Chapter VII: Part 7

“‘Oh! but what can I do?’ cries the poor maid, a-sobbin’ fit to break her heart. ‘There’s not a bit o’ use in my goin’ back. None of ’em would believe the tale. My uncle would make me go all the same, I know.’

“‘E-es, to be sure,’ says Maria Robbins, looking at Jim very sour-like; ‘’tisn’t very likely as Mr. Meadway ’ud be put off by a chance tale from a stranger. There he’ve a-been at the expense o’ gettin’ everthin’ ready for the maid, and this ’ere gentleman what writes so straightforward an’ sends the money so handsome, may be some quite other Mr. Johnson. I mind,’ says Maria, ‘the time o’ the Crimee War, Miss Old went into deep black for some chap called John Old, what got killed out abroad, and what she reckoned was her brother, an’ ’twasn’t him at all.’

“‘Samuel Johnson, o’ Longwood, is a nigger,’ cries Jim, smacking his hands together. ‘His grandfather was a slave. He belonged to some queer old gentleman what gave ’en the name to start wi’, ’cause ’twas the name of some old ancient chap what wrote a book or some such thing; an’ this chap was named for him Samuel Johnson too. There ain’t no mistake, you bet,’ says he.

“Well, Tamsine was a-cryin’ and a-shakin’ all over like a aspen leaf all this time; and when Maria was advisin’ her to be sensible an’ not hearken to them sort of idle tales, I thought she’d ha’ had a fit. I could ha’ laughed any other time to hear wold Maria, as was so dead again’ the girl marryin’ when she thought ’twas a nice match, an’ now she was all for her doin’ it, though she seed how skeart the poor maid was. Mrs. Mayne had a softer heart.

“‘If this be really true, Jan,’ she says, lookin’ at I, ‘it do seem a pity for the maid to go any forrarder. Better for her to stay at home and go to sarvice,’ says she. ‘There, Tamsine, give over cryin’. Nobody can force ye to go to America or to take up wi’ this ’ere nigger against your will. Go back an’ tell your uncle what you’ve a-heard, an’ let him keep ye a bit longer till ye’ve a-got a situation.’

“‘Oh, I dursn’t go back,’ says poor Tamsine. An’ then Jim reaches towards her and takes her by the hand again.

“‘Look here, my dear,’ says he, ‘don’t go back. Ye can go out to America,’ says he, ‘but it needn’t be to marry that dirty nigger. I’m going back to the States now,’ says he, ‘and I thought to take a wife wi’ me, but the maid I was coortin’ drew back at the last. She didn’t think so much of her word seemingly as you do. Come,’ says he, ‘you’ve seen me an’ you haven’t seen Samuel Johnson. Look me in the face and tell me if you think you could put up wi’ me?’

“The poor maid she was that upset, and that surprised, she couldn’t for the life of her look at ’en, an’ he leaned over an’ took her by the chin, very gentle-like, an’ turned up her face.

“‘Look at me, my dear,’ says he, ‘an’ see if ye can trust me.’

“So at that Tamsine did look at ’en, wi’ the big tears standin’ on her eyelashes, an’ her mouth all a-quiverin’.

“‘I d’ ’low I could,’ says she.

“‘And, mind ye,’ goes on Jim, ‘I can make ye just so comfortable as t’other chap ’ud ha’ done. I’ve got a big place and a comfortable house, and I do want to settle down reg’lar. So say the word, my dear,’ says he.

“‘Lard, maid!’ cried Maria, so sudden-like that we all fair jumped, ‘whatever be ye thinkin’ on?’ says she; ‘’tis plain what he’ve made up this cock-an’-bull story for now,’ she says. ‘He be a reg’lar deludin’ deceiver; don’t ye ha’ nothin’ to say to ’en.’

“‘It do seem very sudden,’ says Mrs. Mayne; ‘I wouldn’t go out to America wi’ a stranger, Tamsine.’

“‘Do you trust me, my dear?’ says he, looking at Tamsine, and not takin’ no notice at all of nobody else.

“The maid she looked back at ’en more pitiful than ever, an’ then she did say:--

“‘I d’ ’low I do.’

“‘Well, then, so ye may,’ says he, a-shakin’ of her hand very serious like; ‘but I’ll make all fair and square for ye first. I’ll not ax too much of ye. We’ll be man and wife before we go,’ says he.

“So the whole thing was made up wi’out no more trouble nor that. Jim axed Mrs. Mayne if the maid could lodge wi’ her till they was married, an’ he settled straight off what he’d pay for her board. He did pull out a pocket-book stuffed wi’ money, so as even Maria Robbins could see the maid was a-doin’ well for herself.

“‘You hand me over that there money as Johnson sent ye,’ says he to Tamsine; ‘he must have it back by the next mail. I’ll look after ye now,’ says he. ‘My purse is your purse.’

“An’ though the man could scarce ha’ meant it, for I d’ ’low he was too sensible a chap to hold wi’ settin’ women-folk so much above theirselves as that ’ud shape to, ’twas a handsome thing for ’en to say. Well, Tamsine went to lodge wi’ Mrs. Mayne, for she couldn’t no ways make up her mind to go back to her uncle; an’ she did beg us all not to say a word about the changin’ her plan till the weddin’ was over, but Maria, she did go straight off to Meadways’ wi’ the tale. They were all in a terrible takin’ at first, an’ Mrs. Meadway she came to Mrs. Mayne’s an’ gave her an’ Tamsine a bit of her mind--more, I d’ ’low, on account of the maid not goin’ back to their place than for her takin’ up wi’ another man. ’Twas bringing disgrace on her family, says she.

