Part 8

“E—es, a lot o’ us young folks did set off for Shroton Fair that day. There was me, and Annie Boyt, Tom’s sister, and Rose Paddock; and there was Tom, and ’Neas, and my John—that’s Stickly, though I didn’t call him my John then—and a young man from Shillingstone, whose name I can’t mind at the present time, but he was a-coortin’ of Annie. And as we did all want to go together, Tom and Annie did persuade their father to let ’em take one o’ his waggons; so we did have two harses wi’ bells to their harness, and what wi’ the bells, and what wi’ the maids singin’, and the lads shoutin’, and the waggon rattlin’, and the harses’ feet a-hammerin’ the road, I can tell ’ee we did make some noise as we was a-goin’ along. The folks turned to look at us as we droved through the villages, and the childern did run after us, and did cry out ‘Bring us a fairin’, folks! Bring us a fairin’ from Shroton!’ And Tom did say—Tom was al’ays free wi’ his money—he did call out, ‘Well, be good childern; we’ll mayhap bring you back a few ginger-nuts.’

“Well, we was the best o’ friends, an’ so merry as ever we could be. I had a bonnet lined wi’ pink and a pink ribbon to tie it wi’, and a pink sash—folks did wear sashes then—and a frock—ah, I can call to mind that frock! It were the purtiest I ever did have in my life; there was little bunches o’ roses all over it a-tied together wi’ knots o’ blue ribbon—not real blue ribbon, ye know—’twas just the pattern on the stuff, but they was wonderful purty. My mother did say to I when I was a-gettin’ it out, ‘Ye’ll scarce be warm enough in that, Maria’; and I did say, ‘Oh, e—es, mother, I’ll be warm enough—there be so many on us a-goin’ we’ll keep each other warm.’ And mother didn’t say nothin’, but she just went to her box, and she did take out her best shawl as she’d been married in, and she did say, ‘There, my maid, ’ee can take that too; for thou art a careful maid and won’t let it come to harm.’

“Well, as I say, we was a merry crew! Dear heart alive, that was we! There be times, Mrs. Andrews, when I be sittin’ here so lonesome by the fire, an’ I do say to myself, ‘Was that really me—that vitty young maid! (for I were reckoned a handsome maid in those days, Mrs. Andrews) as rode in the big waggon that sunshiny day?’ Thinks I to myself, ‘It can never have been me—I must ha’ dreamed it’; and then I do look up and see the rosy plate shinin’ in the firelight, and I do say to myself, ‘Well, it were I, arter all’; and it’s somethin’ to think as a body was once so young an’ so merry.”

“True, true,” her neighbour would agree. “But you was a-tellin’ me about the childern a-runnin’ arter the waggon—I suppose it did not take you so very long to get to Shroton?”

“Nay, we did get there early in the forenoon, and then John did want me to go and see the harses jump, and the others was all for goin’ straight off on the roundabouts. ‘I’ll treat ye, Maria,’ says Tom. ‘And thank you kindly, Tom,’ says I. And then I did turn round and see poor John a-lookin’ very downhearted, so I did smile at en over my shoulder, and did say, soft like, ‘Do ’ee come, too, John.’

“‘Nay,’ says John, very quiet. ‘I think not, Maria. Two be company, and three be none, ye know.’ ‘Oh, well,’ says I, just to tease en, ‘if you like to see your old harses jumpin’ better nor to ride along of I, so ye may for all I care. Which be the way, Tom?’

“‘Why, don’t ’ee hear the music over there?’ says Tom; but ’twas hard to hear anythin’ the way the folks was a-talkin’ and a-laughin’; and what wi’ the shootin’, and the knockin’ down cocoa-nuts, and the roundabouts all a-playin’ different tunes at the same time, and the showmen shoutin’, and the drums a-beatin’, the noise was enough to dather a body.

“‘Take my arm,’ says Tom; and Annie did pair off with her young man, and Rose did catch hold o’ ’Neas as bold as brass, though he looked a bit glum, I can tell ’ee, for ’twere me as he wanted, d’ye see? And poor John were left all alone. I were feelin’ vexed, I suppose, but now, when I do look back on that day, it do seem to I as if I must ha’ been mad. My mother ’ud ha’ scolded if she’d a-known how I did behave that day. First I did go in the roundabout wi’ Tom, and then I did have another ride wi’ ’Neas, and there was Rose a-lookin’ on very cross, for Tom wouldn’t treat her; and the crosser she did look the more I did toss my head and laugh and talk wi’ ’Neas, and then ’twas Tom’s turn to pull a long face.

