Part 4

“We’re gettin’ help from the parish now,” he resumed, “else we couldn’t make out at all. My pore wife, ye see, she’s reg’lar crippled, an’ not able to do nothin’, an’ I’m not fit for much—I’m falterin’, neighbour, an’ farmers hereabouts has a bad opinion o’ me for some raison or another—I can scarcely ever get a day’s work.”

“’Tis very onfart’nate for ’ee, Joe; ’tis that. But yer luck will change very like. We must ’ope it will. Well, I must be gettin’ along.”

“Ye be goin’ to plant yer taters,” persisted Joseph; and stretching out his lean old hand he took hold of the basket. “Them be real fine taters, neighbour; chock-full of eyes. Lard! if I had but a few of these I’d soon plant my bit of garden.”

“Haven’t ye got none this year?” inquired Jim, visibly stiffening.

“Not a single one, an’ no cabbage neither. I’m terribly badly off this year—I don’t know however me an’ the poor body inside ’ll get on. Not a bit o’ green stuff, an’ not a set to put in the ground. Three-an’-six a week is every penny we have to look to, an’ ye may think it don’t go very far. Bread an’ tea, bread an’ tea, an’ not so much as a drop o’ milk to’t. My missus, she’s that cute along o’ me likin’ a drap now and then, she wouldn’t let the Union folk give it us in money—we jest hev an order for half a pound o’ tea once a week, an’ we takes out the rest in bread. Ah dear! a body has to be clever to live on it, I can tell ’ee.”

He paused, leered insinuatingly in his neighbour’s face, and finally murmured, still fingering the basket: “If ye was to let me have a few of these now, neighbour, I could pay ye back i’ th’ autumn.”

Jim dexterously twisted his property away from the trembling hand.

“So that’s what ye’re at!” he cried. “Nay, nay, Joe; I’ve had enough o’ your payin’ back. I know what that manes. You an’ yer missus ’ud make yer dinner off ’em, if ye didn’t chop the lot for a drink straight off.”

“No, no,” pleaded Joe, almost tearfully; “’tis too bad to say such things, and take a pore man’s character away. I’ll gi’e ye me Bible oath—dang me, an’ everythin’ reg’lar by the Book—that I’d put ’em straight in the ground, Jim Cross.”

“Well, I can’t spare the taters, anyhow,” grumbled Jim. “I’m a pore man an’ have to purvide for mysel’ an’ my family. I’m sorry I can’t obleege ye, but so ’tis.”

He walked off, leaving poor old Joe staring blankly after him.

By and by a light quick tread was heard approaching from the opposite direction, and a dapper-looking young fellow rounded the corner of the lane, whistling to himself as he advanced. He, too, carried a fork, and a half-filled sack was flung over his shoulder.

“Goin’ up to the ’lotments?” inquired Joseph falteringly.

“Yes, I’ve jest knocked off work, an’ am goin’ up there for an hour or two before dark. Fine evenin’, Mr. Frisby.”

“Aye, sure,” said Joseph. “Ye’ve got a grand sackful there, Jan.”

“’Tis a big piece to fill up, Mr. Frisby. We han’t got above half enough o’ our own. We’ll have to buy some.”

“I haven’t got _one_ to put in my bit o’ ground,” said Joseph impressively. “What do ye think of that, Jan Domeny? Not one; no, nor not so much as a stalk o’ cabbage.”

“Well now,” said Jan, “’tis very sad, that, Mr. Frisby. A sorrowful tale, indeed. May-hap Parson ’ud help ye.”

“Nay,” returned Joseph lugubriously; “we be chapel folk, an’ Parson he says he han’t got no faith in me.”

“Well, ’tis terrible onfart’nate for ’ee, I’m sure,” returned Mr. Domeny unconcernedly. “But bad times can’t laist for ever. There’s comfort in that, Mr. Frisby. The Lard trumpets the wind to the sore lamb, as Scriptur’ says.”

Having delivered himself of this edifying aphorism, young Jan Domeny hoisted his sack a little higher up on his shoulder, and strode on.

“They be all alike,” muttered Joe to himself; “they be a stony-hearted lot. Not one among ’em ’ud gi’e a man a helpin’ hand. Dang ’em all!” cried Joe, and he thumped upon the gate.

