Part 7

“Oh, but it’s true—it’s really true,” cried Ann-Car’line earnestly. “And the worst of it is the thing—what I hid—wasn’t mine.”

Timothy deliberately set down his lantern, and folded his arms on the top of the hurdle.

“You’ll have to come out wi’ the whole truth, my girl,” said he; “what was the thing ye hid?”

“’Twas a watch,” gasped the girl; “a gold watch.”

Timothy whistled under his breath. “And ’twasn’t yours, ye say?” he remarked after a pause. “Ye stole it then, did ye? Ye’ll be put in prison so sure as I be a-lookin’ at ye.”

“Stole it!” ejaculated Ann-Car’line with a little scream. “I did no such thing. ’Twas give me, but I didn’t want to take it an’ I said I’d give it back—and now I can’t,” she added with a burst of woe.

“Now look ye here, maidie,” cried Timothy, in a voice that had suddenly grown extremely wrathful, “this ’ere tale’s worse nor what I looked for. Who gave ye that watch? Come, make a clean breast on’t—else I’ll not lift a finger to help ye. It’ll have to come out first or last, and there’s less shame in telling me—what’s your friend—”

“I’m not ashamed,” interrupted Ann-Car’line, throwing back her head. “I have not done wrong. ’Twas a gentleman give me the watch, there!”

“Well, then you have done wrong!” said the shepherd, sternly. “What right had ye to take gold watches from gentlemen as ye dursen’t let your mother see. It bain’t a very nice story, that. Who is the gentleman?” he added fiercely. “What did he give ye the watch for?”

Standing up to the hurdle he seized the girl by the wrists, pinioning her fast.

“Lard, Timothy! Don’t pinch me so vicious—you be hurtin’ I. There, ’twas a actin’ gentleman what come wi’ a lot o’ others to the town in the summer. They was actin’ a play at the Corn Exchange, wi’ a lot o’ singin’ and dancin’ in it. This one was the head o’ the actin’ folks. I went there along o’ father, and he said he see’d me all the time the play was goin’ on—”

“Your father said that?” queried Timothy, sharply.

“No, the actin’ gentleman. He come upon me the next day, walkin’ along the lane and singin’—as I mid be the first day you did talk to I—and he did stop and speak.”

“What did he say?” growled Timothy, tightening his grip upon her wrists.

“Oh, he axed I a lot of questions, and he did say I wer’ a very pretty girl, and he did ax I would I like to be a fairy?”

“It was him said that,” interrupted the shepherd. “I never thought there was a word o’ truth in the tale.”

“There was, though. He meant a play-actin’ fairy, o’ course. He said all I’d have to do was to sing a bit, and dance a bit, and look nice, and I’d get a lot of money and see the world too.”

“So he said, and what did you say?” asked Timothy, as she paused.

“First I said I didn’t think mother could spare me, and then I said I didn’t think I’d like it, and then I said straight out I wouldn’t. But he wouldn’t take No,” said Ann-Car’line, opening her eyes very wide. “The more I hung back, the more he pressed—and at last he pulls out that watch an’ says he, ‘Now, my dear, think it over. We’ll be comin’ back again about Christmas-time,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you from now to then to make up your mind. And meanwhile there’s my watch for you to keep,’ says he—‘’twill show you I’m in earnest, anyhow. You can mark the flight of time with that,’ says he—he spoke so funny, ye know—‘and with every day that passes you must be the nearer to making up your mind to sayin’ Yes.’ Wasn’t it a queer notion?”

“A very queer notion, indeed,” said Timothy, grimly. “Well, and now ye’ve lost the watch—and what be ye goin’ to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure,” returned Ann-Car’line, sobbing afresh. “I shall never be able to look him in the face, when he comes for his answer.”

“So much the better,” said Timothy, rigidly. “He’ll not be in such a hurry to meddle wi’ young maids again, p’raps.”

“Oh, but he’ll be sure to think I sold it, or pawned it, or summat—he’ll maybe have the law on me.”

“Is that all what’s troublin’ ye?” said the shepherd, fixing her with a piercing gaze. “If anybody was to find that watch for ye, you wouldn’t want to go turnin’ into a fairy or any sich tomfoolery?”

“I shouldn’t—indeed I shouldn’t,” she cried earnestly. “Oh, Timothy, will ye help me to find it?”

