CHAPTER XVI - “Owd Sammy” in Trouble
“Craddock is in serious trouble,” said Mr. Barholm to his wife and daughter.
“'Owd Sammy' in trouble,” said Anice. “How is that, papa?”
The Reverend Harold looked at once concerned and annoyed. In truth he had cause for irritation. The laurels he had intended to win through Sammy Craddock were farther from being won to-day than they had ever been. He was beginning to feel a dim, scarcely developed, but sore conviction, that they were not laurels for his particular wearing.
“It is that bank failure at Illsbery,” he answered. “You have heard of it, I dare say. There has been a complete crash, and Craddock's small savings being deposited there, he has lost everything he depended upon to support him in his old age. It is a hard business.”
“Have you been to see Craddock?” Mrs. Barholm asked.
“Oh! yes,” was the answer, and the irritation became even more apparent than before. “I went as soon as I heard it, last night indeed; but it was of no use. I had better have stayed away. I don't seem to make much progress with Craddock, somehow or other. He is such a cross-grained, contradictory old fellow, I hardly know what to make of him. And to add to his difficulties, his wife is so prostrated by the blow that she is confined to her bed. I talked to them and advised them to have patience, and look for comfort to the Fountain-head; but Craddock almost seemed to take it ill, and was even more disrespectful in manner than usual.”
It was indeed a heavy blow that had fallen upon “Owd Sammy.” For a man to lose his all at his time of life would have been hard enough anywhere; but it was trebly hard to meet with such a trial in Riggan. To have money, however small a sum, “laid by i' th' bank,” was in Riggan to be illustrious. The man who had an income of ten shillings a week was a member of society whose opinion bore weight; the man with twenty was regarded with private awe and public respect. He was deferred to as a man of property; his presence was considered to confer something like honor upon an assembly, or at least to make it respectable. The Government was supposed to be not entirely oblivious of his existence, and his remarks upon the affairs of the nation, and the conduct of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, were regarded as having something more than local interest. Sammy Craddock had been the man with twenty shillings income. He had worked hard in his youth and had been too shrewd and far-sighted to spend hard. His wife had helped him, and a lucky windfall upon the decease of a parsimonious relative had done the rest. The weekly deposit in the old stocking hidden under the mattress had become a bank deposit, and by the time he was incapacitated from active labor, a decent little income was ready. When the Illsbery Bank stopped payment, not only his daily bread but his dearly valued importance was swept away from him at one fell blow. Instead of being a man of property, with a voice in the affairs of the nation, he was a beggar. He saw himself set aside among the frequenters of The Crown, his political opinions ignored, his sarcasms shorn of their point. Knowing his poverty and misfortune; the men who had stood in awe of him would begin to suspect him of needing their assistance and would avoid him accordingly.
“It's human natur',” he said. “No one loikes a dog wi' th' mange, whether th' dog's to blame or no. Th' dog may ha' getten it honest. Tis na th' dog, it's the mange as foakes want to get rid on.”
“Providence?” said he to the Rector, when that portly consoler called on him. “It's Providence, is it? Well, aw I say is, that if that's th' ways o' Providence, th' less notice Providence takes o' us, th' better.”
His remarks upon his first appearance at The Crown among his associates, after the occurrence of the misfortune, were even more caustic and irreverent. He was an irreverent old sinner at his best, and now Sammy was at his worst. Seeing his crabbed, wrinkled old face drawn into an expression signifying defiance at once of his ill luck and worldly comment, his acquaintances shook their heads discreetly. Their reverence for him as a man of property could not easily die out. The next thing to being a man of property, was to have possessed worldly goods which had been “made away wi',” it scarcely mattered how. Indeed even to have “made away wi' a mort o' money” one's self, was to be regarded a man of parts and of no inconsiderable spirit.
“Yo're in a mort o' trouble, Sammy, I mak' no doubt,” remarked one oracle, puffing at his long clay.
“Trouble enow,” returned Sammy, shortly, “if you ca' it trouble to be on th' road to th' poor-house.”
“Aye, indeed!” with a sigh. “I should think so. But trouble's th' lot o' mon. Riches is deceitful an' beauty is vain—not as tha wur ivver much o' a beauty, Sammy; I canna mean that.”
“Dunnot hurt thysen explaining I nivver set up fur one. I left that to thee. Thy mug wus allus thy fortune.”
“Tha'rt fretted now, Sammy,” he said. “Tha'rt fretted, an' it maks thee sharp-tongued.”
“Loike as not,” answered Sammy. “Frettin' works different wi' some foak to what it does wi' others. I nivver seed thee fretted, mysen. Does it ha' th' same effect on thee? If it happens to, I should think it would na harm thee,—or other foak either. A bit o' sharpness is na so hard to stand wheer it's a variety.”
“Sithee, Sammy,” called out a boisterous young fellow from the other side of the room. “What did th' Parson ha' to say to thee? Thwaite wur tellin' me as he carried th' prayer-book to thee, as soon as he heerd th' news. Did he read thee th' Christenin' service, or th' Burial, to gi' thee a bit o' comfort?”
“Happen he gi' him both, and throwed in th' Litany,” shouted another. “How wur it, Sammy? Let's hear.”