He turned and shuffled slowly towards the house, pushing open the door. A little old woman was sitting, propped up by pillows, in an armchair near the hearth. She was almost crippled by rheumatism, yet managed in some inexplicable way to preserve a tolerable appearance of neatness and cleanliness, both in her own person and in such of her surroundings as came within reach of her poor distorted fingers. The hearth was tidy, for instance, and the kitchen utensils and crockery on the little dresser behind her chair were bright and clean. It must be supposed that her husband, who would have been much the better for a share of her attention, kept himself systematically out of reach.

“Well?” she inquired, eagerly looking up as he entered.

“Well, ’tain’t a bit o’ use. They’ll none o’ them do a thing for me.”

Mrs. Frisby sighed. “Come, sit down anyhow,” she said. “Supper’s ready, an’ the tea’s drawed beautiful.”

Joe shambled over and sat down. His wife, leaning painfully forward in her chair, moved the little brown teapot from the hob to the table, and then, stooping again with yet more difficulty, took up a plateful of dry toast and proffered it to the old man.

“There!” she said. “I made ye that for a bit of a change. The fire was burnin’ up so clear an’ nice, I jest thought I’d do it. ’Twill be a nice change for ’ee, Joseph—’twill sure.”

She spoke in a high quavering voice, peering anxiously the while at her spouse.

He took a piece of toast and turned it over; then broke off a bit and flung it on the table.

“’Tis as hard as flint, woman,” he said indignantly. “Where d’ye think I can find teeth to bite en?”

“Nay now, ’tis not so ’ard as that comes to,” urged she. “I can bite en, an’ I han’t got a single tooth left. Sop it in yer tea, do ’ee now, an’ it’ll slip down nice.”

“Slip down, indeed! It ’ud want a bit o’ butter, or a bit o’ graise for that. But here us be—two old ancient folks as has lived in this parish man an’ wife for fifty-two year, an’ they’ll not so much as gi’e us a tater.”

[Picture: “They’ll not so much as gi’e us a tater”]

“Yes a tater ’ud be nice, sure,” quavered the old woman. “It ’ud be very nice.”

“Or a bit o’ green stuff ’ud be nice,” went on Frisby emphatically. “I could eat this bread if they’d gi’e I a bit o’ green to put to’t. But no, ’tis ‘_Go away_, _I’ve nothin’ for ’ee_’ all round. There’s every man an’ bwoy in the place workin’ up at the ’lotments, gettin’ the taters into the ground as fast as ever they can stick ’em. If they was to gi’e us half a dozen each they’d never miss it, an’ I could get my bit ’o ground planted up. But no, they be all took up wi’ theirselves—never a thought for we.”

Mrs. Frisby rubbed her shrivelled hands together, and sighed.

“Ah, ’tis hard,” she said; “’tis hard, sure.”

And then silence fell between the old couple, and each consumed their meagre fare without any great appearance of appetite.

Presently Joseph set down his cup, pushed back his chair, and stood up.

“Where be goin’?” asked his wife querulously. “I never seed such a fidget of a man.”

“I’m goin’ up to the ’lotments,” he responded curtly.

“Laive me a pail o’ water first, do, so as I can be washin’ up. I reckoned ye’d ha’ helped me a bit to-night—rheumatics is terrible bad.”

Joseph took up the pail without a word and went out; presently an excruciating creaking and squeaking was heard as he turned the rusty handle of the windlass.

After some time he hobbled back, the water splashing from the overflowing bucket at every step.

“Dear! what a mess the man d’ make!” groaned Mrs. Frisby. “Carry it studdy, for the Lard’s sake. Now sit down, do ’ee, an’ gi’e me a hand.”

“Nay, I’m off,” responded her lord in surly tones; and in another moment the garden gate creaked on its hinges, and his departing steps fell heavily on the lane outside.

This somewhat circuitous path led first past a horse-pond, then skirted the beautifully kept churchyard, with the ancient, ivy-grown edifice in the centre. Then it darted off at an abrupt angle, apparently to avoid encroaching on the farm premises in the rear of the church, where the picturesque building which had once been a tithe-barn was now devoted to humbler purposes. The lane ceased at its junction with the high road, but crossing the latter, and following the footpath for a little way, Joseph came to another lane which, after a few hundred yards, became a steep ascent.

The blackthorn was still in flower here and there in the hedges, which accounted, as the country folk would have said, for the peculiarly keen and chilly quality of the evening blast; but the twisted twigs of the more genial hawthorn were powdered, as it were, with a delicate dust of green. Trailing tendrils of honeysuckle were already in full leaf, and young saplings of elder stretched out slender bare limbs tufted at the ends with crimson. Downy catkins, moreover, on many a willow bough gave further promise of the rapid approach of the “Sweet o’ the Year;” and there were violets in the banks, and here and there a patch of primroses; and a glory of dandelions everywhere.