“And then I did go wi’ Tom in the swings, and then we did all have a game at Aunt Sally, and I did win; and ’Neas gi’ed me a bagful o’ ginger-nuts, and Tom a box for pins, and Annie’s young man come sidlin’ up too, and says he, ‘I must gi’e ye something too, Maria, for I do think,’ says he, ‘as you be queen of the fair’. And he did buy me a lot o’ sticky sweet stuff as I took one bite on and then dropped when he weren’t a-lookin’. But ye should ha’ seed Annie’s face. ‘I think I’ll go and look for John,’ says she, and her two eyes did shine much like cat’s eyes in the dark; but she didn’t go arter John, all the same.

“Well, we did come at last to one o’ the booths where they were a-sellin’ china stuff: mugs, and vases, and teapots, and cups, and plates, and as we stopped to look at ’em the old woman as was a-sellin’ did hold up the rosy plate, and says she to I, ‘Do ’ee buy en, my maid. The flowers be jist the same colour as they purty cheeks o’ yourn. You be a real rose, for sure,’ she did say, ‘and you did ought to have the rosy plate.’

“I put my hand in my pocket, and pulled out my handkercher, for I’d a-tied up my dibs in the corner. My mother did gi’e me eightpence to buy fairin’s wi’, but I hadn’t naught but a ha’penny left.

“‘That’s all I have,’ says I, holdin’ it up and laughin’; ‘will ye sell it me for that?’

“‘Nay now,’ says the old woman; ‘this here plate do cost a shillin’.’

“Well, everybody knows, of course, as these here folks do always ax twice so much as they’re willin’ to take; so Tom laughed, and says he:

“‘Come, I’ll gi’e ye sixpence for ’t.’

“‘Nay,’ says ’Neas, steppin’ up, ‘I’m the man as must give the rose o’ Shroton Fair the rosy plate.’

“So Rose Paddock did begin to smile and to smirk, and to think it were she as he meant; but I knowed very well it were me.

“‘The rose o’ the fair,’ says ’Neas, ‘must have a rosy plate for to match the roses on her cheeks and the roses on her frock.’ And poor Rose did look sour, for her frock was brown all over, wi’ jist a bunch o’ blue ribbons at the neck.

“‘I’ll gi’e ye eightpence for the rosy plate,’ says ’Neas.

“Nay, let me have it for tenpence!’ hollers Tom.

“‘ A shillin’!’ says Annie’s young man all of a sudden; it did really seem, Mrs. Andrews, as if he couldn’t hold back.

“‘Eighteenpence!’ says ’Neas.

“‘Two shillin’!’ cries Tom.”

“Tch, tch, tch,” commented Mrs. Andrews, clicking her tongue in amazed condemnation of such wanton extravagance, though she knew quite as well as Mrs. Stickly what was coming next.

“If you’ll believe me,” said Maria triumphantly, “they did run up the price o’ that there plate to five shillin’ before they’d done! Five shillin’! That were Tom’s bid; and ’Neas, he did laugh and shake his head and say, ‘’Tis half my week’s wages—I can’t go no further, Maria; ye must take the will for the deed.’

“Annie’s young man had dropped off some time before, so now the plate were knocked down to Tom; and he did put his hand in his pocket like a lord and pull out his money. But when he did come to count it there weren’t above four-and-sixpence all together.

“‘Lend me sixpence, somebody,’ says he.

“Thank ’ee for nothin’,’ says ’Neas; ‘if it be goin’ for four-and-sixpence I’ll have it myself.’

“‘An’ I’m sure I sha’n’t lend you sixpence, Tom,’ says Annie’s young man. ‘It be simple waste to gi’e so much for that there plate.’

“‘Well, ’tis a deal o’ money, surely,’ says Tom. Folks were a-gatherin’ round, d’ye see, and starin’, and laughin’, and nudgin’ of each other, and Tom began to feel he were lookin’ a fool.

“‘There’ll be naught left for a bit o’ nuncheon,’ says he, half to himself.

“‘Oh, pray don’t waste your money on I,’ says I, and the tears did spring to my eyes.

“‘That’s true, too,’ said ’Neas to Tom, ‘we ha’n’t had a bite yet, nor so much as a glass o’ beer.’

“It looked as if I were not a-goin’ to have my plate at all, though they’d all been fightin’ who was a-goin’ to give it to I. I’m sure my cheeks was redder than any roses could be, as I stood listenin’ to ’em; and all at once I raised my eyes, and there was John lookin’ across at me. And then I did feel myself go pale, and my head did begin to go round and round, I were that ashamed o’ myself and of all as had been goin’ on. But the next thing I did hear was John’s voice:—

“‘Five shillin’, did ye say? There it is; I’ll take it.’ And in another minute he’d a-put the plate in my hand.