“I don’t know but what I will,” said he—“if you’ll promise me—promise me faithful—faithful, mind, not to take no more notice at all of that play-actin’ gentleman. I’ll find that watch if ye’ll let me take it back to the man myself, and tell en so.”

“I will—I’ll promise,” sobbed she.

“It’s a bargain!” said Timothy, firmly. “Now then—let’s see what can be done. Was there nobody at all in the field when you did chance to bury that watch? Somebody must ha’ see’d ye do it, ye see, and then so soon as your back was turned, gone and dug it up again.”

“Oh, there was nobody there,” replied the girl, emphatically. “I watched and waited for ever so long before I made the hole—there wasn’t a sign of anybody. Your hut wasn’t up here then—I shouldn’t ha’ done it if it had a-been there, for I’d ha’ been afeard ye mid see me.”

“Yes,” agreed Timothy, “that’s true. I mid ha’ seen ye.”

“And nobody could tell where ’twas hid,” she pursued mournfully. “I scratched up the earth and made it look same as all the rest o’ the field. I shouldn’t ha’ found it myself if I hadn’t ha’ made a little sign to know it by.”

“Sich as a mark in the hedge?” suggested Timothy.

She stared at him.

“A little cross, as mid be, cut in a holly stem?” continued the shepherd.

“O-o-oh,” cried Ann-Car’line, “you horrid, unkind, teasin’ chap! I d’ ’low you was spyin’ on me all the time!”

For all answer Timothy dived to the depths of his pocket and produced by slow degrees, first the chain, and then the watch itself.

Ann-Car’line, uncertain whether to be more angry or relieved, burst into a series of disjointed exclamations, and finally ordered her lover to give her back that watch immediately.

“Nothin’ of the kind,” replied he, dropping it into his pocket again. “I’ll keep it for ye same as I’ve a-been doin’ all along. Says I to mysel’ when I see’d what you was arter—‘That there maid’ll be gettin’ into trouble,’ I says, ‘wi’out somebody interferes.’ And so I—”

“Oh, Timothy, did ye?” cried Ann-Car’line, melting all at once, “but ye needn’t ha’ gied me such a fright.”

“Ye shouldn’t ha’ had secrets from I, then,” returned he. “Well, we’ll ha’ no more secrets now, my girl, shall us? I’ll gi’e that watch back to the chap and send en about his business.”

“But he’ll think it so queer, won’t he?” said she, simpering.

“He’ll not think it a bit queer when I do tell en I be a-courtin’ of ye.”

“Oh, Timothy!” sighed Ann-Car’line.

And then Timothy Kiddle set his lantern on the ground, and, leaning over the hurdles, kissed her with great earnestness and satisfaction.

“Nothing like having a thing settled!” said he.

ONE ANOTHER’S BURDENS

OLD Mrs Spencer picked her way daintily along the path which led from the Frisbys’ little gate to their house-door. The path in question had been raked and was devoid of weeds, and if it had not been for a presumably recent addition of bones and broken crockery in one corner, and a large pool of dirty water, from which shallow streams were slowly making their way to the gate aforesaid, would no doubt have been tidy. The old lady hopped from side to side in the attempt to keep her neat little feet dry, and when she came to the pool itself, on which rings of suds were eddying, stopped short with a disgusted air, and raising her voice, called for Mrs Frisby.

The door slowly opened, and a slatternly-looking woman stood upon the threshold. A stout two-year-old child sat on one arm, while the other hand held a penny novelette. A wisp of hair hung loosely over her face, which was as dirty as that of the child; the bodice of her dress was held together by pins, and she altogether presented a most uninviting appearance. She started at sight of the visitor.

“I beg pardon, m’m,” she said. “I wish I’d known you was comin’. Thursday is a busy day with us.”

“So I see,” responded Mrs Spencer, suffering her eyes to wander over the woman’s figure, and thence towards the corner of the garden, where she could see some dingy-looking clothes hanging on the line. “Most people have finished their washing by Thursday, but you are evidently in the middle of yours.”

“Yes, m’m,” admitted Mrs Frisby, dolefully. “There, with all those childern, ye know, m’m, and Frisby coming in and making so much mess, ’tis hard to get on with the work.”

“It’s a curious thing,” remarked Mrs Spencer, “that you should prefer to empty your suds out of the front door—and do you find you get on quicker with your work if you read while you’re doing it?”