But poor old Joe Frisby, as he toiled painfully up the stony incline, had no eye for any of these trivialities; his mind was set upon more weighty matters—he was bent, indeed, upon nothing less important than an appeal to the community at large. Singly the neighbours had rejected and despised his petition; taken collectively they might, for very shame’s sake, be moved to grant it. No man, as Joseph dimly felt, likes his individual generosity to be overmuch counted upon; but a whole community—each member making quite sure that his neighbour does as much as he—may sometimes be persuaded to accede to a claim which all alike acknowledge.

Now voices fell upon his ear, accompanied by the sound of spades at work. An opening in the hedge revealed a gate towards which Joseph made his way. On the other side lay the allotments; narrow strips of ground, most of which were already broken up into brown ridges, while a few were still encumbered with the lingering stalks of last year’s cabbages, or an untidy growth of weeds. On this propitious evening the place seemed alive with men and women; some delving, some hoeing, some cutting up the “sets”—not a patch of ground but had its occupant. Every one was busy and every one seemed merry. Jan Domeny, with coat flung off and shirt-sleeves rolled high, was lustily chanting a three-year-old music-hall ditty, which had just found its way to Dorset. Further away the bent back of Jim Cross formed a moving arch against the sky-line; a grandchild had joined him, and was trotting along beside him carrying the basket of potatoes.

Joseph stood leaning over the gate for a little while, his eyes travelling slowly from one group to another; after long hesitation he passed in and walked deliberately up the grassy track which divided two batches of the allotments. Many of the workers looked up a moment with a word or nod of recognition, and Joseph nodded back, paused as if to speak, hesitated, and then went on. At last he reached the centre of the ground, and there came to a halt. He took off his battered hat, flourished it to attract attention, and began, pitching his quavering voice as high as he could:—

“Neighbours all, I’ve summat to say to ’ee.”

“Hello!” cried the man nearest to him, straightening himself and staring. “Here’s old Joe Frisby turned Methody praicher.”

“Nay, he’ve a-jined the Salvation Army, sure,” cried another, who was himself a regular subscriber to the “War Cry”.

“I know what he’s after,” muttered Jan, working away very diligently. “Don’t you take no heed, none of you.”

“I’ve been countin’ of ye up,” pursued Joseph, leaning on his stick and looking nervously round. “Here be twenty chaps workin’ in the ’lotments; aye, twenty chaps, not reckonin’ women and childern, an’ ye be all puttin’ in taters. An’ here am I wi’ my garden at home waitin’ to be planted, an’ not a bit o’ seed to put in it.”

“I telled ’ee, didn’t I?” muttered Jan to his nearest neighbour. “I knowed ’twas that he was at.”

“I’ve lived among ye man and bwoy for seventy-five year. Aye, an’ my wife an’ me has been wed among ye fifty-two year. There she d’ sit at home crippled, poor soul. We’ve nought in the world but what parish gives us. Half a pound o’ tea a week, an’ some bread. Bread an’ tea, neighbours, bread an’ tea; ’tisn’t very satisfyin’ to the innards. Me an’ my wife was never great folks for mate, but we d’ like a tater to our dinner, or a bit o’ green stuff. An’ so I’ve a-bin thinkin’—”

He looked round again, hesitatingly and pitifully.

“’Tis a mortal sight o’ taters as is here among ye between one an’ another—aye, a mortal lot. I d’ ’low”—again the pause and the appealing glance—“if every man ’ud spare me a few like I’d get two or three ranks made up without any of ye bein’ at much loss.”

The bystanders looked at each other, then each man glanced involuntarily at his own store. None of them were over well endowed with this world’s goods, and the calculations of each had been made to a nicety. Old Jim Cross continued to work without turning his head, and Jan Domeny smiled somewhat sarcastically.

“Why, ye see ’tis this way, Joseph,” said a large mild man, with an habitually puzzled expression of countenance; “we be pore folks, all on us; we’ve a many little mouths to feed, an’ not much to put in ’em. An’ what wi’ prices goin’ up an’ rent day a-comin’ round so often like, a man’s hand d’ seem to be always in his pocket, an’ it’s give, give, an’ pay, pay, ever an’ always, d’ye see? Now my taters,” he cast a calculating eye upon the half-filled sack at his feet, “they’ll not go so far to make up three ranks for ourselves, an’ three ranks is the least we can do wi’. Aye, wi’ a houseful of growin’ childern taters d’ last—well, I mid say they lasses next to no time.”