“‘There it be, my maid,’ says he; ‘I don’t think it too much to give since you fancy it.’

“‘Well done!’ cries the folks; ‘here be the right man at last, ’tis the proper spirit for a lover.’ And then they began to clap en on the back, and to laugh, and wish him well, and ax him when the weddin’ was to be, and I don’t know what besides. I did scarce know which way to look, I were that ashamed, and yet that pleased; and John he did pull my hand through his arm, and he did lead I out of the row of booths, and away from the crowd, till we come to a quiet corner of the big field, and there we did sit down, and he did say, smilin’ like:—

“‘Next year ye’ll come to see the harses wi’ me, Maria?’

“‘E—es,’ said I, hanging down my head; ‘I’ll go wherever ye ax me, John.’

“‘Then will ye come to church wi’ me, my maid?’ says he; ‘will ye be my wife, Maria?’

“Ah, that were how we did make it up between us; and he did al’ays say as it were the rosy plate as done it. We were wed before the year were out, and the first thing Stickly did do was to make a place for that there plate upon the dresser. And as years went by and the childern come, he used to lift ’em up to see it. Each did have leave to eat out of it on its birthday—we did use to put a little bit o’ cake upon the rosy plate, and set it by the birthday child; and ye should ha’ seen how j’yful it would look.”

“Ah, sure,” commented Mrs. Andrews. “’Twould be nice to have a bit o’ cake on sich a beautiful plate, wouldn’t it, Walter? That ’ud be a nice birthday treat for any little boy.”

“I do often mind me o’ them days,” Mrs. Stickly resumed. “Dear, yes! I do often think I hear the little voices and the little feet, and see father—that’s Stickly—a-liftin’ up the youngest un to look at the plate. ’Tis very near like a book to me, that plate. I mid ha’ wrote in it all the joys and sorrows o’ my life—what I’ve a-had and what I’ve a-lost—I do mind ’em all when I look at it. Mary, the only maid I had, did cut her weddin’ cake on this here plate—she was a vitty bride—but she died wi’ her first baby; an’ John did ’list for a soldier, and were killed out abroad, and James and ’Lias died o’ the fever when they was quite little. E—es, I did lose ’em all; me and Stickly was a-left alone by the fire in the end, and now there be nobody but I. They be all a-gone before I to the New House. I’ll jine ’em there some day, Mrs. Andrews.”

And then Mrs. Andrews would agree and condole, and begin to think it was time for her to move; and Tommy and Walter would have their mufflers tied round their necks, and the party would start off homewards, while Mrs. Stickly, with a sigh and a smile, would restore the rosy plate to its place.

The little house at the hill-foot occupied, as has been said, a somewhat solitary position, being a mile from any other habitation; but it never seemed to occur to any one that in the case of illness or accident its owner would find herself in a somewhat sorry plight.

When in the middle of a bright, frosty, wintry night, therefore, Mrs. Andrews was awakened by a loud knocking at her door and piteous cries for help, and when, on throwing open her casement and leaning out, she recognised the small figure standing on her threshold as Mrs. Stickly, her astonishment was mingled with some measure of indignation.

“Goodness gracious, Mrs. Stickly, whatever brings you here at this time o’ night?—I be frightened out o’ my wits! Has anything happened?”

“What in the world be amiss?” inquired the deep tones of Mr. Andrews from under the bed-clothes.

“Oh, come down, come down, good folks, for pity’s sake!” wailed the nocturnal visitor; “my house be a-fire—’tis a mercy I weren’t burnt in my bed!”

“Your house a-fire!” gasped Mrs. Andrews in genuine concern; and thereupon ensued the hasty thud of Mr. Andrews’ bare feet upon the floor. “I’ll let you in in a minute! Dear heart alive! what a misfortune, to be sure!”

In another moment her hospitable but scantily clad figure appeared in the doorway, and a kind, warm hand drew the shivering, sobbing little figure to the kitchen within.

“Ye be as cold as any stone,” she said; “don’t ’ee cry so, Mrs. Stickly dear, Andrews ’ull be down in a minute, and I’ll call Mr. Butt, next door, and a few more chaps—they’ll soon put it out! Don’t ’ee fret so.”

