Part 3

“So I was thinkin’,” continued Phoebe, “you’d best keep an eye to her while I’m gettin’ childern to bed, an’ then so soon as I do come down I’ll look after her. She’d best get early to bed herself, poor wold body, she be fair wore out.”

Caines removed his pipe again: “But what must I do if she should take a notion that I’m the wold gentleman—your father, I mean?” he enquired in some alarm.

Phoebe caught at the idea. “That wouldn’t be a bad thing at all,” said she. “I d’ ’low that ’ud keep her so quiet as anything. Jist you go an’ sit down in father’s chair an’ if she do say anything ye mid jist nod back or say a word or two—my father was never a man of much talk. I d’ ’low if anything ’ull pacify her that will, but mind you don’t let her take up wi’ any notion o’ gettin’ out o’ door. Here, wait a minute, I’ll come wi’ ye.”

She ran upstairs, presently returning with two or three socks, and preceding John to the kitchen, held her mother in play while he seated himself in old Sweetapple’s chair.

“Here, mother,” she cried, “here be some socks what want mendin’ awful bad. See, I’ll light lamp an’ set it behind ye. They be father’s socks, ye know—Sweetapple’s socks.”

Lizzie’s face lit up. “Ah, sure,” she replied, “Sweet-apple’s socks—this ’ere be Sweetapple’s week.”

She endeavoured to look past Phoebe towards the chair, but her daughter’s portly figure blocked the way.

“Here be the needle, look-see, an’ here be the mendin’. The socks be terr’ble broke at heel, bain’t they?”

Turning towards the light the old woman threaded the needle, and Phoebe taking advantage of the opportunity thus created, stepped towards her husband:—

“Don’t ye offer to talk to her,” she whispered, “without she speaks first.”

He nodded in reply, and going towards the window she pulled down the blind and jerked the curtains across. As she left the room she paused to gaze at the two; John was leaning back in his chair, placidly smoking, and Lizzie, who did not seem to perceive his presence, was intent on her work.

Some minutes after her departure he bent forward and tapped his pipe upon the hob, and his mother-in-law looked up, gazing towards him through the semi-darkness with a pleasant smile.

“Ye’ve got your baccy pouch handy, Sweetapple, haven’t ye?” said she.

John nodded, and she dropped her eyes on her work again.

Presently a heavy waggon went lumbering past without, and Lizzie looked up again.

“Wind blows hard,” she said. “D’ye think there’s a starm coming?”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” murmured John, indistinctly. Lizzie picked up her sock once more, but presently paused.

“I’m not sure if I covered the pens,” she said. “Shall us go out an’ cover the pens, Sweetapple?”

John stared in alarm. What was he to do now? Phoebe had not given him any instructions as to what he should say if her mother suggested going out to see to the pens.

“They young pheasants,” went on Lizzie, talking rapidly to herself, “they be terr’ble nesh. If a heavy starm of rain was to come on they mid all be dead in the marnin’. Where be the lantern?”

She rose hurriedly, looking round her with a startled air. John rose too, thoroughly frightened.

“Missis!” he shouted, “Phoebe! come down this minute! Here be the old lady a-wantin’ to go out!”

Phoebe hurried down with all speed, finding her husband planted with his back against the door for safety’s sake, while Lizzie, also standing, was staring at him piteously.

“Sweetapple!” she gasped, “Richard—what be gone wi’ Richard? I can’t think where I can be! What’s this strange place—and who’s this man?”

“Why ’tis John, mother. Don’t ye know John? You be here in our house. You’ve a-come to bide along o’ we. Don’t ye mind—Squire settled it.”

“Squire?” echoed Lizzie. “Ees, I mind it now. I mind it.”

She came back to her chair without another word, and said no more until her daughter presently took her up to bed.

“I don’t know as we’ve done so very well to toll mother here,” remarked Phoebe, when she came down again. “She do seem to be frettin’ quite sensible by times, an’ at others she’ll carry on wi’ nonsense same as ye heard.”

“I don’t think ’tis such a very good notion, to go playin’ games wi’ her,” responded John. “I’ll not do it no more. I couldn’t think what was comin’ next.”

Lizzie seemed comparatively tranquil on the morrow, however, though she had slept but ill and was very low in spirits. She looked at the children with the same bewildered air as on the previous day, and started at the noises in the street, but she made no complaint, except once when her daughter asked her to repeat some phrase which she had murmured to herself.