“Well ’m, I’m sure, m’m, I had but just sat down for a minute. Little Harry was a bit peevish, and I couldn’t let him cry—he chanced to prick his finger with a pin, ye see, m’m—”

“If there’d been a button there,” said Mrs Spencer, “or a hook and eye, that accident couldn’t have happened. And pray”—peering at the dreadful little book with her sharp eyes—“were you reading ‘Lady Selina’s Lover’ out loud to amuse the baby?”

During the confused pause which ensued, the little old lady made a leap across the muddy space, and, waving Mrs Frisby on one side, entered the house. Such a house! Dirty windows, a dirty floor, a grate which had not been cleaned for several days, and beneath which was such a pile of cinders and ashes that the fire would scarcely burn. Everything in the room was dusty, and in the very middle of the floor lay a pair of man’s muddy boots.

“I’m sure I beg your pardon, m’m,” said Mrs Frisby. “’Tis a dreadful untidy place for you to come into. Dear to be sure, just look at Frisby’s boots! He’ve left them there ever since last night, and I can’t get him to so much as clean a window for me.”

“Can’t you really?” said Mrs Spencer. “No, I don’t think I’ll sit down, thank you. So Frisby won’t clean the windows or put his boots on one side? Well, you know, there are some wives, Mrs Frisby, who would think it a little hard to ask their husbands to clean windows when he had been working all day, and who would even put away his boots if he did chance to leave them on the floor. The husband, after all, is the breadwinner. Frisby works very hard—I’ll say that for him—and he’s earning good wages, and is always ready to earn a little more by doing odd jobs after hours. Then, when he’s finished those, he has his allotment to see to, and the garden here, which would, I see, be very tidy if you did not allow your children to strew things all over the place.”

“I’m sure I’m always telling the childern not to throw their rubbish about,” said Mrs Frisby, tearfully, “but what am I to do? I can’t be indoor and out too. Frisby might very well see to the childern in the garden, I think, when I’m busy in the house.”

“It’s all Frisby’s fault, in fact,” said Mrs Spencer, pursing up her lips. “I suppose,” she added, looking round the room, “he ought to dust, and clean the grate, and scrub the floors too.”

The old lady spoke so seriously that Mrs Frisby stared hard without replying.

“I must say,” continued the former, after a pause, “your husband has worked on my estate for nearly ten years—since he was quite a little boy, in fact—and I have always found him extremely industrious, good-tempered, and obliging. I can’t understand how it is that you seem to give him such a different character.”

“Well ’m,” said Mrs Frisby, shifting the child from her right arm to her left, “I don’t altogether complain, but I do think Frisby might be a bit more good-natured, knowin’ how poorly I feel, and so many childern to see to.”

“Somebody told me,” said Mrs Spencer, “that Frisby very often helps to dress the children.”

“Well ’m, and if he do they’re his childern so well as mine. I get faint now and then.”

“I don’t wonder,” said the other. “Do you by any chance ever open a window here?”

Mrs Frisby burst into tears. “I think ’tis very hard o’ Frisby to go complainin’ of me,” she sobbed. “A body can but do their best. With four childern and such poor health as I have, I think it’s wonderful I can get along at all. And as to cleanin’ up after Frisby (casting a sour look at the boots), I’m sure I can’t be expected to do that.”

“Good morning,” said Mrs Spencer, turning sharply round and walking out of the house.

As she drew near her own home she came upon Frisby himself, looking hot and tired, and walking with a lagging step. There had been no preparations of any kind for dinner at his cottage, and she wondered if the poor man would be obliged to get it himself, while his wife read her trashy paper, and dandled the big child, which could perfectly well have been taught to amuse itself happily while its mother was busy.

“I’ve just been to your house,” she remarked, as she came up to him.

Poor Frisby murmured something about wishing he had known, and fearing she had found things a bit upset.

“Now listen to me, James,” said the old lady. “I’ve known you too long to let you go downhill so fast without trying to help you. I’ve been turning over a plan in my mind, which may possibly make that wife of yours think a little more seriously of her duties.”

James got red, but listened in silence while Mrs Spencer began to talk in a low rapid voice. He looked more and more astonished as she proceeded, and finally burst out laughing.

“’Twould be a good notion,” he said, “a very good notion, but—”

“Try it for a week,” said Mrs Spencer. “That’s all I ask, try it for a week; I’ll undertake that you shan’t be the loser, and of course you must not say a word to your wife about having met me.”

