Chapter V: Part 5

“Well, d’ye see, ’tis this way,” explained Dick. “If a man do want for to get drunk, drunk he’ll get if there be farty policemen arter him. If he’s willin’ to make a beast of hisself, and to ruin his wife and family, and to get out o’ work an’ everything, for the sake of a drap o’ drink, ’tisn’t a policeman that ’ull stop him. And if a chap do want to fight another chap--his blood being up, d’ye see--he’ll fight en--ah, that he will! and give no thought at all to the chance o’ bein’ run in for it. And jist same way--if a body has a notion to trap a rabbit, trap it he will, keeper or no keeper.”

Here Dick selected a sapling and began to trim it leisurely, pursing up his lips the while in a silent whistle.

“I’ll not tell Whittle all you’ve said,” remarked Betty with dignity, as she shifted her baby from one arm to the other, and prepared to walk on. “He mid think you was a poacher yourself.”

“You may tell him if you like,” retorted Dick, and then he whistled out loud and clapped his hands at the baby, which thereupon laughed ecstatically, and almost sprang from its mother’s arms. The keeper’s wife relaxed, and mentally resolved to make no allusion to Dick’s unorthodox sentiments in conversing with her husband. Jim himself had said that it wouldn’t be so bad if folks only kept to rabbits, and Dick had intimated that he would never care to touch anything else. A body should not be too hard, she reflected, on a poor fellow who had no home, so to speak; why, he was almost like a wild creature of the woods himself, living out in all weathers, sleeping often under the stars, picking up a chance meal as he best could--there was no great wonder if he had become as lawless as the four-footed “varmint” against whom the keepers waged such fierce war.

One evening, shortly before the great shoot was to take place, Jim came home to tea in a state of contained excitement. When the meal was over he went to the door, and began, to his wife’s surprise, to examine the fastenings carefully.

“’Tis a good stout bolt,” he remarked, “and the lock be a new ’un. I d’ ’low if house was shut up you wouldn’t be afeard to bide alone in it?”

Betty immediately demonstrated the presence of mind which she would be likely to display under such circumstances by uttering a loud scream.

“Oh, Jim, Jim!” she cried, “why be goin’ to stop out all night? I do know so well as if you did tell me that you be goin’ into danger.”

“Danger!” cried the keeper, thumping his great chest, “not much fear o’ that! There, don’t ye be so foolish. Me and Stubbs be a-goin’ over t’other side o’ the park down to the river to see to that ’ere decoy for duck, as squire be so set on puttin’ to rights. ’Tis five mile away; we be like to be kep’ late, very late--till daybreak, most like; but do you make the house fast, old ’ooman, and no harm ’ull come to either of us.”

Had Betty not been so much absorbed in the main issue, she might have detected something improbable about the keeper’s story; but, as it was, her fears for him were almost lost in the horror of being left all night alone in that desolate spot.

Jim, however, jested at her terrors, and himself made the round of the cottage, fastening the casements and securing the seldom-used front door. He stood outside the threshold while she drew the bolts and locked the back one.

“Get to thy bed early,” he called to her. “Go to sleep so fast as thou can; and first thing thou knows thou’lt hear me knockin’ to be let in.”

But somebody else knocked before Betty had any thought of going to bed; before, indeed, she had finished washing up the tea-things.

“Who’s that?” cried she, thrusting a scared face out of the window.

“It’s me, Mrs. Whittle--Dick Tuffin. I’ve a-brought ye back your hamper what I promised to mend for ye. Why, ye be shut up very early, bain’t ye?”

“Whittle’s gone travellin’ off a long way,” she answered with a scarcely perceptible sob. “There, he be gone to the river--’tis a good five mile off, he do say. I’m frightened to death here by myself.”

She heard him laugh in the darkness.

“How ’ud ye like to be my little wife,” he asked, “as bides alone night after night, wi’ nobody but the little ’un, now her mother have a-left her? I wouldn’t be afeard, Mrs. Whittle. Your house be so safe as a church; and there’s Duke--he’s big enough and strong enough to guard ye. Hark to en barkin’ now, the minute he do hear my voice!”

“Well, and that’s true,” agreed Betty in a more cheerful tone. “Thank ye for mendin’ the hamper, Mr. Tuffin. I’ll open the door in a minute.”

“No, don’t ye bother to do that,” said Dick. “The hamper’ll take no harm out here till morning. Good-night to ye.”

“Good-night,” said Betty, closing the window.

She heard the sound of his footsteps die away, and then the loneliness of the forest night seemed to close in upon her. Jim had often been out as late as this, and later, but the mere knowledge that he did not intend to return till daybreak made her more nervous than she had ever been. When the logs crackled or fell together she started violently; the moaning of the wind in the branches without filled her with dread, though often, when she and her husband sat by the hearth, they had declared the sound made them feel more snug. More than once she opened the window and listened; a fine, close rain was falling, making a dull patter upon the thatched roof, dripping from the eves; but besides these sounds there were many others, strange, unaccountable, terrifying--creakings and crackings of boughs; now what seemed to be a stealthy tread, now whispering voices. She chid herself for these fancies, knowing well that they must be without foundation, since Duke remained silent; nevertheless her flesh crept and the dew of terror started to her brow.

At length, making a strong resolution, she went up to her attic bedchamber, undressed, and, taking the child into her arms, crept into bed. But she lay there for a long time, quaking, and staring with wide-open eyes into the darkness; until, overcome by sheer fatigue after a long and busy day, she fell asleep.

She woke up suddenly, and sat for a moment vainly endeavouring to disentangle the confusion of sound which filled her ears. Her heart was beating like a drum, the blood surged in her brain--a dream-panic was still upon her, and yet there were certain other unmistakable noises to be heard without. Duke was barking in frenzied fashion and straining at his chain; men were shouting at no very great distance, and now--what was that? A single shot!