“I only said there don’t seem to be no birds here,” said Mrs Sweetapple, half apologetically. “It do feel lwonesome wi’out no birds.”

“Ye don’t look for birds in a town, do ye?” retorted Phoebe, sharply.

“Of course not,” agreed her mother. “I’m not used to towns.”

Towards evening she became restless again, and Mrs Caines despatched her family to bed earlier than usual in order that she might keep guard herself; her lord and master found it more convenient to keep out of the way.

“Father’s chair” was duly set forth, and Mrs Sweetapple sat and watched it, making an occasional remark; whenever these disjointed phrases were of a dangerous tendency Phoebe took care to recall her mother to the sense of her actual situation.

No catastrophe occurred that evening therefore, and as the days passed Mrs Sweetapple seemed gradually to accustom herself to her surroundings; towards the end of the week, indeed, she became as silent during the evening hours as since her arrival at Branston she had proved herself throughout the day.

When Sunday came, however, all was different. She went to church in the morning, and behaved as well as even her daughter could wish; she seemed pleased and interested, and as much excited as a child. She had not been to church for many years, and all was new to her.

The unwonted exertion tired her, and she was even more quiet than usual all that afternoon, dozing in her chair for the most part. Towards evening, however, she woke up with a start.

“What’s gone wi’ the settle?” she cried. “Wherever be the settle? Bartlett ’ull be here in a minute an’ he’ll not ha’ nowheres to sit.”

The children began to giggle, and even John could not repress a smile. Before the perplexed Phoebe had time to formulate any soothing rejoinder, Lizzie started from her chair.

“I’m fair dathered among ye,” she cried out. “Where be the settle, I say? The settle what my father did make wi’ his own hands and what poor Bartlett did always sit on. I’ll not be robbed on’t.”

“Robbed! Dear, to be sure, sich a notion! Who’d ever go for to steal such a thing. We did leave it in the wood, don’t ye mind? ’Tisn’t worth shiftin’—there, I’d ha’ thought ye’d ha’ forgot about it by now.”

“Nay, I’ve not forgot—an’ Bartlett, he’ve not forgot, I’ll go warrant. He’ll be that vexed when he do come. There, Phoebe, I never thought you’d go for to play I sich a trick. You did promise I sure as anything, I should have it by the week-end, and here be Sunday, an’ Bartlett ’ull be comin’, an’ he’ll not find it ready.”

“Well, ye shall have it to-morrow, we’ll send for it sartin sure to-morrow. Ha’ done, childern (in a fierce aside to the youngsters), I’ll not ha’ ye makin’ a mock o’ your grammer. Stop that, or I’ll gie ye summat as ’ull make ye laugh wrong way round. There, mother, ye’d best come upstairs and get to bed. ’Twill make to-morrow come all the sooner. An’ I’ll see en fetch the settle by then.”

“But Bartlett ’ull be comin’,” murmured poor Lizzie, who was shaken with the pitiful dry sobs of the old. “He’ll come an’ he’ll not find I here, an’ he’ll not find settle here.”

“Nay now, mother, nay now. He’ll not come—he could never find his way to our place. These houses warn’t built in Bartlett’s time. Why so like as not,” she continued soothingly, struck by a sudden inspiration, “as like as not he’s waitin’ for ye down in the wood—at the wold place, ye know. Don’t ye think so, John?”

“Ees,” said John, controlling his features, “’Tis better nor likely he’m waitin’ there.”

“Bidin’ there all alone,” sighed Lizzie. “The house be empty now, and everything be changed. But the settle’s there.”

“Ees, the settle’s there,” responded Mrs Caines briskly. “An’ he’ll set on’t jest so comfortable as can be. Now you come along o’ me, mother, an’ get to bed. Don’t you bother yourself no more about Bartlett—he’s all right.”

Mrs Sweetapple made no further objection, but went upstairs quietly enough, suffering her daughter to undress her, and getting into bed in obedience to her command.

When Alice, the eldest grandchild, who shared her room, came up, she thought the old woman was asleep. But Lizzie was not asleep. She lay there very wide-awake on the contrary, forcing herself to keep quiet with difficulty, until the family should have retired to rest.

At last the house was absolutely still: a duet of snores from the neighbouring room announced that Mr and Mrs Caines were sunk in slumber; but Lizzie lay motionless for an hour or so longer; until, in fact, she had heard the church clock strike twelve, and had noted the extinguishing of the street lamp opposite her window.