“Oh, Mrs. Andrews,” gasped the poor old woman, “it be all blazin’ and roarin’—the roof be all a-fire! I think it must ha’ been a spark lit on it. It were that cold, d’ye see, I’d made me up a good fire to warm me before I went to bed—I had some nice logs, and I think a spark from ’em must have lit upon the roof. I woke up chokin’, and couldn’t see wi’ the smoke, but I dressed and ran downstairs so fast as I could, and there were more smoke in the kitchen. I could scarce find my way to the dresser, but I crope about until I got there, and ketched hold of the rosy plate, and then out I ran.”

By this time Mr. Andrews had joined them, and soon a little relief party was organised, and set off with all speed to the scene of the disaster; but long before they reached the spot the would-be rescuers agreed that the task was hopeless. The old thatch was now one sheet of flame; every window of the little dwelling was defined in fire; the crackling of the crazy woodwork and the roar of the blaze could be heard almost half a mile away. The men halted and looked at each other blankly.

“It’s ten to one if there’s a drap o’ water handy at this time o’ night,” said Abel Butt, putting into words the thought which was, indeed, present in the minds of all.

“Mrs. Stickly did say as her well was froze,” observed Andrews gloomily; “but we’d best go on all the same and see what can be done.”

They went forward again, but more slowly, and in silence. Before they reached the house, however, the roof fell in with a crash and a roar, wrecking the little home it once had sheltered.

For some weeks Maria was prostrated by the shock. Mrs. Andrews did all she could for her, but as time went on the question of ways and means became a serious one. Andrews was not in full work that winter, and there were many little mouths to feed, and, moreover, the anticipated arrival of a successor to the “twin” would shortly incapacitate Mrs. Andrews from attending to her helpless charge. All poor old Maria’s household gods had perished in the flames; she had already for some years been in the receipt of outdoor relief from the parish, on which, together with the produce of her garden, and the eggs laid by her hens, she had hitherto contrived to live. But now, what was to be done? The cottage was burnt to the ground, and the landlord, though kind and tolerant with regard to certain arrears of rent, was not inclined to rebuild it; moreover, it would be dangerous for Maria in her enfeebled state to resume her former solitary life.

Much anxious consultation on the part of friends and well-wishers resulted in the halting one day outside Mrs. Andrews’ door of a cab, from which descended a neat, bright-eyed little woman in the uniform of a hospital nurse. It was, indeed, no other than the district nurse from the town of Branston, who, at the request of the authorities, had undertaken to escort Maria to the Union.

Mrs. Andrews met her on the doorstep.

“I’ve got her ready,” she said, in an agitated whisper. “She’s dressed all but her bonnet and shawl, and they’re quite handy, but I haven’t had the heart to tell her yet. It do seem hard for a poor old body. I d’ ’low it’s cruel hard.”

“You want me to tell her, in fact,” said the nurse. “Well, it all comes in the day’s work, I suppose, and we can’t keep the cab waiting.”

She went into the kitchen, and sat down by the small shrunken figure in the elbow-chair. Unpleasant tasks had frequently fallen to Nurse Margaret’s lot during the course of her professional career: she had had to announce impending bereavement to many an anxious family; she had not infrequently given a truthful answer to those patients who, already in the death-throes, had asked if their end were near; but never yet had she been called upon to perform a duty so painful as that of making this honest, decent, gentle, little old woman realise that she was to end her days in the workhouse.

She did realise it, though. Nurse Margaret saw the wrinkled face blanch, and the mouth quiver, and the eyes grow wide with horror and alarm; and then, just as she was preparing for an outburst of tears and protests, she saw, to her surprise, the poor old creature brace herself, and presently the answer came, given with a certain quiet dignity:—

“Well, Miss, I’ll come. I don’t wish to be a burden to nobody. ’Twon’t be for long, very like.”

Mrs. Andrews came out of her entrenchment behind the door, and tied on Maria’s bonnet and shawl, with many tears and inarticulate apologies.

“Don’t ’ee take on, my dear,” said Maria, with the same gentle dignity. “It bain’t none o’ your fault. I’m very thankful to ye for what you’ve done.”

“When I’m over my trouble I’ll come to see you,” gasped the good hostess, whose face was glazed with ineffectual grief. “They’ll—they’ll take good care of ye there, I’m told; and maybe better times will come, and we can get ’ee out again.”

Maria smiled; she knew very well that she would never come out again.

“I could wish,” she said presently, “I had some little things to give the childern, Mrs. Andrews, but I’ve nought in the wide world but the clothes on my back, and the rosy plate—and that I can never part with so long as I live. Give it to me,” she said, after a pause, pointing to where her treasure lay safely ensconced in a drawer of the chest in the corner.