Sammy's face began to relax. A few of the knots and wrinkles showed signs of dispersing. A slow twisting of the features took place, which might have been looked upon as promising a smile in due course of time. These young fellows wanted to hear him talk, and “tak' off th' Parson.” His occupation was not entirely gone, after all. It was specially soothing to his vanity to feel that his greatest importance lay in his own powers, and not altogether in more corruptible and uncertain attractions. He condescended to help himself to a pipe-full of a friend's tobacco.
“Let's hear,” cried a third member of the company. “Gi' us th' tale owt an' owt, owd lad. Tha'rt th' one to do it graidely.”
Sammy applied a lucifer to the fragrant weed, and sucked at his pipe deliberately.
“It's noan so much of a tale,” he said, with an air of disparagement and indifference. “Yo' chaps mak' so much out o' nowt. Th' Parson's well enow i' his way, but,” in naïve self-satisfaction, “I mun say he's a foo', an' th' biggest foo' fur his size I ivver had th' pleasure o' seein'.”
They knew the right chord was touched. A laugh went round, but there was no other interruption and Sammy proceeded.
“Whatten yo' lads think as th' first thing he says to me wur?” puffing vigorously. “Why, he cooms in an' sets hissen down, an' he swells hissen out loike a frog i' trouble, an' ses he, 'My friend, I hope you cling to th' rock o' ages.' An' ses I, 'No I dunnot nowt o' th' soart, an' be dom'd to yo'. 'It wur na hospitible,'” with a momentary touch of deprecation,—“An' I dunnot say as it wur hospitible, but I wor na i' th' mood to be hospitible just at th' toime. It tuk him back too, but he gettin round after a bit, an' he tacklet me agen, an' we had it back'ard and for'ard betwixt us for a good haaf hour. He said it wur Providence, an' I said, happen it wur, an' happen it wurn't. I wur na so friendly and familiar wi' th' Lord as he seemed to be, so I could na tell foak aw he meant, and aw he did na mean. Sithee here, lads,” making a fist of his knotty old hand and laying it upon the table, “that theer's what stirs me up wi' th' parson kind. They're allus settin down to explain what th' Lordamoigty's up to, as if he wur a confidential friend o' theirs as they wur bound to back up i' some road; an' they mun drag him in endways or sideways i' their talk whether or not, an' they wun-not be content to leave him to work fur hissen. Seems to me if I wur a disciple as they ca' it, I should be ashamed i' a manner to be allus apologizin' fur him as I believed in. I dunnot say for 'em to say nowt, but I do say for 'em not to be so dom'd free an' easy about it. Now theer's th' owd Parson, he's getten a lot o' Bible words as he uses, an' he brings 'em in by the scruft o' th' neck, if he canna do no better,—fur bring 'em in he mun,—an' it looks loike he's aw i' a fever till he's said 'em an' getten 'em off his moind. An' it seems to me loike, when he has said 'em, he soart o' straightens hissen out, an' feels comfortable, loike a mon as has done a masterly job as conna be mended. As fur me, yo' know, I'm noan the Methody soart mysen, but I am na a foo', an' I know a foine loike principle when I see it, an' this matter o' religion is a foine enow thing if yo' could get it straightforward an' plain wi'out so much trimmins. But——” feeling perhaps that this was a large admission, “I am noan o' th' Methody breed mysen.”
“An' so tha tellt Parson, I'll warrant,” suggested one of his listeners, who was desirous of hearing further particulars of the combat.
“Well, well,” admitted Craddock with the self-satisfaction of a man who feels that he has acquitted himself creditably. “Happen I did. He wur fur havin' me thank th' A'moighty fur aw ut had happent me, but I towd him as I did na quoite see th' road clear. I dunnot thank a chap as gi'es me a crack at th' soide o' th' yed. I may stand it if so be as I conna gi' him a crack back, but I dunnot know as I should thank him fur th' favor, an' not bein' one o' th' regenerate, as he ca's 'em, I dunnot feel loike singin' hymns just yet; happen it's 'cause I'm onregenerate, or happen it's human natur'. I should na wonder if it's 'pull devil, pull baker,' wi' th' best o' foak,—foak as is na prize foo's, loike th' owd Parson. Ses I to him, 'Not bein' regenerate, I dunnot believe i' so much grace afore meat. I say, lets ha' th' meat first, an' th' grace arterward.'”
These remarks upon matters theological were applauded enthusiastically by Craddock's audience. “Owd Sammy” had finished his say, however, and believing that having temporarily exhausted his views upon any subject, it was well to let the field lie fallow, he did not begin again. He turned his attention from his audience to his pipe, and the intimate friends who sat near.
“What art tha goin' to do, owd lad?” asked one.
“Try fur a seat i' Parlyment,” was the answer, “or pack my bits o' duds i' a wheelbarrow, an' set th' owd lass on 'era an' tak' th' nighest road to th' Union. I mun do summat fur a bein'.”
“That's true enow. We're main sorry fur thee, Sammy. Tak' another mug o' sixpenny to keep up thy sperrets. Theer's nowt as cheers a mon loike a sup o' th' reet soart.”