Even then she lay still for a while longer, until the lamplighter’s steps had died away, and the little town itself, which had ever seemed to her so noisy, was wrapped in unbroken silence.

Then, stealing noiselessly from the bed, she began to put on her clothes with as much haste as the necessity for caution would admit of. The moonlight streamed in through the uncurtained window, and she could find her way with ease about the little room. The bandbox containing her bonnet was here, on top of the chest of drawers, her cloak hung on one of the pegs beside it; here were her boots, but she would not put them on until she found herself safely in the street.

Out of the room she crept, and down the narrow stairs; John and Phoebe snoring unbrokenly on. Here was the door—the back door—oh, what a noise the bolt made in shooting back! She paused breathless, but no sound ensued, either of a hurried foot upon the stair, or of an alarmed cry. With a gasp of relief Lizzie crept out into the night. Sitting down upon the doorstep she donned her boots, the clock striking one just as the operation was completed.

One! How late it was! Would Bartlett be tired of waiting? Would he have gone before she reached home?

Down the hill she went, as fast as she could, and then across the market place. How quiet all the houses looked as they stood thus with shuttered windows and roofs shining in the moonlight. Now over the bridge and under the chestnut trees, the cool breath from the river catching her heated face, the delicious fragrance of the half-opened leaf buds filling her nostrils.

Here was the turn now, and here the long, long hill. Bartlett and she had trodden it once together when they had come back from that famous outing to Shroton Fair. They had got out of the waggon which had given them a friendly lift, just at the bridge, and had walked home together in the moonlight. She had hung on to Bartlett’s arm, and he had talked courting-talk all the way, just as when they were lovers.

The old woman smiled to herself as she tottered onwards. It had been moonlight then and it was moonlight now, and she was going to meet Bartlett. “He’ll wait, Bartlett ’ull wait,” she said to herself. “He’ll not disapp’int I.”

But, dear to be sure, that was a very long hill, and Lizzie was quite exhausted when she reached the top. She paused, gasping, while she surveyed the prospect before her. There were the woods before her on her right, the fir-trees sending out spicy scents which might have refreshed her had she been less anxious to get on; on her left the fields sloped away behind the hedge. They were asleep, too, fields and hedge, like the houses in the town; nobody was awake but Lizzie and poor Bartlett, waiting yonder, in the empty house.

But that dreary white road, how long it was? First a dip down and then a climb up—a long tedious climb, and the corner round which she must turn so far away that it was out of sight; and even when gained there was still more road, long and straight and weary, before she could reach the short cut which led across the fields to her own wood. While she considered the greatness of the distance and the lateness of the hour Lizzie became quite frightened, and wishing to make the most of the downward incline, she set off at a kind of hobbling run. Then, all of a sudden, she never quite knew how, something hit her in the face; her whole frame jarred through and through; stretching out her hand she groped about her blindly for she could not see, and felt grass and a tuft of weeds: it must have been the ground which had risen up to buffet her. But even while turning over this new idea in her mind she lost consciousness.

* * *

“Hullo, Mrs Sweetapple!”

Lizzie opened her eyes and smiled vaguely; somebody had raised her head and was dusting her face with a cotton handkerchief: Lizzie sat upright, feeling still dizzy, but happy and hopeful. She had had dreams—curiously pleasant dreams—and was at first astonished at not finding herself in her bed; but presently remembered. Then a spasm of anguish crossed her face. The moon was set, the gray light of dawn shone on her companion’s face and showed forth the ghostly world about her. Would Bartlett still be there?

“I couldn’t think whatever it was,” continued the man. “Me an’ Jinny was a-joggin’ along so quiet as anything, wi’ our load, when I see’d summat a-lyin’ aside o’ the road. First I thought ’twas a bundle, then I see’d ’twas a ’ooman, an’ then I turned ye over an’ says I: ‘’Tis Mrs Sweetapple.’ You’ve a-had a bit of a tumble, haven’t ye? Ye did seem stunned-like when I did pick ye up.”

Lizzie, looking at him vaguely, supposed she must have catched her foot in something.

“Whatever be you a-doin’ out-o’-door at this time o’ marnin’?”

Lizzie collected her scattered thoughts, and resolved to make the most of this unexpected opportunity. This was Jim Frizzle, the corn-merchant’s man, who had so often driven past her house, with corn for the pheasantry and forage for the keeper’s pony, and who had even now and then halted at her own door, to deposit a bundle or two of straw for her private use.