“It’s the poachers!” exclaimed Betty, with chattering teeth. “Pray God they don’t come here!”

In the midst of her anguish of fear she felt a sudden rush of gratitude. Jim was safe out of the way, thanks be! Jim would not be back till the folks had got off with their spoil. But now Duke was whimpering and crying in a most eerie and heartrending manner, and presently uplifted his voice in long-drawn howls which jarred upon Betty’s overwrought nerves beyond endurance. She jumped out of bed and ran to the casement. It had ceased raining, and though the moon rode between piles of angry clouds, she sent forth at that moment an extraordinarily clear light. Betty could see the skeleton branches of the trees all wet and shining as they tossed against the sky; the little paved path glimmered white; yonder stood a dark patch--Dick’s hamper. She could see Duke pacing round and round his kennel, at the utmost length of his chain; now sniffing the ground, now lifting up his head for another howl.

She rapped at the pane and called to him sharply; and the dog looked up at her window, and suddenly wheeled in the opposite direction, pricking his ears.

Steps were heard approaching--slow, lagging steps--and presently two figures came staggering together out of the wood. Betty screamed as they emerged from the shadow, and then leaned forth, paralysed with dread; for as the two slowly advanced into the moonlit path she recognised Stubbs, the under-keeper, and saw that he was supporting, almost carrying, his companion.

“Be that you, Mrs. Whittle?” cried Stubbs. “Come down, Mum, come down this minute! This be a bad night’s work!”

The man leaning upon him raised his head with an inarticulate attempt to speak, and Betty saw that it was Jim--her own Jim--her husband! But, oh! what tale was that told by the drawn features and glassy eyes?

She had screamed at the unknown terror, but she uttered no sound now. Before they reached the door she had mechanically thrown on her dress over her nightgown, and had come downstairs, pattering with her bare feet. She flung open the door, and put her arms round her husband, almost as if she grudged him any support but hers.

“My poor little ’ooman!” said Jim brokenly; “I d’ ’low I’m done for.”

With Stubbs’ aid she stretched him on the sofa, and unfastened coat and waistcoat. She drew out her hand from his bosom suddenly, and looked at it with a shudder: it was red!

“Ah, he’s got the whole charge in en somewhere,” groaned Stubbs. “There was a lot of ’em out to-night, and we catched one of ’em; he fought like a devil, he did--’twas in wrestling wi’ him poor Whittle’s gun went off. Dear to be sure, ’tis awful to think on. His own gun!”

“Where’s the man?” asked Betty sharply; her face was as white as a sheet--her lips drawn back from her gleaming teeth.

“Oh, he made off, ye mid be sure,” returned the other. “I don’t know who he was. ’Twas in the thick o’ the trees yonder we come on ’em. Moon had gone in and ’twas as dark as pitch.”

“Do you think my husband will die!” gasped Betty.

“Ah! ’tis a bad job--’tis surely,” responded the other, almost whimpering; “and the worst on’t is we be nigh six mile from a doctor.”

“Oh, Mr. Stubbs,” cried the keeper’s wife earnestly, “let’s do everything we can, any way! Will ye go for the doctor for me? Do! I’ll--I’ll give ye every penny in the house if ye will!”

“Lard! my dear ’ooman, I don’t want no pay for doin’ what I can at sich a time. I’ll go, to be sure, an’ make so much haste as I can; but--won’t ye be afeard to bide here all alone--and him so bad?”

Betty saw that he expected her husband would die before his return, but she did not flinch.

“I will do anything in the world so long as there’s a chance of saving him!” she cried. “Run, Mr. Stubbs, run! Make haste--oh, do make haste!”

Stubbs drew his arm from beneath the wounded man’s shoulder, and hastened away without another word. Betty went to her linen-drawer, and found an old sheet, which she tied round Jim’s body to staunch the bleeding; he seemed to have received the charge chiefly in his right side. He opened his eyes and smiled at her faintly, and then she dropped on her knees beside him.

“Jim,” she whispered, “you never went away arter all?”

He shook his head feebly. “I meant it for the best,” he said; “I heard these chaps would be up to their tricks to-night, and I thought me and Stubbs ’ud catch them.”

“Oh, Jim,” said Betty, “ye told me a lie!”

“I meant it for the best, my dear,” he returned faintly. “I didn’t want ye to be frayed--poor little ’ooman! Ye mustn’t be vexed.”

Betty stooped and kissed him, and he closed his eyes.

“I reckon I’m goin’,” he said. “Well, I done my dooty. But what ’ull ye do, my dear?”

“I’ll manage,” said Betty.

Her voice had a harsh note quite unlike its own; she sank down in a heap on the floor, staring before her. She knew what she would do if Jim died. She would first of all find the man who had killed him, and then--oh, he should pay for it!

Jim had fallen into a kind of drowsy state, and presently his hand slipped down and unconsciously touched hers: it was very cold. Betty, rousing herself, went towards the hearth, drawing the embers together. There was not enough fuel, however, to make much of a fire; and, softly opening the door, she went out to the woodshed, her bare feet making no sound on the damp stones. As she was returning with her burden the wicket-gate swung open, and Dick Tuffin come up the path.

“Mrs. Whittle! Mrs. Whittle!” he called pantingly.

She turned and confronted him. The moon had dipped behind the trees and she could not distinguish his face, but something in the aspect of the man struck her with a lightning-like intuition.

“Come in,” she said hoarsely.

Dick followed her into the house, starting back at sight of the prostrate figure on the couch. Betty dropped her wood on the hearth and came swiftly across to him with her panther-like tread. There was an expression on her face which might have recalled the beast in question. She placed both her hands upon his breast, and he, giving way before them, stepped backwards a few paces.