“Poor Tamsine was in a terrible way, when in walks Jim Taylor, an’ what he said an’ what he did I couldn’t tell ye, but he managed to pacify them all. Meadways all come to the weddin’, an’ Jim was so taken up wi’ Tamsine’s little brothers and sisters, that he took two of ’em out wi’ ’en an’ sent for the others some time after. I d’ ’low he’d ha’ cut off his head for Tamsine.

“Well, that’s the end o’ the tale. Ye’ll agree ’twas a bit queer--the queerest thing as ever did happen to I, though, as I do say, Whitefoot an’ me have a-seen many queer things in our time.”

MRS. SIBLEY AND THE SEXTON.

It was Christmas Eve, and Mrs. Fry was returning home from Branston with a bulging pocket and a piled-up market-basket. Clinging to her skirts was the youngest baby but one, while Selina, her eldest daughter, trundled along the “pram,” the occupant of which was almost smothered amid parcels of various shapes and sizes. The intermediary members of Mrs. Fry’s family straggled between the two, all very clean and tidy and all beaming with good humour. Stanley, indeed, evinced a propensity to tumble into the gutter every now and then, while Wyndham and ’Erbert occasionally delayed the advance of the procession by playfully sparring at each other almost beneath the perambulator wheels. The little _cortège_ made slow progress, for, as Mrs. Fry laughingly observed, it was the hardest job in the world to get a big little family home-along; nevertheless, the general serenity remained undisturbed. It was pleasant enough to loiter on this fine dry afternoon, for the air was clear and crisp, and the roads clean and hard as iron. Even the baby cooed and chuckled as it squinted upwards at its sister from behind the whitey-brown parcel which reposed on its small chest.

The party at length turned off from the high road, and was proceeding tranquilly down the “dip” which led to the small group of cottages of which the Frys’ home made one, when from the farmyard gate on the right a tall woman emerged carrying a jug of milk.

“Be that you, Mrs. Fry? I stepped over to your place an hour ago, but there was no one at home.”

“We all comed out to do a bit o’ Christmas shoppin’, Mrs. Sibley, d’ye see. But I’m sorry I missed ye. Will ye step in and have a drop o’ tea wi’ us? Selina will hurry on and get it ready.”

“No, thank ye,” returned Mrs. Sibley gloomily; “I’ll not go in now, Mrs. Fry--not when all your family’s about. I was a-lookin’ for a word wi’ ’ee confidential-like. I was a-wantin’ for to ax your advice, Mrs. Fry.”

“Oh, and was ye?” said Mrs. Fry, much impressed. “Tell ’ee what--I’ll send the childern home wi’ ’Lina an’ I’ll step in to your place, Mrs. Sibley, my dear. But all Foyle’s family ’ull be there, won’t they?--there’ll not be much chance to talk private.”

“There will, though,” returned Mrs. Sibley. “I sent the childern out wi’ their father a-purpose. Things is gettin’ serious, Mrs. Fry; but there! I can’t converse out here. Best let the matter bide till we be safe in my house.”

Mrs. Fry hastily detached the small chubby hands of Halfred--she had a pretty taste in nomenclature--who was clinging to her skirts, and desiring the child to run home-along wi’ ’Lina, gave her undivided attention to her neighbour.

“Not here,” said Mrs. Sibley impressively, as she began to ply her with questions; “at my house.”

They turned aside into the first cottage of the group, and Mrs. Sibley, opening the gate, stalked in front of her crony along the flagged path, and flung open the house-door. Pausing in the middle of the kitchen, she added emphatically, “In Foyle’s house I should say.”

“It be the same thing, bain’t it?” returned Mrs. Fry cheerfully, “or like to be soon.”

“Be it?” said Mrs. Sibley witheringly. “Be it, Martha?”

Mrs. Fry set down her market-basket, and dropped into the nearest chair.

“Lard, my dear, you do make I feel quite nervish. Be things a-goin’ wrong?”

Mrs. Sibley folded her arms, and surveyed her for a moment in silence. She was an angular woman with a frosty eye, which she now fixed grimly on Mrs. Fry.

“I don’t say as they be a-goin’ wrong,” she remarked after a pause, “but they don’t seem to be a-goin’ right. Foyle, there, he haven’t got the spirit of a mouse.”

“Hasn’t he said nothin’--nothin’ at all?” inquired Mrs. Fry, resting a plump hand on either knee and leaning forward.

“Not a single word,” replied her friend; “that’s to say, not a word wi’ any sense in it. An’ Sibley have been gone six months now, mind ye.”

“So he have!” replied Mrs. Fry. “An’ ye mid say as you’ve been so good as a widder for nigh upon six year--ye mid indeed. A husband what’s in the ’sylum is worse nor no husband at all. An’ ye’ve a-been keepin’ house for Foyle these four year, haven’t ye?”

“Four year an’ two month,” responded Mrs. Sibley. “There, the very day after Mrs. Foyle were buried he did come to me an’ he says so plain-spoke as anything, ‘Mrs. Sibley,’ he says, ‘here be you a lone woman wi’out no family, an’ here be I wi’ all they little childern. Will ’ee come an’ keep house for I an’ look after ’em all? Ye’ll not be the loser by it,’ he says. So I looks him straight in the face: ‘I bain’t so sure o’ that, Mr. Foyle,’ I says. ‘I do look at it in this way, d’ye see. A woman has her chances,’ I says. ‘I don’t think Sibley ’ull last so very long--they seldom does at the ’sylum--an’ then here be I, a lone woman, as you do say. I mid very well like to settle myself again; an’ if I go an’ bury myself so far away from town in a place where there’s sich a few neighbours, I don’t see what prospects I’ll have.’”