His hearers drew a long breath of relief. If Ed’ard Boyt, who was well known to be a poor man with a long family, had been imprudently generous, what might not be expected of other folks who might be supposed better able to afford him assistance?

“Aye, ’tis very true what Ed’ard says. Charity d’ begin at home. It ’ud seem a bit ’ard to go a-buyin’ for oneself along of helpin’ a neighbour,” said somebody.

“Aye, I d’ ’low ’tis true,” agreed another.

“True enough, sure!” chimed in a third.

“We be sarry for ’ee,” summed up a fourth; “aye, we be very sarry for ’ee, Joseph, but ’tis the onfart’nate natur’ o’ things as pore folks d’ have to do the best they can.”

Then, amid a general chorus of regretful approval, spades were plied, and backs were bent as before.

Joe shambled back to the gate again, and stood for some time leaning over it and staring at the toilers. His face was very red, and his loose irregular under-lip trembled. A few furtive glances were cast in his direction, but no one spoke, and after a time he turned and went down the lane again, his bent form, clad in its shabby white coat, travelling slowly past gap after gap in the hedge until it drifted out of the range of vision of the workers. As he walked, however, his heart was hot within him with rage and disappointment and a bitter sense of injustice.

“They’ll lave me to starve,” he said to himself; “an’ I’ve a-lived among ’em for seventy-five year.”

His sense of injury deepened each time that he recalled this fact, and he shook his head vengefully.

As he tottered on his resentment gradually suggested to him a startling plan of action. He thought of it all the way down the lane and across the road, and along by the tithe-barn and the church, and by the time he came to the horse-pond his mind was made up.

“A man must live,” he said. “If other folks won’t help en he must help hisself.”

There was a fine moon that night, and had any one been abroad an hour or so after midnight, he would have marked a white shape creeping slowly up the lane which led to the allotments, and presently entering in at the gate already described, and moving from one newly planted patch of ground to another.

“Only three from Ed’ard because he’ve a-spoke me fair,” murmured Joseph to himself; “an’ I’ll not take ’em altogether, neither. I wouldn’t lave the pore chap wi’ a great gap in the rank.”

Joseph dropped something carefully into the sack which he carried over his arm, and then he drew together the disturbed clods and patted them down. Then waddling along with his legs across the drill he cautiously removed another “set,” and then another.

“That’ll do for Ed’ard,” he muttered. “’Tis for feedin’ the pore, so the Lard’ll make it up to en. Now, Jan, I’ll take a good few from ’ee, because ye be a danged ’ard-’arted chap. An’ I don’t care where I d’ take ’em, nor if it do make gaps—nay, that I don’t. Ye’ve a-sowed, an’ ye’ve a-watered, so to speak, Jan, but I d’ ’low that it’ll sarve ’ee right if the Lard don’t give ’ee no increase.”

He unearthed the “sets,” taking every precaution, however, to make the ground look undisturbed. He went the rounds, in fact, till his sack was nearly full, and then beat a retreat, carrying home his booty unobserved.

It chanced that Jim Cross, waking with the dawn, fancied he heard the sound of a spade in the next garden. On his way to work, a little later on, he observed that a goodly portion of Joseph’s patch of ground was indeed freshly dug up. Joseph was standing by the gate as usual, and nodded affably as his neighbour passed.

“I see ye’ve a-bin diggin’,” remarked Jim, pausing with a surprised expression. “Looks as if ye was a-gettin’ the ground ready for taters.”

“Well, an’ maybe I am a-gettin’ the ground ready for taters,” returned Joseph warmly. “I puts my trust where trust be due. My fellow-creatur’s have a-turned their backs on me, so I looks to the Lard. Aye,” repeated Joseph, turning up his eyes piously, “I looks to the Lard for ’elp, Jim Cross. The Lard’ll purvide.”

Jim was much impressed.

“I’ve put me trust in Providence,” pursued Joseph, peering at him cautiously out of the corner of his eye; “and to show as I’ve a-put my trust in Providence, I’m a-gettin’ ready my bit o’ ground. When the Lard sends me them taters, neighbour, he’ll find I ready.”

Jim looked hard at him, and Joseph folded his arms and looked back steadily and mildly.

“I don’t bear ’ee no grudge, Jim,” he went on. “I don’t bear nobody no grudge, but I do put my trust in the Lard.”

Jim went on his way, scratching his head from time to time, and casting back sundry furtive glances at his neighbour, who suddenly appeared to him in a new and impressive light.