“Look at him,” said Betty; “he is dying! Dick Tuffin, it is you who have killed my husband!”

“I swear I didn’t know it was him,” faltered Dick. “I’d no thought of harm. I went out with the others for a frolic. You yourself did tell I your husband was miles away.”

She had told him! He would make out that she had delivered him into their hands! A red mist came before her eyes.

“Even when he did catch I,” went on Dick, “I didn’t know who ’twas. But somebody told me jist now that Stubbs was runnin’ for the doctor for en, so I come--I couldn’t rest, ye see. I had to come. Mrs. Whittle, I don’t know what you’ll say to me.”

Betty said nothing at all, but the steady pressure of her hands upon his breast increased, and, as before, Dick recoiled beneath it. Her eyes were blazing in her white face; her dishevelled fair hair fell about her shoulders. Dick gazed at her remorsefully, suffering her unresistingly to push him the length of the little room and through an open doorway. He imagined her to be ejecting him from the house, but all in a moment she threw her whole weight upon him with such violence that he stumbled and fell. Before he could recover he found the door closed upon him and bolted. He heard hasty steps in the inner room and the dragging across the floor of some heavy piece of furniture, which was presently pushed against the door.

“Mrs. Whittle!” he called out, “what are you doing? Are you mad?”

Then came Betty’s voice, harsh and broken: “I’ve got ye, Dick Tuffin! Ye can’t get out; there’s no window and no other door. I’ve got ye and I mean to keep ye! Ye’ve killed my husband--ye’ve made me a widow and my child an orphan--an’ I’ll not rest till I do the same by your wife and your child.”

And then something else came battering up against the door. Dick had no doubt but that the barricade was now complete. He felt about him in the darkness, identifying shelves, one or two small barrels, a crock: he was in the buttery most likely. He might possibly force his way out; the bolt was in all probability not very strong, and once the door was opened he could soon do away with all other obstacles; but then he would have that fierce woman to encounter. He could not escape without doing her some hurt, and the awful face of the wounded man would again meet his gaze. Besides, of what use would it be to attempt to escape? He was well known in the place, and the police would soon track him.

He sat down, therefore, with the resignation of despair, shivering from time to time, and straining his ears for every sound in the next room. He heard poor Jim groan now and then, and Betty speak to him in a voice of such yearning tenderness that it was scarcely recognisable as the same which had threatened himself a little while before. He thought of Betty as she had first come upon him, so young and gay in her pink dress, and with her yellow hair glancing in the sun, and of the child which he had so often dandled in his arms. Widow and orphan! Widow and orphan! And all because Dick Tuffin had gone out with a few idle chaps for a night’s frolic. And then he thought of his own little woman at home: he seemed to see her in her “deep”. And the little one, who would never be able to hold up his head because they hanged his father.

Thus did he muse very sorrowfully until slumber overtook him in that inexplicable fashion with which it will sometimes come upon the weary and anxious of heart. And he slept until the grey light of morning began to creep through the chinks of the barricaded door.

He heard voices in the adjoining room--men’s voices, and Betty’s; then the tread of feet walking in unison. The little stairs creaked; the heavy footfalls now tramped in the room overhead, then descended again, and crossed the kitchen. Now the folks were leaving the house; he could hear them clattering down the path, and caught the swing of the gate.

“It’s all over,” he said to himself, “they’ve carried the poor chap upstairs.”

A sudden numbness came upon him: it was true, then, and not a bad dream. Poor Jim Whittle was dead, and he, Dick, had killed him; and now Betty would give him up to the police, and he would be tried and convicted and hanged.

Dick was not very learned in the statutes of his country, and had no manner of doubt that since the keeper had been killed in struggling with him--by his hand, it might be said, for the gun had gone off owing to Dick’s endeavour to wrench it away--he would have to pay the full penalty of the law. To be hanged by the neck until he was dead. He put his hand to his throat, and drew a long sobbing breath.

After what seemed an interminable time, he heard once more the sound of voices in the kitchen--a man’s voice and Betty’s--then a quick firm step crossing the room to the house-door, and finally the retreating sounds of a horse’s feet. Then there was a scraping and bumping of furniture; the rim of light which had been perceptible but half-way down the door suddenly lengthened, the bolt grated in its hasps, and in another moment Betty stood before him.

Dick had been so long imprisoned in the darkness that at first he could hardly bear the flood of wintry light which burst upon him. And there, in the midst of it, was the woman, with so bright a face that he could scarce credit his eyes. She stretched out both hands to him and cried:--

“He be to live! Doctor says he be to live!” Her voice faltered and broke, the tears leaped from her eyes. “Thank God!” she cried. “Oh, thank God! He’ll live! My Jim’s to live!”

Dick came staggering forth from his cell. His brown face was blanched to a sickly pallor; he trembled in every limb. Choking back her sobs, Betty again extended her hand to him, and he wrung it; but, turning from her, he leaned against the wall, hiding his face. His shoulders were heaving.

“Doctor says he’ll not die,” pursued Betty betwixt laughing and crying. “He’s young and strong, he says, and he’ll get over it. ‘We’ll get as much lead as we can out of him,’ says doctor, ‘and he’ll carry the rest quite comfortable, as many another has done before him.’”

She laughed a feeble, wavering laugh that ended in a sob. “He said we’d best get him upstairs and put him to bed,” continued Betty. “Stubbs and another man come up from the village, so they carried him up; and doctor’s been with him a long time, and he’s sleepin’ now.”

She told her tale brokenly, with a little gasp between each word; but Dick made no comment. Presently he turned round again, his face still working.