“Well, that was straightforward enough,” commented Mrs. Fry. “He couldn’t make no mistakes about your meanin’.”

“He could not,” agreed Mrs. Sibley triumphantly; “an’ what’s more, he didn’t. He up an’ spoke as plain as a man could speak. ‘Well, Mrs. Sibley,’ he says, ‘there’s a Fate what rules us all.’ He be always a-sayin’ off bits o’ po’try an’ sich-like as he gets from the gravestones, ye know.”

“Ah,” remarked Mrs. Fry nodding, “being the sexton, of course, it do come nat’ral to ’en, don’t it?”

“‘There’s a Fate what rules us all,’ he says,” resumed Mrs. Sibley, “‘an’ we didn’t ought to m’urn as if we had no hope. If you was a free ’ooman, Mrs. Sibley--well, I’m a free man, and I’d make so good a husband as another. Maria did always find I so,’ he says.”

“Well, the man couldn’t have said more.”

“So you’d think. But why don’t he say summat now? There, I’ve a-kept his house an’ seen arter his childern for more nor four year. Time’s gettin’ on, ye know; I bain’t so young as I was.”

Mrs. Fry began a polite disclaimer, but was overruled by the other.

“I bain’t--’tisn’t in natur’ as I could be. I wer’ gettin’ a bit anxious this year when poor Sibley did seem to be hangin’ on so long, so I axed Rector to have ’en prayed for----”

“A-h-h-h?” ejaculated Martha, as she paused. “An’ that did put the Lard in mind of ’en, I should think.”

“It did put the Lard in mind of ’en,” agreed Mrs. Sibley with gusto. “The Lard see’d he warn’t no good to nobody in the ’sylum, an’ so he wer’ took.”

“An’ Foyle have never come forward?” remarked Mrs. Fry, after a significant pause.

“He’ve never made no offer, an’ he’ve never said a single word to show he were thinkin’ o’ sich a thing. Not _one word_, Mrs. Fry. I’ve given ’en the chance many a time. A month arter poor Sibley was buried I says to ’en, ‘Here be I now, Mr. Foyle,’ I says, ‘a widow ’ooman, the same as you be a widow man’.”

“An’ what did he say?” queried her neighbour eagerly.

“Oh, summat about the ’opes of a glorious resurrection,” returned Mrs. Sibley scornfully. “An’ another time I says to ’en, ‘Mr. Foyle,’ I says, ‘d’ye mind the talk what you an’ me did have when you first did ax I to keep house for ye?’ ‘What talk,’ says he. ‘Why,’ I says, ‘about me bein’ free an’ you makin’ a good husband.’ ‘Free,’ says he sighin’; ‘this life’s a bondage, Mrs. Sibley.’ An’ off he went.”

“Ah!” commented Mrs. Fry, “he wer’ thinkin’ o’ them verses what’s wrote on old Farmer Reed’s tombstone. I mind they do begin this way:--

‘This life is but a bondage,
My soul at last is free.’”

“That’s it,” agreed Mrs. Sibley nodding. “I says to ’en this marnin’, ‘Mr. Foyle,’ I says, ‘the New Year’s a-comin’, an’ I think there ought to be some change in the early part of it for you an’ me.’ ‘I don’t want no changes,’ he says; ‘I’m very well satisfied as I be.’ I’m gettin’ desperate, Mrs. Fry.”

“Well, ’tis very onconsiderate,” returned Martha, “very. I’m sure ye’ve said all ye could an’ done all ye could. ’Tis hard, too, for a woman to have to go a-droppin’ hints an’ a-takin’ the lead in such a delicate matter. I’m sure I don’t know what to advise, my dear.”

Mrs. Sibley rubbed her nose, and gazed at her friend meditatively.

“I’m about the only ’ooman in this ’ere place as Foyle could get to keep house for him,” she remarked. “I’ll tell ’ee what I’ll do, Mrs. Fry--I’ll march! Leastways,” she added, correcting herself, “I’ll tell ’en I be goin’. We’ll see how he’ll like that.”

“Ye mid try it,” said Martha reflectively; “it ’ud be a bit ark’ard, though, if he was to take ’ee at your word.”

“He’ll not do that,” returned Mrs. Sibley, continuing emphatically: “Now, Mrs. Fry, my dear, I’ll expect ’ee to act the part of a friend by me. If he do ax ye to lend ’en a hand or send over Selina to help ’en, don’t ye go for to do no such thing.”

“I won’t,” promised Mrs. Fry.

“An’ if he do say anything to ’ee about my leavin’, do ye jist let on as my mind be quite made up.”

“I will,” said Mrs. Fry.

“I’ll start packin’ at once then, to show ’en as I be in earnest,” said Mrs. Sibley, with a dry chuckle as her friend rose.

No sooner had Mrs. Fry edged through the narrow door with her market-basket than Mrs. Sibley set to work.

When Mr. Foyle, who united the double functions of carrier and sexton, unhitched the horse from his van, and, having seen to the animal’s comfort, went indoors, he was surprised to find his children, who had preceded him into the house, standing with scared faces round the packing-case, which occupied the centre of the kitchen, while Mrs. Sibley, with an air of great determination, was stowing away various articles therein.

“Hullo!” cried he, pausing in the doorway. “What’s the matter here? Isn’t tea ready?”