Mrs. Andrews produced it, but, as she crossed the kitchen towards her friend, Nurse Margaret looked at her meaningly, and slowly shook her head.

“I’m afraid they won’t let her keep it,” she said, under her breath.

“’Twill fair break her heart if they don’t,” whispered the other. “Do ’ee try an’ persuade ’em, Miss.”

The nurse shook her head again, but promised to try; and then Maria was slowly hoisted from her chair, and supported across the kitchen and into the cab. She returned Mrs. Andrews’ farewell embrace, and sat looking before her vacantly as the cab drove away.

Nurse Margaret’s surmise proved only too correct; those who passed through the stony portals of the Union found themselves as completely denuded of this world’s gear as though those gates had been in very truth the Gates of Death. Maria possessed a comfortable warm shawl, with which she was accustomed to envelop her chilly old frame when in bed; but she was informed that she could not be allowed to keep it.

When this shawl and her warm clothes were taken away from her, and she was clad in the regulation garments, she was told that probably in a week or so a kind lady who visited the Union would knit her a shawl.

“But mine be quite good,” said Maria, feebly. “I d’ ’low I’d rather have my own. ’Twouldn’t be the same. My own shawl, d’ye see—” she broke off suddenly, her lip trembling.

“Hers is quite clean,” said Nurse Margaret: “could she not be allowed to have it?” Possibly she realised something of what was passing in Maria’s mind: a lingering sense of personal dignity—the last vestige of proud independence; the natural clinging, almost childish in its tenacity, to what was her “very own”. Perhaps there were associations connected with that shawl that made it doubly precious; it might have been an heirloom, it might have been a gift—even if purchased only by the wearer herself out of long and carefully hoarded savings, how much would such a fact add to its value.

“Quite impossible,” returned the matron with decision. “We cannot make an exception. They would all want to wear their own dirty, fusty things and there would be no end to it. But everything will he taken good care of, and given back to her when she leaves.”

“She is seventy-five now,” said Nurse Margaret. “She has not a friend in the world, nor, I believe, a penny. I am afraid it is not very likely that better times will come for her.”

Maria had listened to this colloquy in a dazed, stupid way, and made no attempt to speak again until her precious plate was taken away from her, when she broke into clamorous protestations.

“Don’t, don’t ax me to part wi’ the rosy plate! It be all as I’ve a-left in the world. It’ll not take no room—I can jist keep it under my piller, and nobody ’ull know it be there. Do ’ee now, ma’am, do ’ee let me keep it!”

But again she was confronted with those terrible rules; and she was led away, weeping bitterly, to her new quarters.

She found herself in the company of some twenty old women in a large whitewashed room. Some were knitting, some were sewing, one dandling a hapless six-months-old baby, whose mother was at work in some other part of the establishment.

Maria sat down on the edge of the bed that was allotted to her, and looked vacantly round; one or two of the women spoke to her, but she scarcely heeded them.

A big bell clanged out presently, and she was told that it was for tea, and feebly followed in the wake of her companions, as they went trooping down a flagged passage and into a large room with a long table running down its centre—a bare deal table with benches on either side, each place being marked by a tin mug and a hunch of bread, on the top of which was laid a lump of butter or cheese.

Maria’s right-hand neighbour instantly began to spread her butter with her thumb. The younger woman on her left took alternate mouthfuls from the cheese and the bread.

“Bain’t there no knives nor plates?” inquired Maria, suddenly awaking to the fact of their absence.

“Can’t you see for yourself there bain’t?” was the response. “You’d best begin—they don’t give us so very long.”

“But why bain’t there no plates?” persisted Maria.

“What does it matter about plates?” grumbled the other. “I’d be willin’ enough to do wi’out plates—’tis the food as I mind. You’ve got butter—all the old folks have that, but they chuck us younger ones a bit o’ cheese as hard as a paving stone.”

Maria looked at her lump of bread with its triangular portion of butter set forth on the bare board, and wept. This was what she had come to, she, Maria Stickly, who had always throughout her long, honest, struggling life held up her head with the best! She bowed it now on her poor sunken chest, and sobbed aloud.

A long skinny hand presently hovered over her discarded portion, and her elder neighbour said, with a titter and a cunning look:—

“If ’ee don’t want it, ye’ll p’r’aps have no objection to my taking of it.”

And on its owner making no sign the transfer speedily took place.

“Nay now, that bain’t fair!” whispered the woman on the other side, angrily; “I claim half. Her and me was a-speaking together first.”

They began to quarrel over the food, while Maria sobbed on between them; the sight of their inflamed faces and the sound of their angry, coarse words seemed to her to aggravate the indignity.