Chapter III: Part 3

“Ha! no man likes bein’ found fault with,” returned Guppy sententiously; “but sometimes ’tis for their own good. Now you take a word o’ advice from I, what was workin’ here afore you was born or thought of very like.”

“I’ll not, then!” cried the other angrily. “Get out o’ this, you old meddler, or I’ll report you to the Squire!”

“You did ought to thank I for not reportin’ of you,” returned John firmly. “The Squire do think a deal o’ I--a deal; but I’d be sorry to get a man into trouble as do seem to be meanin’ well. You mind my words, keeper, and you’ll find as they’ll come true--ye’ll have a bad season this year, and maybe ye’ll be a bit more ready to take advice from them as knows more nor you do. ’Tis the first year, so I’ll not be hard on ye.”

He had now recrossed the wire, repossessed himself of his stick, and with a nod of farewell at his irate successor, turned his steps homewards.

He spent the rest of that day lamenting the direful changes which had taken place since his own withdrawal from active life, and privately resolved to be astir early on the morrow in order to proceed further with his tour of investigation.

With the first dawn, therefore, of a lovely spring morning he left his bed cautiously, dressed in silence, and made his way out of doors. The cottage which he had occupied since his resignation of the keepership was situated at the very end of the village, and as he glanced up the quiet street he could detect few signs of life. No smoke was yet stealing upwards into the still air, no cows lowing in the bartons; the pigeons, indeed, were astir, preening themselves somewhat sleepily, and cooing in a confidential undertone, and the clucking of hens was audible here and there, while more musical bird-voices resounded from trees and hedgerows. The dew lay heavy on the long grass by the roadside as John set forth. The morning mists had not yet disappeared, and the glamour of dawn still enfolded the world. The dew-washed leaves seemed to be on fire, as they caught the rosy rays of the morning sun; every little wayside pool gleamed and glittered. The air was full of sweet scents, the delicate, distinctive odour of the primrose being predominant, though here and there a gush of almost overpowering perfume greeted the old man’s nostrils, as he passed a wild apple-tree. A kind of aromatic undertone came forth from damp moss, trunks of fir-trees, springing young herbage, yet the exquisite fragrance of the morning itself seemed to belong to none of these things in particular, but rather to emanate from the very freshness of the dawn.

Old John, however, plodded onwards, without appearing to take heed of his surroundings; once, indeed, he paused to sniff with a perturbed expression; a fox had passed that way. His eyes peered warily into the undergrowth, over the banks, beneath the hedgerows; he paused in traversing a copse, stooped, uttering an exclamation of astonished disgust, and some few moments later emerged from the brake with a bulging pocket and an air of increased importance.

Jim Neale, the under-keeper, had not long started on his morning beat when he was hailed by a familiar voice, and turning beheld his former chief.

“Hullo, Maister Guppy, I be pure glad to see you on your legs again. You be afoot early.”

John surveyed him for a moment with an air of solemn indignation.

“’Tis jist so well I were afoot a bit early, Jim. You do want I at your back, I d’ ’low. Which way have you been a-goin’?”

“Why, same as usual--across the big mead, from our place, and up-along by top side o’ the park.”

“Jist what I did fancy. You do seem to use your eyes wonderful well, Jim--jist so well as ever. D’ye mind how I used to tell ’ee ‘some folks has eyes and some has none’?”

“Why, what be amiss?”

John, without speaking, put his hand in his pocket, and drew forth a number of rabbit snares, sticks and all, which he had picked up and secreted in the copse before-mentioned.

“Oh!” said Jim. “Humph! I wonder who could have put them there?”

“Why, Branstone folks what be always a-hangin’ about seekin’ what they can pick up.”

“Well, ’twas a good job ye did chance to come along, Mr. Guppy. I d’ ’low they didn’t have time to catch nothin’. There weren’t no rabbits in ’em, was there?”

“There was a rabbit in one of them though,” retorted John triumphantly; “I’ve a-got en here i’ my pocket.”

“Oh, and have ye?” queried John, eyeing the pocket in question somewhat askance. “Well, it’s lucky I’ve a-met ye--ye can hand en over to me i’stead o’ going all the way up to Sanders.”

“I can hand en over to you, can I? Thank ye kindly, Maister Jim; ‘findins’ is keepins’--or used to be i’ my day. Well, of all the cheek! ‘Hand en over,’ says he to I what has been his maister, I mid say, for fifteen year and more. Hand en over, indeed!”

Jim, temporarily abashed, pushed his hat a little to the back of his head, and stared for a moment or two in silence; then his features relaxed into a slow grin.

“’Pon my word, if it do come to cheek, be dalled if I could say which of us has the most of it! Ye bain’t keeper here no longer, Mr. Guppy, and I don’t know as Squire ’ud be altogether pleased if he was to catch you a-pocketin’ one of his rabbits.”

John laughed derisively.

“Squire ’ud know a bit better nor that,” he remarked, as soon as he had sufficiently composed himself. “Squire ’ud know better than grudge I a rabbit arter all them hundreds as I’ve a-had the years and years as I were here. Be ye a-goin’ on now?”

“’E-es I be,” returned Jim, somewhat sulkily.

“Then look sharp, else you’ll very like miss a good few more things what be under your nose.”

Jim walked away growling to himself that he wasn’t a-goin’ to have two masters if he knew it, and that it was enough to be at one man’s beck and call without being hauled over the coals by folks what had no right to be there at all.

John, leaning on his stick, watched the receding form, still with an air of lofty sovereignty, till it had disappeared, and then took his way homewards, feeling that he had done a good morning’s work.

It was marvellous how one so decrepit as he could manage to be as ubiquitous as he thenceforth became. His bent figure and wrinkled face were perpetually turning up in most unexpected quarters, to the wrath and occasional dismay of Mr. Sanders and his underlings, his small keen eyes frequently detecting some small error or omission which his quavering voice was immediately uplifted to denounce and reprehend. Matters reached a climax when, one sunshiny morning, he discovered the eldest hope of the Sanders family in the act of climbing a tree in search of a bird’s nest, and, not content with boxing the urchin’s ears as soon as he descended to earth again, hauled him off by the collar to the parental abode. The boy’s outcries brought his father to the door, accompanied by Jim, who had chanced to call in for orders.

“See here what I’ve a-caught your bwoy a-doin’ of. His pocket be chock-full o’ eggs--pigeon eggs. He ha’n’t a-got no right to go into the woods arter pigeons’ eggs. I’ve brought en to ’ee, Maister Sanders, so as ye may gie en a dressin’. I be too old to do it myself. Nay, nay, at one time I could ha’ fetched him a crack or two what ’ud ha’ taught en manners. But I bain’t strong enough for that now.”

“Let go of him--let go at once, I say,” shouted the indignant parent. “Who gave you leave to interfere? The lad’s my lad, and it’s none o’ your business to go meddlin’ with him. Come here, Philip-James; go in to your mother, boy. He’s mauled you fearful.”

“Well, you must be a soft fellow,” ejaculated John in a tone of deep disgust. “I couldn’t ha’ believed it! If _I_ had a-caught a bwoy a-trespassin’ i’ my woods when I was here, I’d ha’ thrashed him well for ’t--let him be my son twenty times over.”

“Trespassin’ indeed! You’re a trespasser yourself,” cried the keeper. “You’ve no business in these woods at all; you’ve no business to come near the place. I’ll summons you, see if I don’t.”

“Well, that is a tale!” exclaimed John, leaning against the gate-post that he might the better indulge in a kind of crow of ironical laughter. “Trespass--_me_ trespass; me what was keeper here for nigh upon farty year. Lard ha’ mercy me! What’ll ye say next?”

“Well, but it _be_ trespassin’, you know, Maister Guppy,” remarked Jim, thrusting his head round the lintel of the door; “it be trespassin’ right enough. If you was head-keeper once, you bain’t head-keeper no more. You ha’n’t got no call to be here at all. It _be_ trespassin’.”

“You hold your tongue, Jim Neale,” retorted John fiercely--“hold your tongue! Who asked you to speak--you as did ought to be ashamed of yourself for neglectin’ the ferrets same as you do. The big dog-ferret have a-got the mange terr’ble bad. You bain’t the man to give a opinion, I d’ ’low.”

Jim, incensed at this sudden home-thrust, uttered a forcible exclamation, and proceeded with much warmth: “You’ve a-got a wrong notion i’ your head altogether, Maister Guppy; you be a-trespassin’ jist the same as you was a-poachin’ t’other marnin’.”

“Poachin’!” cried John, his face purple with wrath and his voice well-nigh strangled--“poachin’! Dall ’ee, Jim, I’ll not stand here to be insulted. There, I’ve a-passed over a deal--a deal I have. I’ve overlooked it on account of the many years as we’ve a-worked here together, but this here be too much. I’ll report ye, Jim Neale, see if I don’t; and I’ll report you too, Maister Sanders, for insultin’ of I same as you’ve a-done. There’s things as a body can’t overlook, let him be so good-natured as he mid be, and there’s times when a man’s dooty do stare en i’ the face. I’ll report ye this very hour.”

“That’s pretty good,” laughed Sanders. “Upon my word, that’s pretty good. Maybe Jim an’ me will have something to report to the Squire too. You’d best come along with me, Jim, and we’ll see who the Squire listens to.”

“Come along then,” cried John valiantly, before Neale had time to answer. “Come along; we’ll see. I bain’t afeard o’ the Squire. The Squire do know I so well as if I was his own brother. Come on, if you be a-comin’.”

The three set out, walkin’ shoulder to shoulder in grim silence, the younger perforce accommodating their pace to the slow gait of the old man, who hobbled along between them, leaning heavily upon his stick, his face set in resolute lines.

They were kept waiting for some little time until the Squire had finished his breakfast, but were presently admitted into the billiard-room where they found him smoking by a blazing wood fire, for he was of a chilly temperament, and though the morning was sunny, the air was still sufficiently sharp.

“Hallo, Guppy!” he cried cheerily, as his eyes fell on the old man. “What! you’re about again, are you? You’re a wonderful old fellow! You’ll see me down, I’m sure, though there are twenty years or so between us.”

John pulled his forelock and then laid his gnarled hand in the Squire’s outstretched palm.

“You’re a splendid old chap,” said his former master, as he shook it warmly. “I must own I never thought to see you on your legs again after that stroke, coming as it did on the top of the rheumatics. How are the rheumatics, John?”

“Very bad, thank ye, sir. There, I can scarce turn i’ my bed, and when I do try for to walk my limbs do seem to go all twisty-like. I be fair scraggled wi’ it, Squire.”

“Well, men, what brought you here?” inquired their master, turning for the first time to the keepers, and addressing them with some surprise.

“Why, a rather unpleasant matter, sir, I am sorry to say,” returned Sanders respectfully, but a trifle tartly. “’Tis a bit difficult to explain, seein’ as you seem so taken up with Mr. Guppy here. I understood, sir, when I accepted your sitooation as I was to have a free hand. I didn’t look for no interference from anybody but you yourself, sir.”

“Well, haven’t you got a free hand? I’m sure I don’t interfere,” replied the Squire, with a shrug of his shoulders.

“’Tis Maister Guppy what be al’ays a-meddlin’, sir!” put in Jim, with a pull at his forelock. “He do come up-along mostly every mornin’, a-horderin’ and a-pickin’ holes here, there, and everywhere. Mr. Sanders and me do find it terr’ble ill-conwenient.”

“I was just going to say, sir,” resumed Sanders, “when Neale interrupted me”--here he paused to glare at his inferior--“as it was what I was never accustomed to--outside people comin’ and pokin’ and pryin’ and fault-findin’ and interferin’----”

“Oh, dear, how much more!” exclaimed the Squire, looking from one to the other in affected dismay, mingled with a little real vexation. “Guppy, what’s all this about?”

“Playse ye, sir, I couldn’t a-bear to see you a-treated same as ye be treated by them as ye puts your trust in. Everythin’ be in a reg’lar caddle all over the place--everythin’ be a-goin’ wrong, sir, and when I sees it, I tells ’em of it. I can’t do no different--’tis my dooty. You do pay I by the week reg’lar, and I bain’t a-goin’ to eat the bread o’ idleness--’t ’ud stick i’ my in’ards--’e-es, that it would. ‘So soon as I do get upon my legs,’ says I, ‘I’ll have a look round;’ and I did have a look round, and what did I find? Every blessed thing a-goin’ wrong--so I sarces ’em for ’t. I wasn’t a-goin’ to hold my tongue, and see you tricked and abused. I was easy wi’ ’em--a dalled sight too easy--I did ought to have reported of ’em before, but to-day I couldn’t stand it no longer; when I did speak to ’em they up and insulted me, both on ’em. ’E-es, they did. They insulted of I shameful.”

“I am sorry to hear that----” the Squire was beginning, when Mr. Sanders, losing patience, interrupted him.

“Begging your pardon, sir, ’tis more than flesh and blood can stand; ’tis got to be him or me--that’s all I can say. Nobody could put up with it. I found things in a very bad state when I came, and I’m getting them better gradual, sir, and doing my dooty in all respects as well as I can; but if Guppy is to be allowed to come pryin’ and spyin’ after me, and findin’ fault with all my arrangements----”

“He did call I a trespasser,” broke out John, who had been ruminating over his private woes, without taking heed of the keeper’s indictment. “He did call I a trespasser; he did say I was trespassin’ when I told en I’d a-been walkin’ through the Long Wood yonder where I did catch his little rascal of a son a-bird’s-nestin’ so bold as you playse. And Jim there, what did ought to know better, up and said I was poachin’ last week. _Me_ poachin’! Me what brought him back that very day a dozen o’ snares what I had picked up i’ the hedge as he went gawkin’ past without taking a bit o’ notice of.”

“’E-es, but you found a rabbit in one and popped it into your pocket!” cried Jim irefully. “Popped it into your pocket and walked off wi’ it, let I say what I would.”

“In course I did,” retorted John, with great dignity, “in course I did. ’Tweren’t very likely as I’d leave it wi’ you. As I telled ’ee at the time--says I: ‘Squire wouldn’t grudge me a rabbit now arter all the hundreds as I’ve a-had while I was keeper up yonder.’”

The Squire covered his mouth with his hand, but tell-tale wrinkles appeared about his eyes, and the points of his moustache curled significantly upwards. After a moment he recovered himself sufficiently to desire the keepers to withdraw, announcing that he would have a quiet talk with John Guppy, and that no doubt the matter could be arranged.

“So you had hundreds of rabbits while you were in my service, John,” he remarked, crossing one leg over the other, and looking at the old man with a smile. “Didn’t you get very tired of them?”

“Well, sir, my old woman be wonderful with the cookin’, and she did do ’em up in a-many different ways. ’E-es, we did use to have a rabbit for dinner four days out of seven.”

“Did you indeed?” returned his former master, much interested in these revelations. “Do you suppose, John, the other men had hundreds of rabbits every year, too?”

“Well, sir, it be a matter o’ taste. Some folks doesn’t fancy rabbit; but, of course, they can take so many as they do want.”

“Of course,” agreed the Squire.

“’E-es; keepers takes rabbits same as gardeners helps theirselves to cabbages. I knowed you’d never begrudge me that there little un.”

“No, to be sure; but we mustn’t be too hard on Jim. Jim was doing what he thought to be his duty. Now, you know, no matter how many rabbits a keeper may take for himself, he is not supposed to allow other people to take any.”

“Nay, sir, nay; I wouldn’t expect it--not other folks. But I d’ ’low it be different wi’ I, what was head over en for so many year. He didn’t ought to ha’ gone and insulted of I.”

“No, no, of course not; but then, you see, you had vexed him. He was too angry to discriminate between poaching and--just helping yourself.”

“And t’other chap, ’ee telled I I was trespassin’!” resumed John wrathfully.

“Well, my dear John, we must consider the point of view. Every man has his own, you know. As a matter of fact, I’m afraid, from Sanders’s point of view, you were trespassing.”

John’s face was a study.

“I never thought to live to hear you say that, Squire.”

“I only said from his point of view,” cried the Squire, hastily. “He’s naturally, perhaps, a little jealous; you were here so many years, you know, and of course, like all young men--young men will have foolish notions, John--he thinks his way is the best way. We old fogies must just give in for the sake of peace and comfort.”

“Noo ways,” agreed the old man, sorrowfully; “noo folks and noo ways.”

“As you heard me say just now,” resumed his master, “_I_ don’t interfere with him, and, upon my life, I think it’s better you shouldn’t interfere, John. I fancy it would be wiser if you could just keep away for a little bit--then no one could say you were trespassing, you know.”

“I’ll keep away, Squire,” said John. “No fear; I’ll keep away. Ye’ll not have to tell I that twice.”

“You and I are free to have our own opinions, of course,” urged the Squire, smiling, “but we’ll keep them to ourselves--these young folks you know----”

But John did not smile in return; his head, always bent, drooped almost to his breast, his lips moved, but uttered no sound. After a moment or two, he pulled his forelock, scraped his leg, and turned to depart.

“You’re not going, John?”

“’E-es, sir, I be goin’, I bain’t wanted here no more. As you do say, noo times----”

“Now, now, I can’t have you going away offended. Don’t you see how it is, John?”

“Nay, sir, I don’t see nothin’ but what you’ve a-gone and thrown over a old servant for a noo un. That be all as I can see. You didn’t check en for insultin’ of I, and you did uphold him and made little of I. I be goin’, and you’ll never be troubled wi’ I again. I’m fit for nothin’. I be a-eatin’ of your bread and a-takin’ of your money and doin’ nothin’ for ’t. Eatin’ the bread o’ idleness! I d’ ’low it ’ull fair choke I.”

The Squire, vexed and perplexed, in vain sought to soothe him, but he waved aside all attempts at consolation, and made his way slowly out of the room and out of the house.

The Squire watched him as he went tottering down the avenue. “What’s to be done?” he said to himself. “The poor old chap is past his work; it would be cruelty to allow him to attempt it. Sanders is an excellent fellow, on the other hand--more go-ahead than dear old John, and, it must be owned, a better keeper. He would certainly have given notice if I had allowed John to continue his visitations here. It is the only thing to be done, but I can’t bear to see the poor old fellow so cut up.”

As Guppy passed the keeper’s lodge the dogs ran forward, leaping upon him and whining. He patted them absently, and then pushed them off. “Down, Rover, down! There, Bessie, off wi’ you; you should learn a lesson fro’ your betters. Stick to the noo folks, and get rid of the wold. Poor beasts! they be fain to see I, I d’ ’low. Dogs bain’t like Christians. They don’t seem to know when a man be down. They be faithful, all the same; they haven’t a-got no sense, poor things.”

He was spent and trembling when he arrived at his own home, and sank down in his chair by the hearth.

“There, missis, put away my gun; I’ll not want it no more; I be done wi’ it--I be done wi’ everythin’. I could wish that there stroke had a-carried I off. I bain’t no use i’ this world as I can see. It do seem a strange thing as the Lard ’ll leave ye to live on and on when folks be tired o’ ye, and be a-wishin’ of ye under the sod. I wish I were i’ my long home--aye, that I do.”

Mrs. Guppy was at first alarmed, then affected, and finally burst into tears.

“I’m sure I never did hear a man go on the same as you do, Jan; there, I be all of a tremble. What’s amiss? What’s come to ye? What’s it all about?”

“Gi’ I my pipe,” said John; “there’s things a woman can’t understand.”

Not another word could she extract from him till dinner-time, when she summoned him to table.

He gazed at the food sourly. “All charity!” he murmured. “Charity, woman. I be eatin’ what I haven’t earned. I may jist so well go to the Union.”

A few days later the Squire’s dogcart drew up at the little gate, and the Squire himself descended therefrom, carrying a couple of rabbits which he extracted from under the seat.

“Good-day, John; good-day, Mrs. Guppy. Well, John, how are you? Cheering up a bit, I hope.”

John shook his head slowly.

“I’ve brought you a couple of rabbits,” continued the Squire. “It never struck me till the other day how you must miss them. I’ll send you some every week. There are enough, Heaven knows.”

“I don’t want no rabbits,” growled Guppy; “I bain’t a-goin’ to eat of ’em.”

“John!” gasped his wife, hardly believing her ears.

“Put ’em back i’ the cart, woman,” he continued; “I bain’t a-goin’ to eat no rabbits what they chaps up yonder have a-ketched.”

“Why, John,” said the Squire, sitting down beside him, “can’t you get over it? I thought you would be all right by this time.”

“I bain’t all right, Squire, and I can’t get over it. Nay, look at it which way I will, I can’t. Here be I, John Guppy, a bit scram and a bit wambly; but so sound i’ the head as ever I was, whatever my legs mid be. Here be I, anxious for to do my dooty, and able for to do my dooty, and you won’t let I do it. You do give me money what I haven’t earned; you do want I to sit here idle when I’m as ready for a day’s work as any o’ they new-fangled chaps what you’ve a-set up yonder i’ my place.”

The Squire sighed and looked hopelessly at Mrs. Guppy, who stood with her hands folded limply at her waist, and a most dolorous expression on her countenance, shaking her head emphatically at every pause in her husband’s speech. After a few further attempts at consolation, the Squire rose and went to the door, followed by his hostess.

“What is to be done, Mrs. Guppy?” he inquired, when they were out of earshot. “I positively can’t have him back up there--he isn’t fit for it; and he has been setting all the other men by the ears.”

“He’s fair breakin’ ’is ’eart,” murmured Mrs. Guppy dolefully. “He thinks he bain’t o’ no use--and he bain’t--and it’s killin’ ’im. If he could even fancy he was doing summat and ockipy hisself in any way he’d be a different man. ’Tis the thought as nobody wants en what do cut en so.”

The Squire cogitated, and then a sudden light broke over his face.

“I have it,” he cried. “I have thought of a job for the old fellow! We’ll put him to rights yet, Mrs. Guppy--see if we don’t!”

He re-entered the cottage, and approached the inglenook where John still sat, leaning forward, and slowly rubbing the knees of his corduroys.

“John,” he said, “I was almost forgetting a most important thing I wanted to say to you. Sanders and Jim have got their hands pretty full up there, as you know.”

“I d’ ’low they have,” agreed Guppy; “they’re like to have ’em too full, seein’ as they don’t know how to set about their work nohow.”

“Yes, yes. Well, Sanders is very busy all day and Jim has a wide beat. Neither of them ever find time to go near the river. It’s my private belief, John, that that river is dreadfully poached. We’ve next to no wild duck, you know.”

“We never did have none, sir,” interrupted Guppy.

“Just what I say,” agreed his master; “we never had the chance. You had _your_ hands pretty full when you were head-keeper, hadn’t you?”

“I weren’t one what ’ud ever ha’ let ’em get empty,” growled Guppy.

“Well, I was thinking, now that you haven’t very much to do, you might undertake the control of those meadows down there by the river, if you feel up to it, and it’s not asking too much of you.”

“Oh! I could do it,” returned John, in a mollified tone; “I could do it right enough if I was let.”

“I should be very much obliged to you,” resumed the Squire, “very much obliged indeed. All that part of the property has got shamefully neglected. I imagine the people think they’ve got a right-of-way.”

“Very like they do,” agreed John, whose countenance was gradually clearing; “but I can soon show ’em whether they have or not.”

“Just so. Well, will you undertake to look after that part of the estate for me? It will be a great relief to my mind. Don’t overtire yourself, you know; but any day that you are feeling pretty fit you might stroll round, and just keep a sharp look-out.”

“’E-es, I could do that,” said John, after considering for a moment; “I could do it all right, Squire. I will look into the matter.”

“That’s right. Thank you very much, John. I shall feel quite satisfied about it now.”

He nodded, and went away, John looking after him with a satisfied expression.

“I never did mind obligin’ the Squire,” he remarked to his wife, “and I’m glad to do en a bit of a good turn i’ my ancient years. ’Tis true what he do say, that there bit down by the river have a-been fearful neglected. I myself could never make time to go down there, and ’t ain’t very likely as these here chaps ’ull go out of their way to look round. I’ll put it to rights, though.”

“I’m sure it’s very good o’ you, John,” said Mrs. Guppy, who had listened to the foregoing colloquy with a somewhat mystified air. “I shouldn’t ha’ thought that there was anything worth lookin’ arter down there. Why, the town boys do bathe there reg’lar i’ the summer.”

“They’ll not bathe there any more,” returned her lord resolutely. “I’ll teach Mr. Sanders a lesson--I’ll larn ’em how to see arter a place as it did ought to be looked arter! Reach me down that gun, woman!”

He sallied forth that very hour, drawing up his little, bent form to as close an approach to straightness as he could manage.

His first care on reaching his destination was to examine the gates that gave access to this stretch of meadow-land. He pursed his nether lip and shook his head disapprovingly at their shaky condition, making a mental resolution to repair them at the earliest opportunity, and moreover to see that they were provided with padlocks. After diligently hunting in the neighbouring wood, he discovered a half-defaced board, which had at one time borne the legend, “Trespassers will be prosecuted,” and, with a sigh of satisfaction, placed it in a more prominent position.

His joy was extreme when, late in the afternoon, he discovered an honest labouring man in the act of climbing a gate, which, owing to the rickety condition of its hinges, could not be opened without risk of falling flat upon the ground.

“Where be goin’ to?” inquired John, sternly.

“Why, jist home-along,” returned the other, with a good-humoured smile; “’tis a bit of a short cut this way.”

“There’s to be no more short cuts here,” cried John, with a certain almost malignant triumph. “These here meadows belongs to Squire. They’m his private property.”

The man’s jaw dropped. “That’ll be summat noo,” he said doubtfully, but still good-humouredly.

“’Tis noo times all round,” replied Guppy, with an odd contraction of the face, “but these ’ere reg’lations ’ull be carried out strict. You jist turn about, my bwoy.”

“I be three parts there now,” protested the other.

“Then you’ll have to step back three parts, that’s all,” responded Guppy unmoved.

The man scratched his head, stared, and finally recrossed the gate, and walked away, grumbling to himself, Guppy looking after him with a sense of well-nigh forgotten dignity. He had vindicated the majesty of the law.

All hitherto unconscious trespassers had thenceforth a bad time of it under the reign of the new river-keeper. Would-be bathers, small boys on bird’s-nesting intent, tired women with market-baskets, labourers on their way to and from their daily work, were ruthlessly turned back by old Guppy, whose magisterial air carried conviction with it. The other keepers, laughing perhaps in their sleeves, let him pursue his tactics unmolested, and the Squire was careful to congratulate him from time to time on the success of his labours. John Guppy’s greatest triumph was, perhaps, when he actually did discover a wild duck’s nest amid the sedges of the now tranquil river. How tenderly he watched over it; how proudly he noted the little brood of downy ducklings when they first paddled from one group of reeds to another in the wake of their mother; with what delight he imparted his discovery to the Squire, and with what supreme joy did he invite him to set about the destruction of these precious charges when they were sufficiently grown! Almost equal rapture was his when, having struggled along the avenue with a brace of ducks dangling from each hand, he encountered the head-keeper in the shrubbery.

“Those are fine ones,” remarked Sanders, good-naturedly; he was a good-hearted fellow in the main, and did not grudge the old man his small successes.

“I should think they was,” returned Guppy, swelling with pride. “They be uncommon fine uns, Maister Sanders; they be the only wild duck what was ever seen on this here property. I be glad to hear,” he added, condescendingly, “as you’ve done pretty well wi’ the pheasants, too. Squire was a-tellin’ me about the good season ye did have.”

“Yes,” rejoined the keeper, with a twinkle in his eye; “they didn’t turn out so bad, you see, Mr. Guppy.”

“I be very glad on’t, I’m sure,” said John, still condescendingly; “of course it be easy to rear a good few pheasants if you do go in for buyin’ eggs; it bain’t so very easy to get wild duck to take to a place where they never did come afore.”

“No, to be sure,” agreed Sanders affably. “It was a wonderful piece of luck, that was.”

“It wasn’t luck, Maister Sanders,” said John impressively, “it was knowledge.”

And he walked on, with conscious pride in every line of face and figure, leaving his successor chuckling.

THE WORM THAT TURNED.

“Where be goin’, William?”

“Oh, I be jest steppin’ up to the Pure Drop.”

And William Faithfull brought back his abstracted gaze from the horizon, where it habitually rested when it was not required for practical purposes in the exercise of his profession, and fixed itself somewhat shamefacedly on his interlocutor.

He was a tall, loose-limbed man, of about forty, with an expression of countenance chronically dismal, except at such times when he was employed in some particularly genial task, such as making a coffin, or repairing the church trestles, when his neighbours averred that he became quite lively, and even whistled as he worked.