“You’d best put on the kettle, Florence,” said Mrs. Sibley, turning to the eldest child. “I haven’t had time to ’tend to it. Oh, be that you, Mr. Foyle? Would you kindly hand me down that there clock? I’m afeard the childern mid break it. Henery, just roll up that door-mat an’ fetch it here.”

“Dear heart alive, what be about, Mrs. Sibley?” ejaculated honest Foyle. “You haven’t had no bad noos, I hope?”

“Oh, no noos at all, Mr. Foyle. Nothin’ noo do never come a-nigh this ’ere place. I be goin’ to have a bit of a change--I did tell ’ee this marnin’ as I wanted a change, didn’t I? I be a-goin’ to shift, Mr. Foyle.”

“To shift!” ejaculated the sexton.

He slowly unwound the lengths of black and white comforter which were swathed about his neck, gaping at her the while.

“You’d best make tea, hadn’t you?” remarked Mrs. Sibley, ostentatiously counting over the plated spoons which were her property. “Florence ’ud very likely scald herself.”

The sexton dropped heavily into the nearest chair.

“Ye bain’t goin’ away to-night!” he gasped.

Mrs. Sibley straightened herself and eyed him reflectively. It might be a little awkward to say she _was_ leaving that night, for if by chance he _did_ take her at her word, she had not the remotest notion of where she could go.

“Not to-night,” she said at length, with the air of one making a concession. “I reckon to-morrow ’ull be time enough.”

Florence laid down the teapot and approached, her eyes round with consternation.

“Ye’re never goin’ to leave us on Christmas Day!” she ejaculated. “Oh, Auntie!”

“Auntie” was the title unanimously bestowed on Mrs. Sibley by the young Foyles, and accepted by that lady pending its exchange for a more intimate one.

In a moment Florence burst into tears, and the other children immediately followed suit, little Rosanna being indeed so overcome by her feelings that she was constrained to lie on the floor and scream.

Mrs. Sibley stooped over her and set her on her feet. Beneath her stiff and somewhat chilly demeanour she had a warm enough heart, and was sincerely attached to her charges, particularly the youngest, whom she had brought up from infancy.

“Ye’ll have to get another Auntie, my dear,” she remarked, winking away a tear. “And ’tis to be hoped as she’ll take as good care of you as I’ve a-done.”

The sexton breathed hard, but did not venture to protest, and Henery, after rubbing his eyes on his jacket sleeve, inquired in a reproachful tone why Auntie was going away.

“I wants a change, my dears,” reiterated Mrs. Sibley, bestowing a gentle shake on Rosanna, as a means of bringing her round, for the child, following her favourite mode of procedure when her feelings were too many for her, was rapidly growing black in the face. “I did tell Father so this marnin’--Father knows. He bain’t surprised, I’m sure. What must be, must be!” summed up Mrs. Sibley oracularly. Thereupon casting an inquiring eye round the room, she descried the warming-pan, which was hanging behind the door, pounced upon it, and stowed it away in the packing-case on top of the hearthrug.

Silence reigned for some moments, broken only by the sobs of the children and the rustling of Mrs. Sibley’s packing-papers.

“Ye’d best give the children their tea, Mr. Foyle,” she remarked, looking up presently. “They be in need of it, poor things. There, don’t ye cry so, Florence. Ye’ll be gettin’ another Auntie soon--at least, I hope so. Though reelly I don’t quite see who ye can call in, Mr. Foyle, I don’t indeed. I passed the remark to Mrs. Fry to-day, an’ she said she was sure she didn’t know who you could turn to. Her own hands was full, she said. Poor ’Lina was worked a deal too hard for a maid of her age, already. Them was her words. But sit down to your tea, do, Mr. Foyle. Get the bread, Florence; ’tis time for you to be growin’ handy. ’Tis you as ’ull have to be keepin’ the house most like.”

It might have been the result of Florence’s emotion, or it might have been owing to the fact that the shelf was a high one and Florence’s arms were short, but in some way or other in reaching down the loaf she managed to tumble it into the coal-box.

Foyle rose hastily, pushed the child on one side, picked up the loaf, dusted it with his sleeve, set it on the table, and went out, banging the door behind him.

As the sound of his retreating footsteps echoed down the path, Mrs. Sibley rose to her feet and smiled upon the children, who were now sobbing afresh.

“There, don’t ye make such a fuss,” she remarked soothingly. “Father’s a bit upset; ye mustn’t mind that. Get on with your teas, dears. There, ye may have a bit of jam to it to-night, as it’s Christmas Eve; and afterwards we’ll stick up some green, and you must all hang up your stockin’s and see what you’ll find there in the marnin’.”

Cheerfulness was immediately restored; little faces grimed by tears smiled afresh; plates were extended for plentiful helpings of blackberry jam, and soon little tongues were gleefully discussing the morrow’s prospects, and particularly the treasures which might be looked for in the stockings.

“But I’ve only got such a ’ittle stockin’,” lisped Rosanna, contemplating a chubby leg, which was, indeed, but imperfectly protected by about three inches of sock. “My stockin’ won’t hold half so much as the others.”

“There, I’ll lend you one of mine, then,” said Auntie, graciously; and, going to the chest of drawers in the corner, she drew forth a pair of her own substantial stockings, and presented one to the child.

As the children retired for the night, Henery paused beside her for a moment.

“You won’t truly go to-morrow, Auntie?” he pleaded coaxingly.

Mrs. Sibley paused a moment, and in the interval the sound of the sexton’s slouching step was heard without, and his hand fumbled at the latch.

“It do all depend on Father, Henery,” said Mrs. Sibley, raising her voice slightly. “He do know very well as I do want a change.”