“Mrs. Whittle,” he said unsteadily, “I’d like ye to hear me say so solemn as I can, as I’ll never lay another finger on any creature in the woods. I’ll never touch another feather----”

“Oh, it’s all right, it’s all right!” interrupted she quickly. “I’d like ye to hear _me_ say summat too. I was mad last night, but I bain’t so hard-hearted as I made out. Even if my Jim had died I wouldn’t never ha’--I wouldn’t ha’ made a widow of your poor wife, nor yet an orphan o’ the baby.”

THE WOLD STOCKIN’.

Farmer Hunt stood leaning over his farmyard gate with the reflective, and at the same time pleasantly expectant, expression of the man who awaits at any moment a summons to dinner. To him, picking her steps cautiously down the muddy lane which led to his premises, came old Becky Melmouth, her skirts tilted high and an empty basket on her arm. Farmer Hunt nodded at her good-humouredly, and hailed her as soon as she was within hearing.

“What!” cried he. “Have ye brought me another of ’em?”

“I’ve a-brought ye two,” returned Becky triumphantly. “But maybe you’re too busy to attend to me just now,” she added, with a glance that was half apologetic and half appealing.

“Oh, I can spare a minute for that,” said the farmer good-naturedly. “Brewery hooter’s not gone yet, and we don’t have dinner till one. Step in, Mrs. Melmouth.”

He preceded her into the house, and led the way to a small parlour, empty save for a large yellow cat which lay curled up on the hearthrug. With a mysterious air which assorted with the cautious glance thrown round by Becky as she closed the door, he proceeded to unlock a large oak chest, and thrusting in his hand, drew forth a faded worsted stocking. As he handed this to the old woman the contents chinked with a portentous sound. Mrs. Melmouth’s eyes glistened, and her rosy wrinkled face wreathed itself with smiles, as she slowly undid the knot at the upper end, and thrust in her hand. A further chinking sound ensued, and she looked jubilantly up at the farmer.

“There be a lot on ’em now,” she remarked.

“Ah, sure!” he agreed. “An’ you be bringin’ two shillin’ more, you do say?”

“Two shillin’ an’ a thruppenny bit,” corrected Becky gleefully. “I be doin’ uncommon well wi’ my eggs an’ chicken jist now.”

“Dear heart alive! Keep the thruppence, ’ooman!” cried Mr. Hunt, with a certain amount of impatience. “It ’ull maybe buy you a relish of some sort as ’ull make ye fancy your victuals more. I reckon you do scrimp too much.”

Becky pursed up her lips and shook her head.

“I’d sooner save it,” said she. “Can I have the book, sir.”

“Ah, sure ye can,” returned the farmer, and, after rummaging a moment in the chest, he produced a small account-book with a pencil attached to it by means of a much-worn bit of string.

Becky meanwhile had been fumbling for her spectacles, and having now assumed them, she proceeded to enter the sum she had so proudly mentioned, to her banking account.

“How much does that make?” she added, peering up at Mr. Hunt through her glasses; her toothless gums parted in a smile which was already rapturous.

“Let me see,” returned he, taking the book from her hand; “last time I reckoned it up there was forty pound in it, an’ you’ve a-been here twice since--and again to-day. You’ve got in that there wold stockin’, Mrs. Melmouth, forty pound four shillin’ an’ ninepence. It do do ye credit,” he added handsomely; “ah! that it do. ’Tisn’t many a hard-workin’ body same as yourself would put by half so much. Ye’ve put in over nine pound since I took charge of it for ye.”

“An’ that’s ten year ago come Michaelmas,” said Becky, with modest pride. “But Melmouth an’ me had been savin’ for thirty year afore that.”

“An’ you yourself ’ull go on savin’ for another thirty year, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Mr. Hunt, with a jovial laugh. “There ye be so strong upon your legs as ever you was, an’ never sick nor sorry, be ye?”

“Well, not to speak on, thanks be,” responded Becky. “But I could feel a deal easier-like in my mind if I could settle who it’s all to go to when I be gone. I be puzzled what to do--ah! that I be. Thicky wold stockin’ do lay upon my heart jist same as a lump o’ lead.”

“It didn’t ought to be such a trouble to ye,” said Mr. Hunt. “Divide it, Mrs. Melmouth. Divide it fair and square among your nevvies and nieces.”

“No,” cried Mrs. Melmouth, shaking her head vehemently and sucking in her breath at the same time. “No-o-o, sir, ’twouldn’t never do, that wouldn’t. It must go all in a lump. Melmouth and me settled it that way years an’ years ago. He’d save a shillin’, d’ye see, an’ I’d scrape together another to put to it, an’ so we’d go on--for a rainy day, he’d say--but no rainy day ever did come----”

“And what a good thing that was,” chimed in the farmer; “there isn’t many folks can say the same.”

“Very like there bain’t. Thanks be, as I do say, Mester Hunt; thanks be for all mercies! But there ’tis, d’ye see.” Here her face assumed an anxious expression and she dropped her voice cautiously. “Who’s it to go to? Rector do tell I, I ought to be makin’ my will.”

“True enough,” said Mr. Hunt judiciously; “so you ought, Becky, so you ought.”

“Well, but,” resumed Mrs. Melmouth, “who’s to have it? Melmouth, he wer’ set on its going in a lump. Says he often an’ often, ‘Let it go in a lump, Becky, whatever you do do. Settle it as you do like’--he did say--‘for the dibs belongs to both on us equal. Let Simon (that’s my nevvy) have ’em, or let ’em go to Rosy’--Rosy be his sister’s oldest maid--‘but don’t divide ’em,’ says he; ‘let ’em go in a lump.’”

Here Becky paused, and the farmer looked at her in silence, scratching his jaw in a non-committal manner.