“Be you—be you goin’ up—along our way?”

“’Ees, I be a-takin’ a truss or two o’ hay to Keeper Foster’s, an’ a sack o’ Injun carn. There’s lots o’ room in my cart; would ye like a lift?”

“Thank ye kindly, Mr Frizzle, I would indeed. It be a good thought; I be jist about tired.”

“Well, you’m afoot early. What brings ye out at this time o’ marnin’?”

Lizzie considered.

“Well, ’tis nice an’ cool,” she said falteringly. She was learning to be cunning. People looked so strange and spoke so sharp when she told her secrets that she was now resolved to keep them to herself. If she were to let on to Jim Frizzle about Bartlett he might, as like as not, go and send Phoebe after her.

Jim let down the tail-board of the cart, and lifted her in.

“Now you’m all right,” he said, as she sank down between the trusses of hay. “You’ll be so snug as anything there. You’m a wonderful active body for your years, I’ll say that. I heerd ye’d shifted,” he continued, after a pause, “but I s’pose that bain’t true.”

Lizzie considered again.

“I’ve been a-biding wi’ my darter for a while,” she returned presently, “jist for a while—I’m goin’ back now.”

Jim jerked the reins, and lit his pipe, and they proceeded on their way in silence, Lizzie dozing now and then, and waking with a start. Their journey took a considerable time, for Frizzle could not avail himself of the short cut across the field and was obliged to proceed by road, approaching the wood at length by a narrow green lane.

Lizzie opened her eyes wide when they turned into this lane, and raised herself a little, gazing eagerly towards the longed-for goal.

The sun was up now, and all the fresh and dewy April world rejoicing. The grey-green fringes of the larches swung in the breeze, busy birds fluttered from bough to bough, sending forth ecstatic little notes; a rabbit scudded across the path just as the cart entered the wood; Lizzie clapped her hands and laughed. Jim turned round on his seat, and gazed at her in surprise.

“What be that for?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” answered Lizzie, abashed; “’twas seein’ the rabbit, I think. Did ye notice the rabbit, how he did kick up his little feet and whisk his little tail?”

“Most rabbits does that,” commented Jim.

On they went, and now the cottage came in sight, the desolate cottage with its smokeless chimney and shuttered windows.

“Why it be all shut up,” exclaimed Frizzle, as he stopped before the closed door. “There b’ain’t nobody about, nor yet nothin’ stirrin’.”

He gazed towards the empty kennels and the piled up heaps of pens which the keeper had not yet found time to remove. But Lizzie did not heed him; she had risen to her feet and was endeavouring to descend from the cart.

“Here, bide a bit, ’ooman, bide a bit. Ye can’t get down by yourself. Wait till I help ye.”

He let down the tail-board and assisted her to alight, and Lizzie, staggering towards the door, beat upon it with her open palm.

“Oh, I must get in—I must get in,” she cried. “I forgot about door bein’ locked! Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! He’ll be gone!”

“There, there, that’s a job that’s easy managed,” responded Jim, and, applying his vigorous shoulder to the door, he sent it swinging inwards on its hinge.

Peering curiously in he saw a dismantled little room, dark, save for the shafts of light which pierced their way through the chinks of the shutters and down the chimney to the fireless grate, and dismantled, save for a clumsy old oak settle which stood near the hearth. But to his surprise Lizzie uttered a cry of rapture, and tottered forward into the room.

“I knowed I’d find ye waitin’!” she exclaimed.

* * *

“I think I’d best look in again on my way back,” said Jim, as he clambered into his cart again after depositing his load at the keeper’s. “I’d no notion the old body was so childish as that. I never thought someway she’d rid house altogether—”

“Oh, she’ve shifted for good,” interrupted Keeper Foster. “Her darter came and carried her off, and none too soon either. There’d ha’ been some mischance so sure as anything.”

“Well, I thought it a bit queer to find her out on the road so early. She’d had a tumble too, mind ye, one side of her face was all bruised. But ’twasn’t till I heerd her call out, ‘I knowed I’d find ye waitin’,’ in the empty room, that I knowed for certain she’d gone silly.”

“You must take her home—along wi’ ye,” said the keeper. “It’s not safe to leave her, and Mrs Caines ’ll be in an awful state. Here, I’ll come with ye, and we’ll persuade her between us.”