Mr. Foyle entered, looking weary and depressed, and sat down in his customary chair. Mrs. Sibley cast a searching glance round the kitchen, and, possessing herself of a pair of spotted china dogs which adorned the mantel-piece, added them to her collection, and retired.

The sexton lit his pipe, and had been smoking in gloomy silence for some time, when Mrs. Sibley re-entered. Going to the dresser, and opening a drawer, she abstracted a number of oranges, nuts, crackers, and other such wares, and filled her apron with them.

“What be them for?” inquired the sexton diffidently.

“Why, they be surprises for the childern,” returned she.

“Ah,” rejoined John Foyle, “surprises, be they?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Sibley, “they do look for ’em reg’lar, they do. I do always fill their stockin’s wi’ ’em every Christmas.”

“Oh,” said the sexton, “put their surprises in their stockin’s, do ’ee?”

Mrs. Sibley nodded and withdrew, leaving John sunk in profound thought.

“This ’ere be a vale o’ tears,” he remarked presently, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe. He rose, went to the table, turned up the lamp a little more, and fetching pen, ink and paper from the window-sill on which they usually reposed, sat down to indite a letter. It cost him much labour and thought, but, after all, it was a brief enough document. When completed it ran thus: “If Mrs. Sibley will meet Mr. Foyle in the churchyard to-morrow morning about nine o’clock when nobody’s about she will hear of something to your advantage. Yours truly, John Foyle.”

“I couldn’t,” said the sexton to himself, “put the question in any sort of public way. The childern is in and out, and the neighbours mid pop in. The churchyard is best and most nat’ral.”

He folded the letter, put it in an envelope, and addressed it; then, looking round, descried hanging over a chair-back one of Mrs. Sibley’s stockings--the fellow to the one she had lent little Rosanna.

“The very thing!” exclaimed John. “The Christmas surprises do always go in stockin’s. It’ll be a surprise for she, I d’ ’low--not but what she didn’t look for it,” he added with a grim chuckle.

He placed the letter in the stocking, fastened it securely with a loop of string, and, going cautiously upstairs, slung it over Mrs. Sibley’s door-handle. He paused a moment, winking to himself, and then made his way on tiptoe to his own room.

The usual Christmas bustle and excitement prevailed in the little household next morning. The children ecstatically compared notes over their fruit and toys; the sexton himself was quite unaccountably jovial, with a nervous kind of joviality nevertheless, hardly venturing to glance in Mrs. Sibley’s direction. She, on her side, wore a sedate, not to say chastened, aspect, and was attired in her deepest “weeds”.

Foyle’s jocularity diminished after a time, and he set off for the churchyard in a depressed and uncomfortable frame of mind. What was the woman driving at--what more in the name of goodness could she want?

He paced up and down the path nearest the gate for some time, and then, suddenly recalling the fact that he had not yet attended to the stove connected with the heating apparatus of the church, hurried off to accomplish this duty.

On his return he descried a tall figure in black making its way, not towards him, but towards that portion of the churchyard wherein reposed the mortal remains of the lamented Mr. Sibley.

After some hesitation the sexton followed, and Mrs. Sibley, having deposited a wreath of evergreens on the grave, turned round with a mournful expression.

“At such times as these, Mr. Foyle,” she remarked, “the mind do nat’rally feel m’urnful.”

“True, true!” agreed the sexton uncomfortably.

“He was a good husband, Mr. Foyle,” said the widow in a melancholy tone.

“To be sure,” said John doubtfully.

“I shall never look upon his like again,” resumed Mrs. Sibley, shaking her head.

The sexton glanced from her disconsolate face to the wreath of evergreens, and then back again. Mrs. Sibley was still shaking her head with an air of gentle resignation.

“I think I’ll be goin’,” said Mr. Foyle with sudden desperation. “I thought you did step out to this ’ere churchyard with another intention.”

Mrs. Sibley glanced at him in mild surprise.

“Ye didn’t chance to get no letter this marnin’, I s’pose?” continued the sexton with some heat.

“A letter!” repeated Mrs. Sibley.

“E-es, the letter what I did put in your stockin’ for a surprise,” added John emphatically.

Mrs. Sibley’s melancholy vanished as by magic; she smiled on the sexton, not only affably, but positively coyly.

“An’ it _was_ a surprise!” she exclaimed, “it _was_ indeed. E-es, Mr. Foyle.”

She paused again, and then, all scruples apparently vanquished by the delicacy of John’s attitude, she extended a bony hand from beneath the folds of her black shawl.

“That’s why I’m here,” she said.

THE CALL OF THE WOODS.

Monday.--Even to the most casual observer the day of the week would have been announced by the appearance of the rambling village; the new-budding hedges were remorselessly weighted with household gear, fresh from the tub; the very grassplots were whitened with the same; but the gooseberry bushes were as yet unadorned with extraneous trophies, for as every one knows, a thrifty rustic housewife relegates the washing and “getting up” of fine things to Tuesdays.

The orchard of that popular house of entertainment, known as “The Three Choughs,” the weather-beaten sign of which bore the partly obliterated presentment of a triplet of birds unknown to naturalists--the orchard of “The Three Choughs,” I say, was no exception to the general rule. From the gnarled branches of pear- and plum-tree depended many wavering tokens of Mrs. Cluett’s industry; the clothes lines were weighted with the like; and Alice, her rosy-cheeked daughter, went periodically to and fro from wash-house to hedge with a basket poised on one sturdy hip, or, for the sake of variety, set jauntily aloft on her curly head.