“Sometimes,” resumed Becky, “it do seem as if ’twould be right to leave it to Simon, him bein’ a man an’ my own flesh an’ blood. That there bit o’ money--’twas me first had the notion o’ puttin’ it by, and, as Melmouth did often use to say, there couldn’t be no savin’ done in the house wi’out I put my shoulder to the wheel. But, there! Rosy--Melmouth was oncommon fond o’ Rosy’s mother, and o’ Rosy herself when she was a little maid.”

“Ah! you haven’t seen Mrs. Tuffin an’ her family since they shifted to Sturminster?” put in the farmer as she paused.

Mrs. Melmouth shook her head.

“I often wish I could,” she said; “but ’tis so far.”

“An’ have ye seen Simon?” inquired the farmer. “He be a dairy chap, bain’t he?--’tis some time since he went to service.”

“Ah! he’ve a-got a very good place t’other side o’ Darchester. He do write beautiful letters to my sister at Christmas. There, they be jist same’s as if they come out of a book.”

“P’r’aps they are out of a book,” suggested Mr. Hunt. “There did use to be a book about letter-writin’ when I was a young chap; but what it wanted to say was never same as what I wanted to say, and my mother--poor soul! couldn’t spell the long words, so I did give up using it. But since ye haven’t seen either of these two young folks for so long, Mrs. Melmouth, why not ax ’em both to come and stop wi’ ye, an’ see which ye do like the best? You’d soon find out then what they was both made on, an’ I’d pick out the one as did please ye most to leave the stockin’ to.”

“Well, there, that’s a notion,” said Becky reflectively. “I mid do that, I mid very well do that. Easter week, Simon mid very well get a holiday--an’ Rosy--I mid ask her mother to spare her to me at the same time.”

“Do!” said Farmer Hunt encouragingly. “I’ll reckon ye’ll find ’tis a very good notion.”

“I reckon I will--and thank you, Farmer, for puttin’ it into my mind. There, I should never ha’ thought on’t.”

“Two heads is better than one, ye see,” said Mr. Hunt.

And then he locked up the stocking again, handed Mrs. Melmouth her basket, and betook himself to his midday meal with the comfortable sensation which follows on a good-natured act that has cost nothing.

Mrs. Melmouth left the house and trudged homewards, revolving the new idea in her mind. Simon could have the back bedroom, and Rosy could sleep with her; ’twas a very good notion to have ’em both together; a man always gave a deal o’ trouble in a house, and Rosy could help a bit. Not but what Simon must make himself useful too. His aunt privately resolved to hold over the setting of the potatoes until he came; the bit o’ work he might do then would go a good way towards his keep, reflected the thrifty soul.

With much thought and care she penned her invitations that afternoon; they were brief and to the point, intimating in each case the writer’s wish to become better acquainted with the young relative in question.

Rosy’s answer came by return of post, written in a beautiful, round, clear hand which did credit to her schooling, and accepting with rapture. Simon’s reply did not come to hand for two or three days. It was ill-spelt and ill-written on a somewhat dirty piece of ruled paper, which looked as if it had been torn off the bottom of a bill:--

“Dear Ant,” it said, “i don’t know if i can be spaired, but if the bos is willin i will cum. Yours truly nevew, S. FRY.”

His aunt pursed up her lips as she perused this document.

“He mid ha’ taken a bit more pains,” she said to herself; “he ha’n’t got this out of a book, anyhow.”

It was possible, indeed, that even _The Complete Letter-Writer_ did not contain a missive from a young man who had been asked to spend his holidays with an aunt in the country, and that Simon, in consequence, was thrown on his own resources.

“But he don’t seem so very anxious to come,” she thought. “He mid ha’ said ‘Thank ye,’ too--Rosy did seem to be far more thankful. But Simon--p’r’aps he means better nor what he says.”

With this charitable reflection Becky laid aside the letters and went to feed her chickens.

Rosy, who was living at home, and in consequence not tied down to any particular date, arrived a day before the other guest. She was a pretty girl of the dark-haired, clear-skinned type so often to be seen in Dorset; her eyes were brown like her hair, and her complexion matched her name to a nicety. The carrier dropped her and her tin box at the corner of the lane which led to Mrs. Melmouth’s cottage, and she came staggering down to her aunt’s door bent in two beneath the weight of her belongings. Mrs. Melmouth stood on the threshold and watched her.

“That’s right,” she remarked, as the girl set down her trunk and straightened herself, breathless and laughing, “I be main glad to see ye. Ye be sich a handy maid, my dear. There, I declare ye’ve just come in nice time to get the tea.”

Now Rosy, who was tired and thirsty after her long jolting in the carrier’s van, had half-expected to find tea ready. She felt a little bewildered and slightly annoyed on being sent first to the well and then to the woodshed, and then having to reach down the best china from the top shelf, and, moreover, to dust it, conscious all the time of wearing her best frock with sleeves too tight at the wrist to turn up comfortably. It was a very crestfallen Rosy indeed who finally sat down to partake of that particularly well-earned cup of tea.

But Mrs. Melmouth was radiant.

“To-morrow,” said she, “I’ll get ye to make that there back room ready for my nevvy.”

“Your nephew?” echoed Rosy, somewhat taken aback.

It had been well enough surmised by the Tuffin family that Aunt Becky had a tidy sum put by, though they were as ignorant of the precise amount as of the receptacle in which she had stored it. The invitation to Rosy had awakened certain half-formed hopes in the girl’s own breast, as well as in those of her parents, and she looked very blank at the announcement that a rival aspirant was so soon to come upon the scene.