When he disappeared Joseph went back to his digging, his countenance still wearing an expression of aggrieved virtue. After much pondering on his own conduct, and the circumstances which had led up to it, he had come to look upon himself rather in the light of a martyr, and to consider his recent action not only justifiable, but in a certain sense inspired. He was, therefore, scarcely surprised when, late that evening, Jim Cross came up to him with a deprecating air.

“Me an’ a few of ’em yonder have been a-talkin’ about you, Joseph,” he remarked.

“Have ye?” responded Joseph, with an air of lordly unconcern.

“Aye. We was sayin’ it did seem a bit ’ard to disapp’int ’ee like, when you was so trustful an’ patient, so we agreed as we’d try an’ spare ’ee a few ‘sets’ between us. As I did say, the Lard’ll make it up to we; an’ I d’ think He will, neighbour.”

“He will, sure,” agreed Joseph solemnly, as he held out his grimy hand for the basket which Jim respectfully tendered him.

Next came Ed’ard Boyt with a small, a very small bagful, but a heart overflowing with good-will. Joseph thanked him for his contribution almost with the air of one bestowing a benediction.

“’Tis very well done of ’ee, Ed’ard; an’ ye’ll not be no loser. Nay, you’ll see how things ’ll turn out wi’ ye.”

One after another they came, ending with Jan Domeny, whom Frisby received a little distantly, but on the whole forgivingly.

“’Tis but a pore lot as ye’ve brought me, Jan. I d’ ’low as Ed’ard Boyt have done better nor you. Aye, he’ve done very well for he, such a pore man as he be, an’ such a long fam’ly as he have.”

“Why, we’ve a-had to buy, Mr. Frisby,” returned Jan apologetically. “But there, I’ll see if we can spare a few more, an’ fetch ’em round to-morrow.”

“To-morrow ’ll do very well,” agreed Joseph generously; and so they parted.

Then Frisby fell to work with a joyful heart, setting out first of all the potatoes which he had purloined, and which he had originally designed to plant surreptitiously by night, intending, when the first shoots made their appearance, to assure his neighbours that they had sprung miraculously from the ground. This was better: moreover the second edition of “sets” was much larger than the first, and he now found himself in a position to stock his entire garden.

“The Lard ’elps them as ’elps theirselves,” he said to himself once more, as he waded solemnly up and down the drills.

From that day forward Joseph Frisby was respected by all the village folk. He had “got religion,” to begin with—more religion than anybody had credited him with, and he had evidently been singled out by Heaven for special favours. His crop prospered wonderfully; people were quite amazed to see the marvellous return made by their contributions, and were the more astonished because other small producers had not found it such a very good year for taters. There were many gaps among the ranks at the allotments, and it was noticeable that Jan Domeny, in particular, had suffered severely.

No one was more loud in commiserating this misfortune than Joseph Frisby.

“The ways of Providence be wonderful, as the Scriptur’s say, Jan Domeny,” he remarked one day. “Aye, ’tis what I often d’ say to myself: a man may plant and a man may water, but ’tis the Lard as gives the increase.”

“Well,” returned Jan, a little grudgingly, “I d’ ’low that He’ve a-gi’ed it to you, Mr. Frisby.”

“He have, Jan; He have!” agreed Joseph heartily.

“THE ONLY SOLDIER.”

A LITTLE group of houses nestling in the hollow near the church, about half a mile from the village proper; all with tiled roofs more or less the worse for wear, and in consequence highly picturesque, tiny patches of flower-garden in front, and larger strips, devoted to vegetables, in the rear. Some of these cottages stood back to back, others retired a little from their fellows, and one shot out at a bold angle from its neighbour with a certain independent air which was increased by the rakish poise of its somewhat dilapidated chimney.

As the hands of the ancient grandfather’s clock in this last-named dwelling-house approached the hour of noon, a short, spare, elderly woman threw open the door and took up her position on the carefully whitened step. She looked expectantly up the road in the direction of the village, and of the town beyond.

Presently another couple of doors were thrown back, and two additional figures—the figures of Mrs. Stuckhey’s nearest neighbours—also emerged into the open and cast glances of anticipation in the same direction.

The coincidence seemed to strike one of the party, a fat woman with a good-humoured face and untidy wisps of greyish hair escaping from the control of the solitary and crooked brass hairpin which was supposed to keep them in their place.

“We be all on the look-out, we mid say,” she remarked. “I be awaitin’ for the childern. ’Tis time they were home from school. I have to send David on a message before he goes back after dinner.”