He got into the cart too, and they drove together to Lizzie’s cottage. The door stood open as before, and the room was very still. Lizzie was crouching in a corner of the settle, with her hands outstretched, and a smile upon her face. In the green wood without the boughs were waving, and the birds were singing. “Lwonesome Lizzie” was lonesome no more: she had found Friend Death waiting for her in the deserted house, in the guise of the husband of her youth.

JESS DOMENY ON STRIKE

THE hay in Farmer Old’s biggest field had been duly mown and tossed, and his whole staff were now employed in carrying it. But the day was intensely hot, with a brooding sultriness which seemed to betoken a coming storm. Dust lay thick upon the hedges, and the ground was iron hard; rain was badly needed, no doubt, but Farmer Old devoutly hoped it would hold off just a little longer until the crop was saved. He was a wonderfully energetic man, was Farmer Old, and spared himself as little as those who worked under him. All the long, glowing hours of that languorous day he had toiled as manfully as any of his labourers; but now, at length, he had left them to their own devices for a short time, and the men breathed more freely in consequence. The rattle of the hay-rake ceased as the driver, having reached the corner of the field, paused to wipe his brow before turning the horses. A little knot of men, deputed by the farmer to ensure against any possible waste by following in its wake with the humble wooden implements in vogue before its invention, insensibly drew nearer together. One of their number expressed the natural longing for a drop of beer, and another incautiously provoked envious feelings by announcing that at Farmer Inkpen’s the men had as much beer allowed them as they could drink at busy times.

“He do send it out to ’em reg’lar,” said Martin Fry. “Ees, my brother James, what works for Farmer Inkpen, do say that they do be carr’in’ the jugs back’ards and forrards fro’ the house to the field so reg’lar as if ’twas but the family theirselves what was working. There, it do make I dry wi’ naught but thinkin’ on it.”

Jess Domeny looked up from the long roller of hay which he had just raked together, and surveyed his comrade vengefully.

“An’ it mid well make ye feel dry, Martin!” he cried emphatically. “It mid well make ye feel dry. Sich a day as this be, an’ us a-workin’ so many hours at a stretch.”

Jim Stuckey, perched aloft on the seat of the hay-rake, drew the back of his hand across his lips, and remarked that it was the drouthiest weather he’d a-knowed since he was a lad, an’ he’d see’d a good few hot summers too.

“I wish,” resumed Martin, voicing the sentiments of the party, “our measter was so thoughtful for his fellow-creeturs as Farmer Inkpen do be, accordin’ to my brother James, but I truly believe a man’s tongue mid drop out of’s head wi’ drith afore he’d take a bit o’ notice.”

“Measter b’ain’t mich of a drinker hisself,” hazarded a lover of fair play, “or else I d’ ’low he’d have a bit more feelin’ for sich as we together.”

“He did ought to ha’ feelin’,” cried Jess, vehemently. “A man same as Measter what be makin’ sich a sight o’ money, takin’ prizes for carn an’ layin’ by the dibs so fast he can scarce count ’em, did ought to have a bit o’ mercy on them what do have to earn their bread by the sweat o’ their brow.”

“Measter do sweat too,” put in an impartial bystander mildly. “He do sweat like anything, Jess. I’ve a-see’d the big draps a-standin’ on’s face.”

“What I d’ say is,” continued Jess, after pausing to glare at the last speaker, “a man i’ Measter’s place what be set up over his feller-men by the hand o’ Providence, did ought to act providential-like. When the weather be that mortial hot a man gets thirsty sittin’ in a chair, them what’s set over him did ought to see as he had a drap or two to m’isten his tongue wi’.”

There was a murmur of approval, and then the men prepared to continue their labours. But Jess stayed them by an admonitory gesture.

“If ye wasn’t all sich a poor-spirited lot we wouldn’t be put upon the way we be now,” he remarked. “There’s no way o’ bringin’ measters to reason if men won’t stick up for theirselves.”

“Stick up for theirselves,” echoed Jim, with a startled look.

Jeffs transferred his wooden rake from his right hand to his left, and, fumbling in the pocket of his corduroys, produced a small greasy slab of newspaper.

“Did ye chance to notice what the cab-drivers in London done when they wanted their wages rose” he asked. “They went on strike—there, ye can read it for yourselves.”

Martin Fry stretched out his hand for the paper, and slowly spelt out the paragraph designated by Jess’s horny finger; then he returned the grimy sheet to its owner, with a shake of the head and a pursed lip.