The bar was left to take care of itself; at that hour callers were unlikely. Noontide was past, evening had not yet come; if any stray wagoner or chance bicyclist were in need of refreshment he had but to uplift his voice, or to knock on the worn panels of the door leading from the taproom to Mrs. Cluett’s private premises. Many succeeding generations of knuckles had, indeed, removed the last vestige of paint from the panels in question, and indued them with a fine mellow tint of their own.

Nevertheless Mrs. Cluett was enjoying herself so much in the midst of her suds, so thoroughly absorbed in soaping and kneading and wringing, that such a summons was thrice repeated without effect; and it was not until Alice, returning from one of her expeditions to the hedge, chanced to glance casually at the taproom window that the impatient customer contrived to attract attention.

Seeing a man’s face peering discontentedly through the latticed panes, and hearing a corresponding voice repeatedly shouting, Alice set down her basket and hurried into the house.

“We don’t often have no one callin’ at this time o’ day,” she remarked with a pleasant smile, by way of greeting.

The man gave his order for a pint of beer without noticing the intended apology, and dropped into one of the wooden chairs allotted to customers.

Alice glanced at him askance as she set jug and glass before him. A tall young fellow, not more than twenty-five, with a face browned by sun and wind till it was as dark as a gipsy’s, thick, black hair, good features, and the strangest eyes that the girl had ever beheld in a human face. They were like hawk’s eyes, keen and clear, and with that fixed, far-away look peculiar to the eyes of a bird or beast of prey. Yet the man’s face was not a cruel face, and by-and-by, meeting Alice’s questioning gaze, he smiled hesitatingly.

Alice was a good girl, and had always been well looked after by her mother; but it was part of the business of life, as she conceived it, to enter frankly into conversation with all who chanced to need refreshment at “The Three Choughs;” and she was interested in each, from the oldest customer to the latest and most casual caller.

“Where be come from?” inquired Alice, now propping herself against the lintel of the door, and surveying the stranger with undisguised curiosity.

He wore corduroys and leggings, and yet was no gamekeeper; he carried a small bundle and a sturdy stick, but she felt sure that he was not a tramp.

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, looking at her for a moment before replying; his words came at last slowly, as though he were unused to much speech.

“Yonder,” he said, “Chudbury way.”

Alice glibly ran through the names of several villages, with an interrogative pause after each, and the newcomer shook his head in every case, without, however, further attempting to enlighten her.

She stopped at length, evidently at a loss, and the man, setting down his glass, laughed suddenly, a joyous, good-humoured laugh, pleasant to hear.

“You be fair beat, my maid,” said he. “But I do ’low you’d not be so very much the wiser if I was to tell ’ee. I be come from Tewley Warren--that’s where I be come from.” He dropped his voice and his face clouded over. “That’s where I’ve a-lived all my life,” he added.

“Why have ’ee left now, then?” inquired Alice.

“I didn’t leave o’ my own free will--ye mid be sure o’ that,” said he.

Alice looked up inquiringly, and he continued after a pause, still slowly and somewhat hesitatingly, as though he found it difficult to lay hold of the words he needed.

“I did live there wi’ my wold father; and when he shifted to the New House, Squire wasn’t willin’ for I to go on a-livin’ there. He did want our place for one o’ the keepers--a married man wi’ a fam’ly--he didn’t hold, he said, wi’ lettin’ a young chap, same as I, bide there--he did turn I out--to speak plain.”

“Oh--h,” said Alice commiseratingly. “’Twas a bit hard, I d’ ’low.”

“It was mortal hard,” said he.

He raised the tumbler of beer to his lips, but set it down again untasted.

“To give Squire his due,” he said, “he did offer to keep I on for the same money what I did have when the wold man were livin’, but I wouldn’t have it. ‘No, sir,’ says I, ‘I bain’t a-goin’ to be takin’ orders in the place where I did use to be my own master’--’twas jist same as if I was my own master when my father were alive; he didn’t never interfere wi’ I, poor wold chap.”

It was perhaps Alice’s fancy that a momentary dimness veiled the hawk eyes--in any case it was only momentary.

“So here I be,” summed up the ex-warrener conclusively.

“Here you be,” echoed Alice; then, after a moment’s pause: “What be goin’ to do now?”

“I don’t know,” said the man.

“Where be goin’ to?”

“I don’t know,” he said again.

At this moment Mrs. Cluett’s voice was heard calling aloud for her daughter; that lady’s heavy foot presently sounded in the narrow passage without, and she burst into the room.

“Dear, to be sure! Did ever a body see such a maid? Us so busy and clothes not half done wi’! And here ye must stand gawkin’ and gossipin’ as if ’twas the middle of the week. There, drink up your beer, do, good man, and let’s ha’ done wi’ it.”

She addressed these words to the newcomer in a somewhat softened tone, and he nodded good-humouredly.

“All right, missus; I’ll not be long now,” he said, as he poured out his second glass.

“There, for shame, mother, let the poor soul take his drink in peace,” whispered Alice. “He’s come far--from Tewley Warren; he’ve a-been turned out now his father be dead.”

Mrs. Cluett, with a soapy hand on either hip, surveyed the young man curiously.

“I did use to know Warrener Baverstock well,” she remarked slowly. “Warrener Baverstock up to Chudbury--e-es--I did use to know en.”

“He were my father,” remarked the other, with a momentary gleam of pleasure in his eyes.

“He did use to come here often and often,” continued Mrs. Cluett, emphatically. “He’d sit there--as mid be where you be a-sittin’ now--and he’d take his glass, he would; a most respectable man he were. My poor husband were alive too in them days--ah, times is changed, bain’t they? Here be I, a poor widow woman wi’ my own livin’ to get, tho’ there’s them as did ought to be gettin’ it for I in my ancient years.”

She paused to shake her head. Young Baverstock’s attention seemed to have wandered during the latter part of her speech, and he sipped his ale without evincing any curiosity as to the hint she had recently thrown out. After the manner of her kind, however, she at once proceeded to elucidate it.

“’Tisn’t as if I didn’t have somebody as did ought to be a-doin’ for I. There’s my son--a big, strong, hearty chap--my right hand he did use to be--there’s a deal to be done about this here place, ye know.”

“I do ’low there is,” agreed Baverstock absently.

“’Tisn’t only the public,” she continued, “tho’ I d’ ’low it be a bit hard for two women to have to manage all they menfolk--but there’s a bit of a farm to be seen to. Well, when I say a farm I do mean a couple o’ cows and a few pigs and chicken and that; and we do always grow our own spuds and greens, you know, and a few ranks o’ roots to help out wi’ for the cows in the winter. A man be wanted for all that kind o’ work, and it do seem hard as I should have to throw away my dibs to strangers when I mid have my own flesh and blood a-workin’ for nothin’.”

“It do,” agreed Baverstock, this time with more attention. “Why don’t your son do it then?” he inquired after a pause.

“Why?” repeated Mrs. Cluett in a tone of deep disgust. “Because he’ve a-been and gone and got married--that’s why, the unnat’ral fellow,” she added witheringly.

The young man surveyed her without hazarding a remark; those strange eyes of his remained as impassive as ever, but the corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards.

“I warn’t a-goin’ to let en bring his wife here,” continued the old woman. “I didn’t never fancy her, and ’twas again’ my will he did take up wi’ her. ‘You don’t bring her here,’ I says.--‘Then I don’t stop here,’ says he. ‘All right, my lad,’ says I, ‘ye can march!’ So he marched. He be a-workin’ over to new brewery now--down in the town.”

Baverstock apparently considered that this communication called for no comment; at all events he made none.

Mrs. Cluett, who had wrought herself up to the point of exposing the full extent of her grievances, was no whit abashed by his silence, however, and continued excitedly.

“The menfolk--there! they do seem to think a poor lone ’ooman fit for nothin’ but to make a laughin’ stock on. Dear heart alive, ’tis enough to drive a body silly! Us can’t seem to find a decent civil-spoke chap nowheres, can us, Alice? The minute a thing is not to their likin’ up they comes wi’ their sauce and their impudence, and off they goes.”

The young man gazed at her with an increasing interest:--

“You be short-handed now, then, be ye?” asked he.

Mrs. Cluett threw back her head with an ironical laugh.

“Short-handed! We be, so to speak, wi’out no hands at all. The last boy as worked here marched off o’ Saturday. Turned up his nose at his good victuals, and answered I back when I spoke my mind to him about it. I’m sure I don’t know where to look for another. And the ’taters bain’t all in yet, and there’s such a deal to do in this here place.”

Adam Baverstock pushed back his chair and gazed at her for a moment reflectively.

“I do ’low I mid serve your turn so well as another,” said he, in a calm and impartial tone, as of one in no way concerned in the issue.

Mrs. Cluett surveyed him dubiously, but Alice surreptitiously nipped her mother’s elbow.

“Do seem to be a likely chap,” she murmured.

Still with the judicial air befitting one about to conclude a bargain, Mrs. Cluett put various questions to the would-be assistant, her countenance brightening perceptibly as she ascertained that he had some knowledge of the management of cows, his father having kept one during the latter years of his life, that he knew all about pigs, that he didn’t care what he turned his hand to, and that he was by no means particular in the matter of wages.

“I don’t seem to know what to do next,” he explained. “I mid be lookin’ about me here, and I could fill in the time till you can light upon a man to your likin’. There’s one thing,” he added with that flicker of the lip which Alice had noted before, “I bain’t one as ’ull ever give ye impudence--I bain’t one as cares for much talk--I bain’t used to it, d’ye see. The wold man and me--there! There was weeks when we didn’t so much as give each other the time o’ day.”

“Dear, to be sure! To think o’ that now,” said Alice, whose tongue was wont to wag pretty freely. “Wasn’t it terr’ble lonesome for ye?”

“I didn’t ever feel it so,” returned Adam, “there’s a deal o’ company in the woods, and company as don’t want talkin’ to,” he added with a laugh.

Mrs. Cluett now proceeded to enter into practical details. Adam’s bundle contained, it seemed, all his worldly goods, a large wardrobe having been considered unnecessary in Tewley Warren, and such few sticks of furniture as the old man possessed having been purchased by his successor. He was therefore unhampered by any great need for space in his new quarters; yet he looked round the attic assigned to him with a clouded face, noting which, his mistress sarcastically inquired if he didn’t find it big enough.

“Oh, ’tis big enough,” he returned; “big enough if a man can breathe in it.”

He opened the tiny casement, and looked out:--

“I can see one tree,” he exclaimed, in a tone of relief.

“And what mid ye want with trees?” she inquired. “You won’t need to be lookin’ out much when ye’ve a-had a proper good day’s work.”

And thereupon, informing him that it was time to “sarve pigs,” and directing him as to the whereabouts of the meal-bucket, she descended to her own long neglected wash-tub.

Alice, however, still lingered in the passage, and observed that, as Adam took off his coat preparatory to setting to work, he paused, with an odd little laugh to himself.

“I was near forgetting you,” said he, peering into one of its capacious pockets and apparently addressing something inside.

“What have ye got there?” inquired Alice.

Adam carefully hung up the coat on a nail, thrust his hand into the pocket aforesaid, and produced a very small rabbit--a little furry ball with downy semi-transparent ears and bright beady eyes.

“I had to bring he along of I,” he explained, as he stroked the little creature which sat quite contentedly in his brown palm.

“How did you make en so tame?” asked Alice.

“I’ve had en nigh upon a week now. ’Tis thanks to I he warn’t made a stoat’s breakfast on. They stoats--they be terr’ble varmint. I be always on the look-out for ’em. Well, this here little chap was bein’ dragged along by a big ’un when I chanced to spy the pair of ’em. I made an end of Maister Stoat and I did take the little ’un home-along. He couldn’t feed hisself, poor little thing, but we made shift, didn’t us, little ’un? There, he can drink out of a teaspoon so sensible as a Christian.”

“Do ’ee let I give en a drap o’ milk now,” cried Alice eagerly.

The little rabbit justified his owner’s proud assertion, and after refreshing himself in the manner indicated, was comfortably stowed away in a hay-lined basket.

“I were pure glad to bring he along of I,” said Adam, for the nonce communicative; “he’ll mind me o’ the woods, d’ye see. And I’ve a-brought these, too.”

Thrusting his hand inside his waistcoat he brought out a few young fir shoots, green and tender, and deliciously aromatic as he bruised them with his strong fingers.

“Smell!” he exclaimed, thrusting them suddenly under Alice’s pretty little freckled nose.

She sniffed, and remarked without enthusiasm that it was a nice smell enough.

“There’s n’ar another like it,” said Adam gruffly; and replacing them in his bosom he strode away to attend to the wants of the pigs.

Decidedly the new man-of-all-work at the Three Choughs was a queer fellow; all who came to the place agreed in this estimate of him. He worked well, but yet, as Mrs. Cluett frequently averred, as if “he didn’t have no heart in it”; he was steady, civil, and obliging enough, but so silent, so unaccountably silent, that the regular visitors to the little inn could make nothing of him.

The only person who could ever induce him to talk was Alice Cluett, and then it was at rare moments, and upon odd, and, to her, uninteresting topics.

One evening he called out to her excitedly as she was crossing the little yard, declaring that he smelt the dew.

Alice paused beside him, inhaling the sweet air of the spring dusk with inquiring nostrils.

“They’ve a-been mowin’ over t’ Rectory to-day,” said she, “I see’d gardener gettin’ the machine out--’tis the first time this spring. ’Tis the cut grass what you do smell I do ’low.”

“Nay,” cried Adam eagerly, “’tis the dew. Who’s to know it so well as me, my maid? Haven’t I stood and smelt it time and again yonder in the woods at Chudbury? ’Tis the dew on the young leaves and the noo grass. I used to tramp it down, and then stan’ still to smell it. The Warren must be lookin’ fine now.”

Even in the dusk she could see his eyes dilate, and that tell-tale mouth of his curl upwards.

“And there’s scarce a tree to be seen here,” he sighed presently.

“Lard,” said practical Alice, “what a man you be, Adam! There’s plenty o’ things more worth lookin’ at than trees, I d’ ’low. There’s fields wi’ the crops comin’ on so nice, and the river, and the road wi’ all the folks’ traps an’ carts and wagons, and there’s the gardens wi’ flowers and ’taters and everything, and there’s men and women, an’--an’ maids,” she added, tilting her chin saucily.

Adam brought back his eyes from the distant vision upon which they had been feasting to another vision nearer at hand, and his face relaxed.

“Ah, there’s maids,” he agreed. “I never knowed any maid afore I knowed you, Alice. There’s times when----”

He broke off suddenly.

“There’s times when--what?” she inquired with interest.

“I could a’most be glad sometimes that I did come away from the Warren,” said he. “I’m glad to know ye, Alice.”

“Oh, and are ye?” rejoined she with a somewhat tremulous laugh.

“E-es,” returned Adam reflectively, “I’ve see’d maids now and then when I did use to come down to buy a few little oddments in the town, but I never took no notice of them--I never knowed any of them. I be glad to know you, Alice.”

Alice made no answer. She picked a leaf from the hedge and chewed it. Had it not been so dark Adam might have noticed the sudden rush of colour that overspread her face.

“The chaps hereabouts do often seem to go out a-walkin’ wi’ maids,” resumed Adam. “I were a-thinkin’--you and me mid go a-walkin’ sometimes.”

“We mid,” she agreed.

“Sunday, maybe?” suggested Adam, with a sudden note of exultation in his voice. “If you could get off for a good long bit, Alice, we mid step up to Oakleigh Woods. I haven’t been there yet, but they do tell I they’re splendid.”

“They’re nice enough,” said Alice, somewhat dubiously. “We’ll have to see what mother says,” she added.

“Do ye ax her then,” suggested Adam.

Alice moved away from him, and glanced back over her shoulder.

“Maybe I will,” said she.

Mrs. Cluett, on being consulted, was at first doubtful and inclined to be irate.

“This do seem like coortin’,” she remarked severely.

Alice twisted the corner of her apron without replying. It certainly did look rather like courting.

“Be you and that chap thinking o’ bein’ sweethearts?” resumed Mrs. Cluett.

Alice raised defiant dark eyes: “’Twouldn’t be no such very great harm if we was,” she returned. “He be a likely chap, Adam be; he’ve a-got a few pounds laid by, and if him an’ me was to make a match of it you wouldn’t need to pay en no wage.”

This was a practical aspect of the affair which had not hitherto struck Mrs. