up the cows. To-morrow’s Saturday, too--if I were yonder I’d ha’ had to clean out fifteen pigstyes afore breakfast.”

“Think of that!” said Mrs. Melmouth. “’Tater-settin’s different, bain’t it? Ye wouldn’t mind so much gettin’ up a bit early to set ’taters--would ye, Simon?”

Simon’s jaw dropped, and he looked ruefully at his relative.

“I thought I wer’ goin’ to have a real hollerday for once,” he said hesitatingly. “There, if you do want me to do any little job for ye in a small way I don’t mind doin’ of it. But settin’ ’taters! You’ve a goodish bit o’ ground, an’ there is but the two days--I did look to have my sleep out to-morrow,” he concluded desperately.

“I did count on ye,” persisted Mrs. Melmouth mildly. “Ah! so did I. Said I to myself, ‘I’ll save up them ’taters ’gainst the time my nevvy do come’--I says. ‘He be a good-natured young man,’ I says, ‘and I know he will do what I do ax him.’ ’Tis beautiful weather for early risin’, Simon, my dear, and you’ll feel the air so nice and fresh while you’re workin’. I’ll have a dew-bit ready for ye. Ye won’t disapp’int me, I’m sure.”

“Oh! I’ll not disapp’int ye,” returned Simon dolefully. “I can’t work on Sunday, of course,” he added, brightening up a little. “That’s summat, an’ if I work real hard to-morrow I mid have a chance o’ gettin’ off a bit on Monday. Where be the ’taters, aunt? If we was to cut up some o’ the sets to-night, we’d get on faster to-morrow.”

“Ah, to be sure,” agreed his aunt with alacrity. “I’ll fetch a basket of ’em in a minute, an’ Rosy there can help ye. She’ll be busy to-morrow cleanin’ up indoor; but she’ll give you a hand to-night.”

But Rosy now felt the time had come for her to assert herself. She glanced at the drawerful of stockings which lay on the chair beside her, and then raised her eyes to her aunt’s face.

“I know nothin’ about cuttin’ up sets,” said she, “an’ I don’t fancy sich work. I’ve got all this darnin’ to do. That’s enough for anybody, I think.”

“Oh, very well,” responded Mrs. Melmouth with some dudgeon. “I’ll help you then, Simon. I’ll fetch ’taters, an’ then I’ll help you.”

When she returned she found Simon and Rosy sitting as she had left them, in absolute silence, Simon drumming on the table and looking dubiously at Rosy, who darned away without raising her eyes.

“There’s an odd stocking here,” she remarked snappishly, as her aunt sat down. “What am I to do with that?”

Mrs. Melmouth, gazing at her sternly, determined to profit by the opportunity her niece had unconsciously presented to her, and to give her the lesson she deserved.