“Ah!” said Mrs. Melmouth, stirring her tea vigorously, “my nevvy, Simon Fry. He be comin’ to spend his hollerday here. That room ’ull want a good doin’ out,” she continued placidly, “an’ there’s a lot o’ wold things there as ’ull have to be shifted afore you can get to work. But ye can get up pretty early--it’ll be ready time enough, I dare say. He’ll not be here much afore tea-time.”

Rosy had formed certain private plans as to the disposal of her Good Friday; there were friends of her mother’s to visit, old playmates of her own to look up--these, being of the same age as herself, would doubtless have some little jaunt in view. And now the whole day was to be spent in cleaning up for Simon Fry. Simon, who was nephew by blood to Aunt Becky, while she was only niece by marriage--there could not be much doubt as to who would prove the favourite. Rosy felt she had been inveigled from her home on false pretences; it was not out of affection that Mrs. Melmouth had sent for her, but simply to secure her help with the housework and to make her wait upon Mr. Simon Fry.

Her aunt glanced at her sharply as she flushed and bit her lip, but made no remark; and presently Rosy regained her good humour.

For was it not the sweetest of spring evenings, and were not the thrushes singing in the wood just behind the cottage, and were there not primroses in bloom on either side of the path that led to the gate? Rosy could see them through the open door and fancied she could smell them, and the breeze that lifted her curly hair from her brow was refreshing after her stuffy drive and recent labours. She had come from a back street in Sturminster, where the air was not of the same quality, and the surroundings far less inviting.

“’Tis nice to live in the country, aunt,” said she with a bright smile.

Next morning she rose with the lark, and being strong and capable had got Mr. Simon’s room into excellent order before breakfast. As she made the bed she could not resist giving a vicious thump or two to the pillow.

“Set ye up, indeed,” she murmured. “Ye may make your own bed arter this, Mr. Dairy Chap!”

If she had hoped that her matutinal labours would leave her free for the remainder of the day she was disappointed. Mrs. Melmouth gave her a pressing invitation to assist her at the wash-tub, having, as she informed her with an engaging smile, expressly saved up the dirty linen for her that week.

“To wash on Good Friday!” exclaimed Rosy, aghast. “Dear, to be sure, aunt, ’tis the unluckiest thing you can do.”

“Unlucky? Fiddlesticks!” retorted Mrs. Melmouth. “A good day for a good deed--so say I.”

Rosy therefore remained immersed in suds during the greater part of that day; and though at first she could have cried with vexation, she soon found herself amused by the old woman’s talk; and with every fresh excursion to the hedge her spirits went up. The air was so fresh, the sunshine so bright, the clean, wet linen smelt quite nice, she thought, here in the country. Then the hedge itself, with its little red leaf-buds gaping here and there so as to show the crumpled-up baby leaves within--it had an attraction of its own; and she could never be tired of looking at the primroses that studded the bank beneath.

As she stood by the hedge on one occasion after having tastefully disposed the contents of a basket on its prickly surface, she was hailed by a voice from the road.

“Be this Widow Melmouth’s?”

The girl peered over the hedge at the speaker, her curly hair flapping in the breeze, her cheeks pinker than ever, partly from her recent exertions, partly from excitement. There stood a stalwart young countryman in corduroys and leggings, a bundle in one hand, a stout stick in the other. He had a brown, good-humoured face, with twinkling blue eyes, and a smile that displayed the most faultless teeth in the world.

“This be Widow Melmouth’s, bain’t it?” he repeated, altering the form of his question.

“It be,” returned Rosy; then she nodded towards the house. “My aunt’s inside,” said she.

Both, from opposite sides of the hedge, directed their steps towards the gate.

“Your aunt?” said the young man. “Then we be cousins, I suppose?”

And thereupon as each paused beside the gate, and before Rosy had time to realise his intentions, he leaned across and kissed her.

“How dare you!” cried Rosy, springing back and rubbing her cheek vigorously, while tears of anger started to her eyes. “How dare you, Mr. Fry? Cousins, indeed! We be no such thing, and I’ll trouble you not to take liberties. You’ll find your aunt indoor.”

With that she stalked back to her wash-tub.

“He’s come,” she announced as she passed Mrs. Melmouth, who was engaged in rinsing out a few fine things in a crock.

“Who? Simon! I’m glad to hear it. Ye’d best come out a minute and make acquaintance.”

“I’ve made quite acquaintance enough,” retorted Rosy, plunging her arms into the suds. “He’s an impudent chap!”

“I’ll go warrant you are a bit jealous,” said Mrs. Melmouth, and with a chuckle she went forth to greet her guest.

Indeed, from the very first it seemed evident that Rosy had good cause for jealousy. Mrs. Melmouth seemed never tired of commenting on Simon’s likeness to her family, prefacing her remarks with the assertion that she had always been dearly fond of Sister Mary. She further observed two or three times during the course of the evening that blood was certainly thicker than water, and that a body should think o’ their own afore lookin’ round for other folks. Poor Rosy, hot and tired after her exertions at the wash-tub, took these hints in rather evil part; not, indeed, that she was of a grasping nature, but that she had an indefinable feeling of having been unfairly dealt with.

Simon, however, saw nothing amiss; it was apparent that he looked upon his visit solely and wholly as an “outing,” and had no ulterior views as to his aunt’s testamentary dispositions. If he had ever heard of her savings he had evidently forgotten about them; he had left home young, and, except for the wonderful epistolary effort which he sent to his mother each Christmas, corresponded little with his family. He admired Rosy very much, and could not understand why she was so short in her speech and stand-off in her manner. It was perhaps her repellent tone and evident moodiness which caused Mrs. Melmouth to lay so much stress on Simon’s various good qualities.

During the course of the evening young Fry remarked with a yawn and a stretch that he intended to have a good sleep on the morrow.

“Jist about,” he added emphatically. “Ah! ’twill be summat to hear clock strikin’ and to turn over warm an’ snug thinkin’ I needn’t get up to drive up the cows. To-morrow’s Saturday, too--if I were yonder I’d ha’ had to clean out fifteen pigstyes afore breakfast.”

“Think of that!” said Mrs. Melmouth. “’Tater-settin’s different, bain’t it? Ye wouldn’t mind so much gettin’ up a bit early to set ’taters--would ye, Simon?”

Simon’s jaw dropped, and he looked ruefully at his relative.

“I thought I wer’ goin’ to have a real hollerday for once,” he said hesitatingly. “There, if you do want me to do any little job for ye in a small way I don’t mind doin’ of it. But settin’ ’taters! You’ve a goodish bit o’ ground, an’ there is but the two days--I did look to have my sleep out to-morrow,” he concluded desperately.

“I did count on ye,” persisted Mrs. Melmouth mildly. “Ah! so did I. Said I to myself, ‘I’ll save up them ’taters ’gainst the time my nevvy do come’--I says. ‘He be a good-natured young man,’ I says, ‘and I know he will do what I do ax him.’ ’Tis beautiful weather for early risin’, Simon, my dear, and you’ll feel the air so nice and fresh while you’re workin’. I’ll have a dew-bit ready for ye. Ye won’t disapp’int me, I’m sure.”

“Oh! I’ll not disapp’int ye,” returned Simon dolefully. “I can’t work on Sunday, of course,” he added, brightening up a little. “That’s summat, an’ if I work real hard to-morrow I mid have a chance o’ gettin’ off a bit on Monday. Where be the ’taters, aunt? If we was to cut up some o’ the sets to-night, we’d get on faster to-morrow.”

“Ah, to be sure,” agreed his aunt with alacrity. “I’ll fetch a basket of ’em in a minute, an’ Rosy there can help ye. She’ll be busy to-morrow cleanin’ up indoor; but she’ll give you a hand to-night.”

But Rosy now felt the time had come for her to assert herself. She glanced at the drawerful of stockings which lay on the chair beside her, and then raised her eyes to her aunt’s face.

“I know nothin’ about cuttin’ up sets,” said she, “an’ I don’t fancy sich work. I’ve got all this darnin’ to do. That’s enough for anybody, I think.”

“Oh, very well,” responded Mrs. Melmouth with some dudgeon. “I’ll help you then, Simon. I’ll fetch ’taters, an’ then I’ll help you.”

When she returned she found Simon and Rosy sitting as she had left them, in absolute silence, Simon drumming on the table and looking dubiously at Rosy, who darned away without raising her eyes.

“There’s an odd stocking here,” she remarked snappishly, as her aunt sat down. “What am I to do with that?”

Mrs. Melmouth, gazing at her sternly, determined to profit by the opportunity her niece had unconsciously presented to her, and to give her the lesson she deserved.

“That there stockin’,” she said impressively, as she took it from the heap and held it up for their inspection, “that there stockin’ is more vallyable nor it do look. It is feller to one what’s worth farty pound.”

Both exclaimed and stared.

“I’ve always kep’ it for that,” resumed Mrs. Melmouth. “’Tis nigh upon farty year old--an’ the feller to it is worth farty pound. Your uncle and me did begin savin’ the very year we was first married, an’ I’ve a-gone on ever since. When Melmouth died there was over thirty pound in it. I didn’t like to have so much money about, livin’ here all alone, so I axed Farmer Hunt to take charge on’t for me. That’s ten year ago. Well, since then I’ve a-gone on pinchin’ an’ scrapin’, a shillin’ here, a sixpence there, till I’ve got together nigh upon ten pound more.”

“Well, I never heerd o’ such a thing!” exclaimed Simon heartily. “Ye must have been wonderful clever an’ contrivin’, Aunt Becky!”

“Ah, I’ll take that much credit to myself,” replied his aunt. “I do truly think I was. But there it be now, an’ it be all to go in a lump to one o’ you two. I mid as well tell you straight-out. ’Tis to go in a lump--Melmouth an’ me settled it that way. ‘We saved it between us, an’ you can leave it,’ he says, ‘either to my niece or to your nevvy--but it must go in a lump.’”

“Well, I’m sure!” said Simon; and then he looked dubiously at Rosy, who was holding her curly head very high. “’Twas very well said o’ the wold gentleman,” he continued lamely.

“I couldn’t make up my mind no ways,” resumed Mrs. Melmouth, “till at last I wer’ advised to have you both here together and see for myself which I do like the best. So if you do have to make yourselves a bit obligin’, it’ll p’r’aps be worth your while. Ye mid be sure my choice will fall on the most obligin’.”

Rosy smiled disdainfully and returned to her darning. It was easy to see, she thought, on whom the choice would fall.

Simon eyed her askance, realising now the reason of the girl’s evident aversion to himself, but he made no comment beyond an occasional ejaculation under his breath. “Farty pound! Well now! I’m sure ’twas very well thought on,” and the like.

Next morning, just when Simon’s slumbers were at their deepest and sweetest, he was awakened by an imperative hammering and scratching at the partition which separated his room from that of Mrs. Melmouth; and thereupon dutifully, if somewhat reluctantly, he arose, and soon afterwards found his way to the garden.

Early as it was, Rosy was already at work shaking sundry bits of carpet, worn almost threadbare and terribly dusty.

“Let me give you a hand,” exclaimed Simon gallantly. “Sich work’s too hard for a maid.”

“No, thank ye,” returned Rosy sharply. “I shan’t get much credit anyway; but what I said I’d do, I’ll do,” and she gave another vicious shake to the ragged carpet.

“I be pure sorry you should think I want to rob ye of any credit,” observed Simon mournfully. “There, you do seem to ha’ turned again’ me terrible; and ’tis quite other-way wi’ me--I did like ’ee from the first.”

“No thanks to ye, then!” retorted Rosy; and, snatching up a stick, she began to belabour the mat with so meaning an air that Simon felt as if the onslaught were committed on his own shoulders.

“I wish you’d get on with your work,” she exclaimed presently. “You’re the favourite, and you’ll get the reward, but you mid jist so well do summat to earn it.”

“Now look ’ee here,” said Simon, and his usually merry eyes flashed angrily; “this here bit o’ business bain’t to my likin’ no ways. What do I care for the wold stockin’? I can earn enough to keep myself--ah, that I can--an’ I could keep a wife, too, if I wanted one; an’ what’s farty pound? The wold ’ooman had best keep it to be buried with.”

“For shame!” cried Rosy. “’Tis pure ongrateful of ye to speak so, and Aunt Becky so took up wi’ ye.”

“Well, I can’t help it,” returned the young man bluntly. “The job bain’t to my likin’. I did come out for a hollerday, and here I be ordered to set ’taters--an’ what’s more, I get nothin’ but cross looks and sharp words what I don’t deserve.”

“I’m sure your aunt speaks civil enough,” said Rosy in a somewhat mollified tone.

“An’ so she mid,” responded he promptly. “She mid very well be civil when she do expect so much. But there’s others what’s uncivil, and ’tis that what I can’t abide. I’ve a good mind,” he added gloomily, “to cut an’ run--yes, I have,” he cried resolutely. “I’d sooner be cleanin’ out pigstyes nor be treated so unkind as you do treat I. But for that matter, my mother ’ull be glad enough to see I. I’ll step home-along--that’s the very thing I’ll do; I’ll step home-along.”

“Oh, but what will Aunt Becky say?” cried Rosy in alarm.

“Aunt Becky be blowed!” exclaimed Simon with decision. “Let her say what she pleases. I’ll leave her an’ you to make it up together. ’Tis more nor flesh an’ blood can stand to be treated as you’ve a-treated I since I did come to this house.”

“Oh, please--please don’t go!” gasped the girl. “There, I really didn’t mean--I--I--I only thought my aunt a bit unjust.”

“Well, and very like she was,” said Simon magnanimously. “I think the money what was saved out o’ the man’s wage did ought to go to the man’s folk. You’ve the best right to that there stockin’, Miss Rosy, and I’ll not bide here to stand in your light.”

This was heaping coals of fire on Rosy’s pretty head with a vengeance. She looked up in Simon’s face with a smile, though there were tears in her eyes, and she impulsively dropped the carpet and held out two little sunburnt hands.

“Oh, please, Mr. Fry,” she said pleadingly, “please, Simon, do stay--do ’ee now. I’ll--I’ll--I’ll never be unkind again!”

“Is that a true promise, my maid?” asked Simon very tenderly.

Mrs. Melmouth, chancing at that moment to emerge from her house with the view of ascertaining how the young folks’ labours were progressing, discovered them standing in this most compromising attitude; Simon clasping both Rosy’s hands, Rosy looking earnestly into his face; and thereupon, true to her instincts, rated the couple soundly for their idleness. In two minutes Rosy had returned to her carpet with a flaming face, and Simon was walking slowly towards the potato-plot. As their aunt, still full of virtuous indignation, was returning to the house, her nephew’s tones fell distinctly on her ear:--

“How would it be if I was to give you a hand wi’ they things first, my maid, and then you could be helping me wi’ the sets?”

“Well, I declare,” commented Mrs. Melmouth, stopping short, “I believe they’ve started coortin’. It do really seem like it. Well, I never!”

She was turning about in preparation for a fresh outpouring of wrath, when she was struck by a sudden idea, and paused just as Rosy, with a nervous glance towards herself, walked sheepishly up to Simon, trailing the carpet behind her.

“We’d certainly get on much faster,” she said, speaking ostensibly to Simon, but really for her aunt’s benefit.

“I d’ ’low ye would,” said Mrs. Melmouth; and suddenly her brow cleared, and she turned once more to go indoors with a good-humoured smile. “I d’ ’low you’ll get on fast enough--wi’ the coortin’. But that ’ud be the best way o’ settlin’ it,” she added to herself--“I’ll leave the wold stockin’ in a lump to ’em both.”

A WOODLAND IDYLL.

It was the first Monday of August; the shops were shut in the little town of Branston, but life in the neighbouring villages was more astir than usual, for the men were for the most part working in their gardens and the women stood at their doorways or by their gates to view the passing vehicles. These were not so numerous after all--one might never have known it was a Bank Holiday--yet every now and then a brake or a wagonette laden with noisy folk rattled by, leaving a trail of dust to mark its progress that lingered in a kind of cloud about the hedgerows long after it had passed.

Two miles away on the downs, another kind of haze caught the eye of Robert Formby as he strode across them, the golden glimmering haze which indicates intense heat; the sun had not yet set, but its rays struck the short herbage as though they must scorch it, and made the white streak of road which threaded the undulating tract positively glitter. But yonder was Oakleigh Wood, heavily green in its luxuriance of summer foliage. As Robert swung along, with the fierce sunshine beating on his brown neck and hands, he pictured it to himself: first, the grove of firs with all its spicy scents streaming forth at this hour, then the open space where the rabbits would presently frolic, then, stretching away, the wide dense coppice of hazel and oak and ash. He thought of the broad drives where the feet sank deep in cool lush grass, and of the narrow and more secret paths between serried green walls, where scarce a single burning ray might penetrate, though far, far away at the very end of a long vista, a peep of luminous sky was to be had.