“I shanna get much on it if I go to th' poor-house,” remarked Sammy, filling his beer mug. “Skilly an' water-gruel dunnot fly to a raon's head, I'll warrant. Aye! I wonder how th' owd lass'll do wi'out her drop o' tea, an' how she'll stand bein' buried by th' parish? That'll be worse than owt else. She'd set her moind on ridin' to th' grave-yard i' th' shiniest hearse as could be getten, an' wi' aw th' black feathers i' th' undertaker's shop wavin' on th' roof. Th' owd wench wur quoite set i' her notion o' bein' a bit fashynable at th' last. I believe hoo'd ha' enjoyed th' ride in a quiet way. Eh, dear! I'm feart she'll nivver be able to stand th' thowt o' bein' put under i' a common style. I wish we'd kept a bit o' brass i' th' owd stockin'.”
“It's a bad enow lookout,” granted another, “but I would na gi' up aw at onct, Sammy. Happen tha could find a bit o' leet work, as ud keep thee owt o' th' Union. If tha could get a word or two spoke to Mester Hoviland, now. He's jest lost his lodge-keeper an' he is na close about payin' a mon fur what he does. How would tha loike to keep the lodge?”
“It ud be aw I'd ax,” said Sammy. “I'd be main well satisfied, yo' mebbe sure; but yo' know theer's so mony lookin' out for a job o' that koind, an' I ha' na mony friends among th' quality. I nivver wur smooth-tongued enow.”
True enough that. Among the country gentry, Sammy Craddock was regarded as a disrespectful, if not a dangerous, old fellow. A man who made satirical observations upon the ways and manners of his social superiors, could not be much better than a heretic. And since his associates made an oracle of him, he was all the more dangerous. He revered neither Lords nor Commons, and was not to be awed by the most imposing institutions. He did not take his hat off when the gentry rode by, and it was well known that he had jeered at several of the most important individuals in county office. Consequently, discreet persons who did not believe in the morals of “the masses” shook their heads at him, figuratively speaking, and predicted that the end of his career would be unfortunate. So it was not very likely that he would receive much patronage in the hour of his downfall.
Sammy Craddock was in an uncomfortable frame of mind when he left his companions and turned homeward. It was a bad lookout for himself, and a bad one for “th' owd lass.” His sympathy for the good woman was not of a sentimental order, but it was sympathy nevertheless. He had been a good husband, if not an effusive one. “Th' owd lass” had known her only rival in The Crown and his boon companions; and upon the whole, neither had interfered with her comfort, though it was her habit and her pleasure to be loud in her condemnation and disparagement of both. She would not have felt her connubial life complete without a grievance, and Sammy's tendency to talk politics over his pipe and beer was her standard resource.
When he went out, he had left her lying down in the depths of despair, but when he entered the house, he found her up and dressed, seated by the window in the sun, a bunch of bright flowers before her.
“Well now!” he exclaimed. “Tha niwer says! What's takken thee? I thowt tha wur bedrid fur th' rest o' thy days.”
“Howd thy tongue,” she answered with a proper touch of wifely irritation at his levity. “I've had a bit o' company an' it's chirked me up summat. That little lass o' th' owd Parson has been settin wi' me.”
“That's it, is it?”
“Aye, an' I tell yo' Sammy, she's a noice little wench. Why, she's getten th' ways o' a woman, stead o' a lass,—she's that theer quoiet an' steady, an' she's getten a face as pretty as her ways, too.”
Sammy scratched his head and reflected.
“I mak' no doubt on it,” he answered. “I mak' no doubt on it. It wur her, tha knows, as settlet th' foight betwixt th' lads an' th' dog. I'm wonderin' why she has na been here afore.”
“Well now!” taking up a stitch in her knitting, “that's th' queer part o' it. Whatten yo' think th'little thing said, when I axt her why? She says, 'It did na seem loike I was needed exactly, an' I did na know as yo'd care to ha' a stranger coom wi'out bein' axt.' Just as if she had been nowt but a neebor's lass, and would na tak' th' liberty.”
“That's noan th' owd Parson's way,” said Sammy.
“Th' owd Parson!” testily; “I ha' no patience wi' him. Th' little lass is as different fro' him as chalk is fro' cheese.”
CHAPTER XVII - The Member of Parliament
The morning following, Anice's father being called away by business left Riggan for a few days' absence, and it was not until after he had gone, that the story of Mr. Haviland's lodge-keeper came to her ears. Mr. Haviland was a Member of Parliament, a rich man with a large estate, and his lodge-keeper had just left him to join a fortunate son in America. Miss Barholm heard this from one of her village friends when she was out with the phaeton and the gray pony, and she at once thought of Sammy Craddock. The place was the very thing for him. The duties were light, the lodge was a pretty and comfortable cottage, and Mr. Haviland was known to be a generous master. If Sammy could gain the situation, he was provided for. But of course there were other applicants, and who was to speak for him? She touched up the gray pony with her whip, and drove away from the woman who had told her the news, in a perplexed frame of mind. She herself knew Mr. Haviland only by sight, his estate was three miles from the village, her father was away, and there was really no time to be lost. She drove to the corner of the road and paused there for a moment.
“Oh indeed, I must go myself,” she said at last. “It is unconventional, but there is no other way.” And she bent over and touched the pony again and turned the corner without any further delay.
She drove her three miles at a pretty steady trot, and at the end of the third,—at the very gates of the Haviland Park, in fact,—fortune came to her rescue. A good-humored middle-aged gentleman on a brown horse came cantering down the avenue and, passing through the gates, approached her. Seeing her, he raised his hat courteously; seeing him, she stopped her pony, for she recognized Mr. Haviland.
She bent forward a little eagerly, feeling the color rise to her face.
It was somewhat trying to find herself obliged by conscience to stop a gentleman on the highway and ask a favor of him.
“Mr. Haviland,” she said. “If you have a moment to spare——”
He drew rein by her phaeton, removing his hat again. He had heard a great deal of Miss Barholm from his acquaintance among the county families. He had heard her spoken of as a rather singular young lady who had the appearance of a child, and the views of a feminine reconstructor of society. He had heard of her little phaeton too, and her gray pony, and so, though he had never seen her before, he recognized her at once.
“Miss Barholm?” he said with deference.
“Yes,” answered Anice. “And indeed I am glad to have been fortunate enough to meet you here. Papa is away from home, and I could not wait for his return, because I was afraid I should be too late. I wanted to speak to you about the lodge-keeper's place, Mr. Haviland.”
He had been rather of the opinion that Miss Barholm must be a terrible young woman, with a tendency to model cottages and night schools.
Young ladies who go out of the ordinary groove are not apt to be attractive to the average English mind. There are conventional charities in which they may indulge,—there are Sunday-schools, and rheumatic old women, and flannel night-caps, and Dorcas societies, and such things to which people are used and which are likely to alarm nobody. Among a class of discreet persons these are held to afford sufficient charitable exercise for any well regulated young woman; and girls whose plans branch out in other directions are looked upon with some coldness. So the country gentry, hearing of Miss Barholm and her novel fancies,—her teaching in a night school with a young curate, her friendship for the daughter of a dissipated collier, her intimate acquaintance with ragged boys and fighting terriers, her interest in the unhappy mothers of nameless babies,—hearing of these things, I say, the excellent nonenthusiasts shook their heads as the very mildest possible expression of dissent. They suspected strong-mindedness and “reform”—perhaps even politics and a tendency to advance irregular notions concerning the ballot. “At any rate,” said they, “it does not look well, and it is very much better for young persons to leave these matters alone and do as others do who are guided wholly by their elders.”
It was an agreeable surprise to Mr. Haviland to see sitting in her modest phaeton, a quiet girl who looked up at him with a pair of the largest and clearest eyes he had ever seen, while she told him about Sammy Craddock.
“I want the place very much for him, you see,” she ended. “But of course I do not wish to be unfair to any one who may want it, and deserve it more. If there is any one who really is in greater need of it, I suppose I must give it up.”
“But I am glad to tell you, there is nobody,” answered Mr. Haviland quite eagerly. “I can assure you, Miss Barholm, that the half dozen men who have applied to me are without a solitary exception, unmitigated scamps—great strong burly fellows, who would, ten to one, spend their days in the public house, and their nights in my preserves, and leave their wives and children to attend to my gates. This Craddock is evidently the very man for me; I am not a model landowner, but I like to combine charity with subservience to my own interest occasionally. I have heard of the old fellow. Something of a demagogue, isn't he? But that will not frighten me. I will allow him to get the better of me in political discussion, if he will leave my pheasants alone.”
“I will answer for the pheasants,” said Anice, “if you will let me send him to you.”
“I will see him to-morrow morning with pleasure,” said Mr. Haviland. “And if there is anything else I can do, Miss Barholm———”
“Thank you, there is nothing else at present. Indeed, you do not know how grateful I feel.”
Before an hour had passed, Sammy Craddock heard the good news. Anice drove back to his house and told him, without delay.
“If you will go to-morrow morning, Mr. Haviland will see you,” she ended; “and I think you will be good friends, Mr. Craddock.”
“Owd Sammy” pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, and looked at her.
“An' tha went at th' business o' thy own accord an' managt it i' haaf an hour!” he said. “Well, I'm dom'd,—axin your pardin fur takkin th' liberty; it's a habit I've getten—but I be, an' no mistake.”
He had not time to get over his grateful amazement and recover his natural balance before she had said all she had come to say, and was gone, leaving him with “th' owd lass” and his admiration.
“Well,” said Sammy, “I mun say I nivver seed nowt loike it i' my loife. To think o' th' little wench ha'in' so mich gumption, an' to think o' her takkin th' matter i' hond th' minnit she struck it! Why! hoo's getten as mich sense as a mon. Eh! but hoo's a rare un—I said it when I seed her amongst th' lads theer, an' I say it again. An' hoo is na mich bigger nor six penn'orth o' copper neyther. An' I warrant hoo nivver thowt o' fillin her pocket wi' tracks by way o' comfort. Well, tha'st noan ha' to dee i' th' Union after aw, owd lass, an' happen we con save a bit to gi' thee a graidely funeral if tha'lt mak' up thy moind to stay to th' top a bit longer.”
CHAPTER XVIII - A Confession of Faith
The Sunday following the Curate's visit to Lowrie's cottage, just before the opening of the morning service at St, Michael's, Joan Lowrie entered, and walking up the side aisle, took her place among the free seats. The church members turned to look at her as she passed their pews. On her part, she seemed to see nobody and to hear nothing of the rustlings of the genteel garments stirred by the momentary excitement caused by her appearance.
The Curate, taking his stand in the pulpit that morning, saw after the first moment only two faces among his congregation. One, from among the old men and women in the free seats, looked up at him with questioning in its deep eyes, as if its owner had brought to him a solemn problem to be solved this very hour, or forever left at rest; the other, turned toward him from the Barholm pew, alight with appeal and trust. He stood in sore need of the aid for which he asked in his silent opening prayer.
Some of his flock who were somewhat prone to underrate the young Parson's talents, were moved to a novel comprehension of them this morning. The more appreciative went home saying among themselves that the young man had power after all, and for once at least he had preached with uncommon fire and pathos. His text was a brief one,—but three words,—the three words Joan had read beneath the picture of the dead Christ: “It is finished!”
If it was chance that led him to them to-day, it was a strange and fortunate chance, and surely he had never preached as he preached then.
After the service, Anice looked for Joan in vain; she had gone before the rest of the congregation.
But in the evening, being out in the garden near the holly hedge, she heard her name spoken, and glancing over the leafy barrier, saw Joan standing on the side path, just as she had seen her the first time they had spoken to each other.
“I ha' na a minnit to stay,” she said without any prelude, “but I ha' summat to say to yo'.”
Her manner was quiet, and her face wore a softened pallor. Even her physical power for a time appeared subdued. And yet she looked steady and resolved.
“I wur at church this mornin'.” she began again almost immediately.
“I saw you,” Anice answered.
“I wur nivver theer before. I went to see fur mysen. I ha' read the book yo' g' me, an' theer's things in it as I nivver heerd on. Mester Grace too,—he coom to see me an' I axt him questions. Theer wur things as I wanted to know, an' now it seems loike it looks clearer. What wi' th' pickur',—it begun wi' th' pictur',—an' th' book, an' what he said to-day i' church, I've made up my moind.”
She paused an instant, her lips trembled.
“I dunnot want to say much about it now,” she said, “I ha' not getten th' words. But I thowt as yo'd loike to know. I believe i' th' Book; I believe i' th' Cross; I believe i' Him as deed on it! That's what I coom to say.”
The woman turned without another word and went away.
Anice did not remain in the garden. The spirit of Joan Lowrie's intense mood communicated itself to her. She, too, trembled and her pulse beat rapidly. She thought of Paul Grace and wished for his presence. She felt herself drawn near to him again. She wanted to tell him that his harvest had come, that his faithfulness had not been without its reward. Her own labor she only counted as chance-work.
She found Fergus Derrick in the parlor, talking to her mother.
He was sitting in his favorite position, leaning back in a chair before a window, his hands clasped behind his head. His friendly intercourse with the family had extended beyond the ceremonious epoch, when a man's attitudes are studied and unnatural. In these days Derrick was as much at ease at the Rectory as an only son might have been.
“I thought some one spoke to you across the hedge, Anice?” her mother said.
“Yes,” Anice answered. “It was Joan Lowrie.”
She sat down opposite Fergus, and told him what had occurred. Her voice was not quite steady, and she made the relation as brief as possible. Derrick sat looking out of the window without moving.
“Mr. Derrick,” said Anice at last, after a few minutes had elapsed, “What now is to be done with Joan Lowrie?”
Derrick roused himself with a start to meet her eyes and find them almost sad.
“What now?” he said. “God knows! For one, I cannot see the end.”
CHAPTER XIX - Ribbons
The light in the cottage upon the Knoll Road burned late in these days, and when Derrick was delayed in the little town, he used to see it twinkle afar off, before he turned the bend of the road on his way home. He liked to see it. It became a sort of beacon light, and as such he began to watch for it. He used to wonder what Joan was doing, and he glanced in through the curtainless windows as he passed by. Then he discovered that when the light shone she was at work. Sometimes she was sitting at the wooden table with a book, sometimes she was laboring at some task with pen and ink, sometimes she was trying to use her needle.
She had applied to Anice for instruction in this last effort. It was not long before Anice found that she was intent upon acquiring the womanly arts her life had put it out of her power to learn.
“I'd loike to learn to sew a bit,” she had said, and the confession seemed awkward and reluctant “I want to learn to do a bit o' woman's work. I'm tired o' bein' neyther th' one thing nor th' other. Seems loike I've allus been doin' men's ways, an' I am na content.”
Two or three times Derrick saw her passing to and fro before the window, hushing the child in her arms, and once he even heard her singing to it in a low, and evidently rarely used voice. Up to the time that Joan first sang to the child, she had never sung in her life. She caught herself one day half chanting a lullaby she had heard Anice sing. The sound of her own voice was so novel to her, that she paused all at once in her walk across the room, prompted by a queer impulse to listen.
“It moight ha' been somebody else,” she said. “I wonder what made me do it. It wur a queer thing.”
Sometimes Derrick met Joan entering the Rectory (at which both were frequent visitors); sometimes, passing through the hall on her way home; but however often he met her, he never felt that he advanced at all in her friendship.
On one occasion, having bidden Anice goodnight and gone out on the staircase, Joan stepped hurriedly back into the room and stood at the door as if waiting.
“What is it?” Anice asked.
Joan started. She had looked flushed and downcast, and when Anice addressed her, an expression of conscious self-betrayal fell upon her.
“It is Mester Derrick,” she answered, and in a moment she went out.
Anice remained seated at the table, her hands clasped before her.
“Perhaps,” at last she said aloud, “perhaps this is what is to be done with her. And then—” her lips tremulous,—“it will be a work for me to do.”
Derrick's friendship and affection for herself held no germ of warmer feeling. If she had had the slightest doubt of this, she would have relinquished nothing. She had no exaggerated notions of self-immolation. She would not have given up to another woman what Heaven had given to herself, any more than she would have striven to win from another woman what had been Heaven's gift to her. If she felt pain, it was not the pain of a small envy, but of a great tenderness. She was capable of making any effort for the ultimate good of the man she could have loved with the whole strength of her nature.
When she entered her room that night, Joan Lowrie was moved to some surprise by a scene which met her eyes. It was a simple thing, and under some circumstances would have meant little; but taken in connection with her remembrance of past events, it had a peculiar significance. Liz was sitting upon the hearth, with some odds and ends of bright-colored ribbon on her knee, and a little straw hat in her hand. She was trimming the hat, and using the scraps of ribbon for the purpose. When she heard Joan, she looked up and reddened somewhat, and then hung her head over her work again.
“I'm makin' up my hat agen,” she said, almost deprecatingly. “It wur sich a faded thing.”
“Are yo'?” said Joan.
She came and stood leaning against the fireplace, and looked down at Liz thoughtfully. The shallowness and simplicity of the girl baffled her continually. She herself, who was prompted in action by deep motive and strong feeling, found it hard to realize that there could be a surface with no depth below.
Her momentary embarrassment having died out, Liz had quite forgotten herself in the interest of her task. She was full of self-satisfaction and trivial pleasure. She looked really happy as she tried the effect of one bit of color after another, holding the hat up. Joan had never known her to show such interest in anything before. One would never have fancied, seeing the girl at this moment, that a blight lay upon her life, that she could only look back with shrinking and forward without hope. She was neither looking backward nor forward now,—all her simple energies were concentrated in her work. How was it? Joan asked herself. Had she forgotten—could she forget the past and be ready for petty vanities and follies? To Joan, Liz's history had been a tragedy—a tragedy which must be tragic to its end. There was something startlingly out of keeping in the present mood of this pretty seventeen-year-old girl sitting eager and delighted over her lapful of ribbons. Not that Joan begrudged her the slight happiness—she only wondered, and asked herself how it could be.
Possibly her silence attracted Liz's attention. Suddenly she looked up, and when she saw the gravity of Joan's face, her own changed.
“Yo're grudgin' me doin' it,” she cried. “Yo' think I ha' no reet to care for sich things,” and she dropped hat and ribbon on her knee with an angry gesture. “Happen I ha' na,” she whimpered. “I ha' na getten no reet to no soart o' pleasure, I dare say.”
“Nay,” said Joan rousing herself from her revery. “Nay, yo' must na say that, Liz. If it pleases yo' it conna do no hurt; I'm glad to see yo' pleased.”
“I'm tired o' doin' nowt but mope i' th' house,” Liz fretted. “I want to go out a bit loike other foak. Theer's places i' Riggan as I could go to wi'out bein' slurred at—theer's other wenches as has done worse nor me. Ben Maxy towd Mary on'y yesterday as I was the prettiest lass i' th' place, fur aw their slurs.”
“Ben Maxy!” Joan said slowly.
Liz twisted a bit of ribbon around her finger.
“It's not as I care fur what Ben Maxy says or what ony other mon says, fur th' matter o' that, but—but it shows as I need na be so mich ashamed o' mysen after aw, an' need na stay i' doors as if I dare na show my face.”
Joan made no answer.
“An' yet,” she said, smiling faintly at her own train of thought afterward, “I dunnot see what I'm complainin' on. Am I out o' patience because her pain is na deeper? Surely I am na wantin' her to mak' th' most o' her burden. I mun be a queer wench, tryin' to mak' her happy, an' then feelin' worrited at her forgettin' her trouble. It's well as she con let things slip so easy.”
But there came times when she could not help being anxious, seeing Liz gradually drifting out into her old world again. She was so weak, and pretty, and frivolous, so ready to listen to rough flatteries. Riggan was more rigid in its criticism than in its morality, and criticism having died out, offence was forgotten through indifference rather than through charity. Those who had been hardest upon Liz in her day of darkness were carelessly ready to take her up again when her fault was an old story overshadowed by some newer scandal.
Joan found herself left alone with the child oftener than she used to be, but in truth this was a relief rather than otherwise. She was accustomed to solitude, and the work of self-culture she had begun filled her spare hours with occupation.
Since his dismissal from the mines, she saw but little of her father. Sometimes she saw nothing of him for weeks. The night after he lost his place, he came into the house, and making up a small bundle of his personal effects, took a surly leave of the two women.
“I'm goin' on th' tramp a bit,” he said. “If yo're axed, yo' con say I'm gone to look fur a job. My day has na coom yet, but it's on th' way.”
Since then he had only returned once or twice, and his visits had always been brief and unexpected, and at night. The first time he had startled Joan by dropping in upon her at midnight, his small bundle on his knob-stick over his shoulder, his clothes bespattered with road-side mud. He said nothing of his motive in coming—merely asked for his supper and ate it without much remark.
“I ha' na had luck,” he said. “Luck's not i my loine; I wur na born to it, loike some foak. Happen th' tide'll tak' a turn after a bit.”
“Yore feyther wur axin me about th' engineer,” Liz said to Joan the next morning. “He wanted to know if we seed him pass heer i' his road hoam. D'yo' think he's getten a spite agen th' engineer yet, Joan?”
“I'm afeard,” Joan answered. “Feyther's loike to bear a grudge agen them as put him out, whether they're reet or wrong. Liz——” hesitating.
“What is it, Joan?”
“Dunnot yo' say no more nor yo' con help when he axes yo' about th' engineer. I'm worritin' mysen lest feyther should get hissen into trouble. He's hasty, yo' know.”
In the evening she went out and left the child to its mother. She had business to look after, she told Liz, and it would keep her out late. Whatever the business was, it kept her out so late that Liz was tired of waiting, and went to bed worn out and a trifle fretted.
She did not know what hour it was when she awakened; voices and a light in the road roused her, and almost as soon as she was fully conscious, the door opened and Joan came in. Liz raised her head from the pillow to look at her. She was pale and seemed excited. She was even trembling a little, and her voice was unsteady as she asked,
“Has th' little un been quiet, Liz?”
“Quiet enow,” said Liz. “What a toime yo' ha' been, Joan! It mun be near midneet. I got so worn out wi' waitin' fur yo' that I could na sit up no longer. Wheer ha' yo' been?”
“I went to Riggan,” said Joan, “Theer wur summat as I wur obliged to see to, an' I wur kept beyond my toime by summat as happent. But it is na quoite midneet, though it's late enow.”
“Was na theer a lantern wi' yo'?” asked Liz. “I thowt I seed th' leet fro' a lantern.”
“Yes,” Joan answered, “theer wur a lantern. As I wur turnin' into th' road, I met Mester Derrick comin' fro' th' Rectory an'—an' he walked alongside o' me.”
CHAPTER XX - The New Gate-Keeper
Sammy Craddock made his appearance at Mr. Haviland's promptly, and being shown into the library, which was empty, took a seat and proceeded to regard the surroundings critically.
“Dunnot scald thy nose wi' thy own broth,” Mrs. Craddock had said to him warningly, when he left her. “Keep a civil tongue i' thy head. Thy toime fur saucin' thy betters is past an' gone. Tha'lt ha' to tak' both fat an' lean together i' these days, or go wi'out mate.”
Sammy remembered these sage remarks rather sorely, as he sat awaiting the master of the household. His independence had been very dear to him, and the idea that he must relinquish it was a grievous thorn in the flesh. He glanced round at the pictures and statuettes and shook his head dubiously.
“A mon wi' so many crinkum-crankums as he seems to ha' getten 'll be apt to be reyther set i' polytics. An' I'll warrant this is na th' best parlor neyther. Aw th' wall covered wi' books too, an' a ornymental step-lather to climb up to th' high shelves. Well, Sammy, owd lad, tha's not seen aw th' world yet, tha finds out. Theer's a bit o' summat outside Riggan. After aw, it does a mon no hurt to travel. I should na wonder if I mought see things as I nivver heerd on if I getten as fur as th' Contynent. Theer's France now—foak say as they dunnot speak Lancashire i' France, an' conna so much as understand it. Well, theer's ignorance aw o'er th' world.”
The door opened at this juncture, and Mr. Haviland entered—fresh, florid and cordial. His temperament being an easy one, he rather dreaded collision with anybody, and would especially have disliked an uncomfortable interview with this old fellow. He would like to be able to preserve his affability of demeanor for his own sake as well as for Miss Barholm's.
“Ah!” he said, “Craddock, is it? Glad to see you, Craddock.”
Sammy rose from his seat
“Aye,” he answered. “Sam'll Craddock fro' Riggan. Same to you, Mester.”
Mr. Haviland waved his hand good-naturedly.
“Take your seat again,” he said. “Don't stand. You are the older man of the two, you know, and I dare say you are tired with your walk. You came about the lodge-keeper's place?”
“That little lass o' th' owd Parson's——” began Sammy.
“Miss Anice Barholm,” interposed Mr. Haviland. “Yes, she told me she would send you. I never had the pleasure of seeing her until she drove here yesterday to ask for the place for you. She was afraid to lose time in waiting for her father's return.”
“Yo' nivver saw her afore?”
“No.”
“Well,” rubbing his hands excitedly over the knob of his stick, “hoo's a rarer un than I thowt fur, even. Hoo'll stond at nowt, wont that little wench,” and he gave vent to his feelings in a delighted chuckle. “I'd loike to ax yo',” he added, “wheer's th' other lass, as ud ha' had the pluck to do as mich?”
“I don't think there is another woman in the country who would have done it,” said Mr. Haviland smiling. “We shall agree in our opinion of Miss Barholm, I see, Craddock, if we quarrel about everything else.”
Sammy took out his flowered bandanna and wiped his bald forehead. He was at once mollified and encouraged. He felt that he was being treated with a kind of respect and consideration. Here was one of the gentry who placed himself on a friendly footing with him. Perhaps upon the whole he should not find it so difficult to reconcile himself to his change of position after all. And being thus encouraged, a certain bold simplicity made him address himself to Mr. Haviland not as a servant in prospective to a prospective master, but as man to man.
“Th' fact is,” he said, “as I am na mich o' a lass's mon mysen, and I wunnot say as I ha' mich opinion o' woman foak i' general—they're flighty yo' see—they're flighty; but I mun say as I wur tuk by that little wench o' th' Parson's—I wur tuk by her.”
“She would be glad to hear it, I am sure,” with an irony so suave that Sammy proceeded with fresh gravity.
“I mak' no doubt on't,” dogmatically. “I mak' no doubt on't i' th' world, but I dunnot know as th' flattery ud do her good. Sugar sop is na o'er digestible to th' best o' 'em. They ha' to be held a bit i' check, yo' see. But hoo's a wonderfu' little lass—fur a lass, I mun admit. Seems a pity to ha' wasted so mich good lad metal on a slip o' a wench,—does na it?”
“You think so? Well, that is a matter of opinion, you know. However—concerning the lodge-keeper's place. You understand what your duties would be, I suppose?”
“Tendin' th' gates an' th' loike. Aye sir. Th' little lass towd me aw about it. Hoo is na one as misses owt.”
“So I see,” smiling again. “And you think you can perform them?”
“I wur thinkin' so. It did na stroike me as a mon need to be partic'lar muskylar to do th' reet thing by 'em. I think I could tackle 'em wi'out breakin' down.”
After a brief discussion of the subject, it was agreed that Mr. Craddock should be installed as keeper of the lodge the week following.
“As to politics,” said Mr. Haviland, when his visitor rose to depart, “I hear you are something of a politician, Craddock.”
“Summat o' one, sir,” answered Sammy, his evident satisfaction touched with a doubtful gravity. “Summat o' one. I ha' my opinions o' things i' gineral.”
“So I have been told; and they have made you rather unpopular among our county people, per-haps?”
“I am na mich o' a favorite,” with satisfaction.
“No, the fact is that until Miss Barholm came to me I had rather a bad idea of you, Craddock.”
This looked somewhat serious, Craddock regarding it rather in the light of a challenge.
“I'd loike well enow to ha' yo' change it,” he said, “but my coat is na o' th' turnin' web. I mun ha' my say about things—gentry or no gentry.” And his wrinkled old visage expressed so crabbed a determination that Mr. Haviland laughed outright.
“Oh! don't misunderstand me,” he said, “stick to your party, Craddock. We will try to agree, for Miss Barholm's sake. I will leave you to your opinion, and you will leave me to mine—even a Member of Parliament has a right to an opinion, you know, if he doesn't intrude it upon the public too much.”
Craddock went home in a mollified frame of mind. He felt that he had gained his point and held his ground, and he respected himself accordingly. He felt too that his associates had additional right to respect him. It was their ground too, and he had held it for them as well as for himself. He stopped at The Crown for his midday glass of ale; and his self-satisfaction was so evident that his friends observed it, and remarked among themselves that “th' owd lad wur pickin' up his crumbs a bit.”
“Yo're lookin' graidely to-day, Sammy,” said one.
“I'm feelin' a trifle graidelier than I ha' done,” he answered, oracularly. “Things is lookin' up.”
“I'm main glad to hear it. Tell us as how.”
“Well,”—with studied indifference,—“it's noan so great luck i' comparison, but it's summat to be thankfu' fur to a mon as is down i' th' world. I've getten the lodge-keeper's place at Mr. Haviland's.”
“Tha' nivver says! Who'd a' thowt it? How ivver did that coom about?”
“Friends i' coort,” with dignity. “Friends i' coort. Hond me that jug o' ale, Tummy. Haviland's a mon o' discretion, if he is a Member o' Parlyment. We've had quoite a friendly chat this mornin' as we set i' th' loibery together. He is na so bad i' his pollytics after aw's said an' done. He'll do, upo' th' whole.”
“Yo' stood up to him free enow, I warrant,” said Tummy. “Th' gentle folk dunnot often hear sich free speakin' as yo' gi' 'em, Sammy.”
“Well, I had to be a bit indypendent; it wur nat'ral. It would na ha' done to ha' turnt soft, if he wur th' mester an' me th' mon. But he's a mon o' sense, as I say, an' he wur civil enow, an' friendly enow. He's getten gumption to see as pollytics is pollytics. I'll tell yo' what, lads, I'm comin' to th' opinion as happen theer's more sense i' some o' th' gentry than we gi' em credit fur; they ha' not mich but book larnin i' their heads, it's true, but they're noan so bad—some on 'em—if yo're charytable wi' 'em.”
“Who was thy friend i' coort, Sammy?” was asked next.
Sammy's fist went down upon the table with a force which made the mugs dance and rattle.
“Now tha'rt comin' to the meat i' th' egg.” he said. “Who should tha think it wur 'at had th' good-will an' th' head to tak' th' business i' hond?”
“It ud be hard to say.”
“Why, it wur that little lass o' th' owd Parsen's again. Dom'd if she wunnot run aw Riggan i' a twelvemonth. I dunnot know wkeer she getten her head-fillin' fro' unless she robbed th' owd Parson, an' left his nob standin' empty. Happen that's what's up wi' th' owd chap.”