His crony now returned his glance with a jocular one, and slapped his thigh ecstatically.

“Well, I never seed such a chap! Faithfull by name and faithful by natur’--ah, sure you are. Why, ’tis nigh upon twelve year, bain’t it, since ye started coortin’ Martha Jesty?”

“Somewhere about that,” replied William; and his countenance, already ruddy in the sunset glow, assumed a still deeper tint.

“Well, I never!” returned the other with a shout of laughter. “She be gettin’ on pretty well, now--I d’ ’low she’ll be a staid woman by the time you wed her.”

William shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

“Well,” he said, after a pause, “I d’ ’low she be worth waitin’ for. She be wonderful clever, Martha be--an’ that sprack! No, I don’t regret it--not at all I don’t.”

“Bain’t the wold man anyways comin’ round?” inquired his friend with his head on one side.

“No,” returned Faithfull gloomily. “Not at all. But he be so terr’ble punished, poor wold chap, one can’t expect rayson off he.”

“’Tis the rheumatics, bain’t it?” was the next query in a commiserating tone.

“’Tis the sky-attics,” replied the carpenter, not without a certain pride in his pseudo-father-in-law’s distinguished ailment. “There, he be so scraggled as anything--all doubled up by times. Martha do say he goes twisty-like same as a eel, when it do take en real bad.”

“Lard, now!” ejaculated the other.

“’E-es,” said William, shaking his head--“that’s how it do take en. So, as Martha do say, ye can’t expect the onpossible. ‘If my father,’ says she, ‘be so scram-like in his out’ard man, how can ye look for en to act straight-forrard? He’ve a-set his mind again’ the notion of us gettin’ wed, so we must just wait till he be underground. And then,’ says she, ‘I’ll not keep ’ee waitin’ a minute longer.’”

“Well, that’s handsome,” agreed the friend, “but I’m afeard, William, that there complaint bain’t like to carry en off very soon--no, not so very soon. Nay, I’ve a-knowed folks keep on a-livin’ in a way that ’ud surprise ye, as was fair bent in two wi’ pains in all their j’ints. I reckon you’ll very like go first yerself, William.”

After a pause of deep depression the carpenter’s face lighted up.

“The sky-attics, d’ye see, Tom,” he explained condescendingly--“the sky-attics is a new-fayshioned ailment, an’ a deal dangerouser nor the wold rheumatiz an’ newralgy and sich. Why, when I did mention to Parson t’other day about wold Jesty’s sky-attics he did laugh. ‘Sky-attics,’ says he. ‘Then he’ll be like to go up’ards afore very long,’ says he. Well, so long, Tom; I must be steppin’ up-along now.”

“Ye’ll find the wold fellow a bit tilty,” remarked Tom; “whether them there ’attics was troublin’ en or not I can’t say, but he was a-shoutin’ an’ a bally-raggin’ o’ that poor faymale while I was drinkin’ my drap o’ beer jist now, till I wonder she wasn’t dathered.”

William’s recent elation disappeared; he vouchsafed no comment on the unwelcome news, however, but with a sidelong nod at his crony, shambled away, swinging his long limbs as though every joint of them was loose.

The Pure Drop was situated a stone’s throw from the village, and stood at the junction of four cross-roads; a most excellent position, which enabled it to waylay, as it were, not only the inhabitants of the hamlet as they set forth for or returned from their day’s vocations, but to capture most of the travellers who journeyed that way--cyclists galore, wagoners, dusty pedestrians. It must be owned that the aspect of the little place was inviting enough to tempt even a teetotaller; the low red-brick house overgrown with creepers, the mullioned windows winking brightly in the sun in summer, and in winter letting streams of ruddy firelight flow forth. It was so clean and airy, so cosy and trim, that those who went thither for the first time vowed they would return again, and old customers nodded knowingly, and declared that the place had not its like in the country. The liquor was good, while prudent folk who called for tea might have it, and a crusty home-baked loaf into the bargain, and a roll of fresh butter of Martha’s making.

Then Martha herself--though she was no longer in the first bloom of youth, she was a tidy, clean-skinned, pleasant-looking little body; and if her eye was sharp and her tongue ready, she was none the less popular on these accounts; every one got hauled over the coals from time to time, and when it was not your turn it was pleasant enough to see other folks made to look foolish.

Miss Jesty was standing in the open doorway when her lover came up, and immediately made a warning sign to him.

“Ye mustn’t come in to-night, William. Father--there! he’s something awful this evenin’, an’ he’ve a-been on the look-out for ye, so to speak, ever since dinner-time. Whenever the door do go, ‘There,’ he’ll cry, ‘is that that good-for-nothin’ William Faithfull?’ Or if there’s a knock, ‘’Tis that sammy o’ thine, for sure,’ he’ll say.”

“Oh, an’ does he?” returned poor William, with a deeper expression of melancholy.

Martha nodded portentously.

“Ye mustn’t come in to-day,” she said with decision; “no, not even for a minute. Father, he did say to I jist now, as whatever happened he wouldn’t have no cwortin’ here. ‘If ye can have the heart to think about cwortin’ when I’m so bad as I be,’ says he, ‘I’ll take an’ alter my will.’ So there’s nothin’ for it but for you to turn about an’ go home again.”

“I weren’t so much thinkin’ o’ cwortin’ this evenin’, Martha,” said the swain very meekly. “I wer’ lookin’ for a drap o’ beer--I be terr’ble dry.”

Martha hesitated for a moment, and in this interval a kind of bellow sounded from the interior of the house.

“That’s him,” she cried in terror. “No, William, ye can’t have no beer to-night. I dursen’t stay another minute. Go home-along, do, an’ if ye be so thirsty as that comes to, can’t ye get a bottle o’ ‘pop’ off Mrs. Andrews?”

William gazed at her blankly, but before he could protest his charmer had disappeared within the house, and he was forced very dolefully to retrace his steps. He did indeed purchase the bottle of “pop,” but found it by no means exhilarating; in fact, as he laid his head on the pillow that night he was tempted to think he might pay too high a price even for the hope of becoming one day Martha’s husband.

When on the following Sunday evening, however, he walked in the shady lane hand-in-hand with his sweetheart, he forgot how irksome was this time of trial, and listened with the melancholy satisfaction which was his nearest approach to cheerfulness (on ordinary occasions) to the glowing picture with which she depicted the reward earned by his constancy.

“I do r’alely think as poor father be a-breakin’ up,” she remarked consolingly. “When winter comes I reckon he’ll not be able to hold out. Well,” she added piously, “’tis what comes to us all, soon or late, an’ I’m sure he be well prepared, for I don’t think he’ve a-had a day’s health this twenty year. ’Twill be a mercy when he do go, poor wold man. An’ the winter ’ud be a very nice time for us to get married, William; ’twould suit us very well, wouldn’t it?”

“Ah, sure,” said William, with a slow smile.

“We shouldn’t be so busy then, d’ye see,” resumed Martha. “The harvestin’ ’ud be done an’ the potato-gettin’; an’ there wouldn’t be so many by-cyclists--there’s not so much goin’ backwards an’ forrards in winter-time. We shouldn’t be at much loss if we was to take a holiday.”

“Ah,” said William, with mournful rapture, “you was thinkin’ of us takin’ a holiday, was ye, Martha?”

“I thought we mid go to London,” cried Miss Jesty triumphantly. “I have always longed to go to London an’ see the sights there, an’ go to the theayters. There! Susan Inkpen as wed Miller Dewey did go up to London for her honeymoon.”

“For her what?” interrupted Faithfull.

“For her honeymoon--her weddin’ journey--the jaunt what folks do take when they gets wed.”

“Oh, to be sure,” said the carpenter. “An’ you an’ me be to go to London for our honeymoon, be we?”

“’E-es,” cried Martha with a chuckle. “We’ll have a rale week’s pleasurin’, you an’ me. If ’tis winter-time--as most like ’twill be, on account o’ poor father’s sky-attics, you know--the pantomines ’ull be goin’ on. Susan Dewey did go, an’ she said they was the wonderfullest things, wi’ fairies an’ mermaids, an’ sich-like, an’ Clown an’ Pantaloon a-knockin’ of each other about. There, she an’ her husband did fair split their sides wi’ laughin’.”

William appeared to survey this prospect stolidly, and made no comment, and Miss Jesty continued eagerly:--

“Then there’d be the Waxworks, an’ the Zoo, where all the wild beasts is kept; an’ we’d go an’ see the Tower o’ London, where all the king’s jools an’ suits of armour is set out, an’ we’d go to Westminster Abbey----”

“What’s that?” inquired Mr. Faithfull dubiously.

Martha was taken aback for a moment.

“Susan went to see it,” said she hesitatingly, “so I s’pose ’tis worth lookin’ at. ’Tis a wold ancient church.”

“A wold church?” repeated William, shaking his head. “I d’ ’low I shouldn’t care so much to see that. I’d sooner wait till ’twas done-up fresh-like. I never cared at all for goin’ into our church till the Rector had it cleaned and painted-up so good as new. I think ’t ’ud be a foolish kind o’ thing to go trapesin’ off to yon--what-d’-ye-call-it--Abbey till they get it repaired.”

“Maybe not,” agreed Martha cheerfully; “there’s plenty more to be seen wi’out that. Well, I hope the Lord ’ull spare father so long as it be good for en, poor dear man, but if he was to be took, I hope as it may be in the winter, William.”

William, who had been trailing beside her arm-in-crook, suddenly stopped short and faced her with a determined air.

“Whether he do go in winter or whether he do go in summer, Martha,” said he, “you an’ me must be called home so soon as he be laid underground, mind that.”

And having come to the turn in the lane where they usually parted, William went his way, leaving Martha somewhat in doubt whether to be pleased at this proof of ardour or indignant at the sudden display of spirit.

A wilful woman is proverbially supposed to have her way, yet it sometimes happens that, even when she proposes, Heaven disposes events otherwise than she would have had them. Thus, though Martha Jesty had made arrangements for her father to depart this life in the winter--a time when business should be conveniently slack--that worthy old gentleman was removed from this earthly sphere in the very height of summer, when the harvest was in full swing, and more than an ordinary number of tourists halted daily for refreshment at the Pure Drop.

Tidings of this melancholy event were imparted to William by a group who entered his yard on the morning of the occurrence, each eager to be the first to tell the news. That old Mr. Jesty was gone was an incontrovertible fact, but none of the newsmongers could agree as to the precise ailment which had carried him off. He had had a bit of a cold for a day or two, but while some said it had turned to “browntitus,” others were sure it was “poomonia,” and one shrill-voiced old lady delivered it as her opinion that nothing short of an “apple-complex” could have carried him off that sudden.

Beyond sundry “ohs” and “ahs” and grunts indicative of surprise and sympathy, William made no remark, though when one facetious bystander observed that it would be his turn next--a somewhat obscure phrase, which might be interpreted in a variety of ways--he grinned appreciatively.

No sooner had the gossips departed, however, than he went indoors and assumed his coat, and immediately betook himself, not to the Pure Drop, but to the Rectory.

“The Reverend,” as his parishioners frequently called him, was sitting in his study, tranquilly reading his _Times_, when William Faithfull was ushered in.

“You’ll have heard the noos, sir,” he began abruptly; “old Abel Jesty up to the Pure Drop, he’s gone at last.”

“Oh!” said the Rector, looking rather startled; “that’s sudden, isn’t it?”

“’E-es,” said William, with a wooden face; “sudden but not unpre-pared. Martha has been a-lookin’ for en to go this ten year.”

“Oh!” said the Rector again, this time a little uncertainly.

“’E-es,” resumed William; “I thought I’d call an’ tell ye, so as ye need lose no time in settling things.”

“About the funeral, I suppose you mean?” put in the clergyman as he paused.

“No,” said William, who was gazing not only over the Rector’s head, but apparently through the wall at some distant sky-line; “about the weddin’--mine an’ Martha’s. Ye mid call us over on Sunday.”

“Really, William, I think that is too sudden,” said the Rector; “why, the poor old man won’t have been dead a week!”

“He be so dead as ever he’ll be,” returned William, still gazing impenetrably at that far point in an imaginary horizon. “Martha an’ I have a-made it up years ago, an’ settled as she’d not keep me waitin’ no longer after her father was took. I’ll thank ye to call us home, sir.”

And with that he scraped a leg and pulled his forelock and withdrew, leaving the Rector, half-scandalised, half-amused, murmuring to himself as the door closed something about “funeral baked-meats,” which William set down as a “bit o’ voolishness”.

He found Martha plunged in the most praiseworthy grief, thereby much edifying the neighbours who had gathered together to condole with her; but William, who could only see the other aspect of the affair, immediately beckoned her on one side and informed her of the step he had taken.

“Lard!” cried she, genuinely taken aback, “whatever made ye do that? Why, father ’ull only be buried o’ Thursday. You shouldn’t ha’ done it wi’out axin’ me. ’Tis too sudden. The folks ’ull say we’ve no decency.”

“Let ’em say what they like,” returned William firmly. “I’ll keep to my ’greement, an’ I expect you to do the same. ’Twas drawed out ten year ago an’ more. I’ve stuck to my word, an’ you must stick to your’n.”

“’Twill be a very onconvenient time,” said Martha reflectively. “Three-week come Monday--the middle of August that’ll be, jist when we do take more money nor any other month in the year.”

William cracked his finger joints one after another with great decision, but made no verbal reply.

“There, I’ve a-been lookin’ forward to our honeymoon all these years,” complained Martha, fresh tears rushing to her eyes; “it’ll be a shame, I declare, if we have to give it up! I’ve never took a holiday, no, not since mother died. I don’t see how we can get away then, William.”

“I don’t care so much about gettin’ away,” said Faithfull resolutely. “’Tis the weddin’ I do want. I’ll not have no shilly-shally. I’ve a-told ye hundreds of times as I wouldn’t wait a day longer nor I could help--an’ I won’t wait. You’d best make up your mind to it.”

“Why, whatever’s come to ye?” cried Martha, really angry. “’Tis downright indecent to go upsettin’ me like this in the midst o’ my trouble. ’Tisn’t for you to be namin’ the day either. Jist you keep a civil tongue in your head, William, an’ have a bit o’ patience--maybe about Michaelmas----”

“Michaelmas!” ejaculated the carpenter, catching up his hat and fixing it firmly on his head. “I’ll tell you summat, Martha--I’m goin’ to get married o’ Monday three-week, whatever you mid be. If ye can’t make up your mind to it there’s them as will. I’ll go warrant my cousin Sabina, over to Sturminster, ’ud have me if I was to ax her. Her an’ me was always very thick. Gully, that’s her husband, left her very comfortable, an’ she has but the one little maid.”

Martha thereupon came round in a twinkling, and flinging herself into his arms, promised to agree to everything he wished. A tender scene ensued, at the end of which William suggested that he had better go upstairs to measure the poor old man for his coffin.

When he came down again he found Martha in the midst of her cronies, to whom she had imparted, with a kind of regretful elation, the extreme pressure which William had brought to bear upon her with regard to their approaching nuptials, all her hearers being much impressed and edified by the recital.

She turned to her lover as he was about to leave the house:--

“Ye’ll not be chargin’ me nothin’, I shouldn’t think,” she remarked with mournful archness.

William, who had not hitherto considered the matter, hesitated for a moment, and then observed handsomely:--

“Nothin’ but the price of the wood, my dear. You shall have the labour free.”

“Lard bless the man!” cried she, with some irritation. “I believe he’s goin’ to make out a bill for it. Why, don’t ye see, William, if we’re to be man an’ wife in three-week, ’twill be but takin’ the money out o’ one pocket to put it in the other?”

“And that’s true,” agreed the friends in chorus.

After a pause, during which the carpenter had thoroughly mastered the situation, he turned to his intended, and, with a sudden burst of generosity, informed her that he would make her a present of the whole thing.

“I haven’t gied you so very much afore now,” said he, “but I’ll make you a present of this, my dear, an’ welcome.”

And he walked away, while Martha, looking after him through her tears, observed that there wasn’t a better-natured man in the whole of England.

William, indeed, was in such good humour at the approaching fruition of his hopes that Martha found him more amenable than ever to her views.

Therefore, when, a day or two after the funeral, she encountered him on his way to the tailor’s, where he intended, as he informed her, to order his wedding-suit, she was emboldened to lay her hand on his arm and beseech him tearfully to be married, like her, in “deep”.

“’Twill show proper feelin’,” said she. “All the neighbours ’ull know that you are showin’ respect to poor father; an’ since ye’ll be jist comin’ into the family, ’twill be but decent as you should wear black for him what’s gone.”

William, who had been dreaming of a certain imposing stripe which had dazzled him, days before, in the tailor’s window, among the pile labelled “Elegant Trouserings,” now dismissed with a sigh the alluring vision, and promised to appear in mourning as requested.

But when later on Martha unfolded to him another plan, he gave in his adherence to it with some reluctance. It was no less a proposition than that they should take their honeymoon by turns.

“You see,” she explained, “it just falls out that the weddin’s the very week o’ the Branston show--the house ’ull be full from morn till night for three days or more; an’ we turn over enough that week to pay the year’s rent, very near. ’Twouldn’t do for us both to be away.”