* * *

“’Tis past six, Jim,” said Mrs Frisby on the following morning, as she stood by the bed, after having reluctantly clothed herself. “Didn’t ye hear church-clock go?”

“I heard it,” said Jim drowsily. “I’m not feelin’ so very well, this mornin’, my dear; I don’t think I can get up.”

Mrs Frisby, in real alarm, questioned him as to the nature of his malady. Did his head ache—was his back bad—was he feeling his heart any ways queer?

Her husband, after reflecting for a moment or two, replied that it was just “all-overishness,” and that he thought a rest would do him good.

“Dear!” exclaimed Mrs Frisby, “but I haven’t a drop of water in the house. Who’s to fill the bucket at the well?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to do it, Sally,” returned Jim. “’Tis very unfortunate—very, I’m sure, but I can’t think how else it is to be managed.”

“Well, I’m not going to do it, then,” cried Sally. “I never heerd of such a thing! You great lazy fellow, lying in bed with nothing the matter with ye.”

“I tell you,” repeated Jim, “I’m all-overish, same as you be so often. My heart don’t feel quite right neither. If ye was to bring me up a cup of tea, same as I do when you’re not feeling yourself, I fancy it might just keep it off.”

“If ye expect me to go cartin’ your breakfast upstairs you’re much mistaken,” said Sally. “I’m a poor eater myself at best of times, and I don’t care whether I have my breakfast or not. But I’ll not go drawin’ water for you.”

“A pipe o’ baccy is as good as a breakfast to me any day,” said Jim, reaching out his hand for his pipe. “I dare say I’d be well enough to mind the childern while you was busy, Sally,” he continued, mildly. “I can manage the childern very well. You can turn ’em all in here while you’m a-cleanin’ up. P’raps ’tis just as well I should be at home once in a way,” he added, pleasantly. “You always say you can never get on wi’ your work wi’ the little ones in your way. Now they’ll be out o’ your way.”

“Ye can fetch childern yourself if you want them,” retorted Mrs Frisby, marching indignantly downstairs.

Jim crept cautiously out of bed and went to the window, chuckling to himself as he presently saw her laboriously filling her bucket at the well. He dressed himself with great speed and dexterity for one in his delicate condition, and, going into the adjoining rooms, roused the children and washed and dressed the younger ones, directing the others to do the same for themselves.

When he brought them downstairs presently, the kettle was already boiling, and Mrs Frisby, with a flushed face was getting down the teapot; if truth be told, she was not at all averse to her breakfast.

“Just in time,” observed Jim. “It doesn’t take so very long, you see, my dear, to get the childern dressed if ye take a bit o’ trouble wi’ ’em. Now, shan’t we put a cloth on the table?”

Sally murmured indistinctly something about lazy people not deserving to be cocked up with cloths.

“Meaning me?” said Jim. “It’s me what pays for the cloths, though. See, Rosie, it’s yonder on the dresser. Take it down, there’s a good little maid, and spread it nice—that’s the way.”

“If ye can’t do your own work, I don’t see why ye need come interfering with mine,” remarked Sally.

“I’ve more time to see to things when I don’t go out to work myself,” explained her husband. “I’m going to train Rosie a bit. She’s getting a big girl, now, and could easy learn to be useful.”

“You’re not going to work!” gasped Sally.

“I don’t feel up to my work to-day, you see,” said Jim. “I’ll just sit quiet in a corner and rest me. Have you got a book handy? What have you done with that nice book you were reading yesterday?”

“’Tis very ill-done of you to make a mock of me,” cried his wife. “I’m sure you didn’t ought to grudge me the little bit of amusement I took after working so hard all day—washing and all.”

“I don’t grudge it to you, my dear,” responded Jim. “I’m going to imitate you, that’s all. I work hard, week by week, month by month, and year by year. I’m going to take a bit of amusement now, and I’m sure you won’t grudge it to me. Now then, Rosie, set the cups out, and the plates—the cups at the top, ye know, and the plates all round. Jack, fetch Daddy’s boots there, and I’ll tell ye what to do with them.”

The little boy obeyed, and Jim in spite of his feeble state, found himself able to take the child out to the shed at the back, and there instruct him in the art of boot-cleaning, of which he proved himself a capable scholar. By the time they returned breakfast was ready.

Mrs Frisby looked up with an attempt at a smile as they came in.

“I am glad to see you are better,” she said. “Maybe you’ll be able to go to work after all.”

But Jim shook his head with a despondent air.

“No use expectin’ too much,” he remarked, quoting one of his wife’s favourite speeches; then, as she stared, “I’ll jist see to the little uns an’ help ye a bit with the cleanin’ if I don’t find it knocks me up too much.”

Mrs Frisby finished her breakfast in silence, and Jim, after disposing of his meal, turned his attention to the children.

“Now then, let’s see how useful you can make yourselves. See, I’ll carry the things over to the sink, and Rosie can wash ’em up, and Jack here can dry them.”

“Ye’ll have ’em smashed to atoms,” said Sally sulkily.

“Not a bit of it; they’re a deal more in danger of getting smashed lying about, as they generally do, half the morning.”

He superintended the carrying out of both operations, and then desired the children to wash their hands and smooth their hair before going to school.

“Dear!” he exclaimed, as he clumsily tied a pinafore string. “All your things do seem in terr’ble need of mendin’. I tell ye what, Sally, while you do a bit o’ cleanin’ up I’ll see if I can’t make shift to sew on a button or two.”

“I thought you was too bad to work!” exclaimed Sally tartly.

“Anybody can do a bit o’ sewin’,” said Jim. “Now, my dear, as soon as ye’ve taken away tea-things, ye can begin on the grate.”

Having procured needle and cottons and a card of buttons, a trifle damaged on account of Baby Harry having been allowed to chew it on the day it had been bought, Jim set to work, while Mrs Frisby reluctantly knelt down before the hearth.

“Take out the big cinders, Sally,” he directed, “and put ’em on one side. It ’ud save ye a deal o’ trouble,” he continued mildly, “if ye’d do it first thing in the morning, for then the children ’ud give ye a helpin’ hand. Now I think,” said Jim, leisurely threading his needle, “that we’ll have a bit o’ black-lead, my dear. It’s wonderful what a difference it makes to the look of a place.”

Sally worked away in gloomy silence, and Jim sewed on buttons, and whistled under his breath. If truth be told he soon grew extremely tired of the operation, and longed to be digging potatoes or hoeing weeds. He continued, however, to direct his wife, and, though Mrs Frisby felt herself very much aggrieved, she did not dare to disobey his orders.

Presently the couple migrated to the bedrooms, for Jim found himself so indisposed he was obliged to lie down while Sally gave the three rooms a thoroughly good cleaning. Angry as she was it was wonderful how quickly she managed to get through her work on that particular morning, for with Jim’s eye upon her she could neither sit down to read, nor stand staring out of the window.

Jim, meanwhile, had taken charge of little Harry, and though he neither dandled him nor played with him, he contrived so well to teach him how to amuse himself that the child was quite happy. It was true he found time to say an encouraging word now and then to the little fellow, and made a safe plaything for him out of three or four empty cotton reels securely fastened to a piece of white tape. These Harry could rattle, or slide up and down, and they were safer to chew than linen buttons on a shiny green card.

After dinner Jim thought the air might do him good. He strolled out into the garden, therefore, itching to be at work, but resolutely keeping himself in check; and presently he invited Sally to clean herself and bring her sewing out there too.

By and by Mrs Frisby joined him, looking quite tidy, and gazing almost in alarm at her husband. She half expected him to request her to do a bit of gardening, but he only smiled as she approached, and told her she looked downright bonny with her face so nice and clean; more like the girl he used to court in by-gone days than he ever thought to see her again.

Putting his arm round her he made her sit down on the little bench beneath the apple-tree, and there the couple passed an hour or two in great content, till Sally remarked that it was time to go in and get tea ready.

“Do,” said Jim, “and mind ye sweep up the hearth, my dear. It do make it look more cheerful.”

The hearth actually was swept up when he entered, and all the children sitting round the table with smooth hair and clean faces and hands.

“If we was to get a door-mat it would keep the place nicer,” Sally observed. “I could train the childern to wipe their feet on’t.”

She announced this fact with the air of one who had made an important discovery, and Jim, delighted with the turn affairs were taking, agreed with alacrity.

“It puts more heart into a man if he finds things is made good use of; but when you go spendin’ an’ spendin’ all what you’ve worked hard for to get, knowin’ they’ll be let fall to pieces for want of a stitch, or else ruined with rust and dirt, you have no pride or pleasure in doin’ anythin’.”

Sally did not answer, but looked penitently at her husband.

After tea, when the children were in bed she came and stood by his chair.

“I hope ye’ll be able to go to work to-morrow,” said she.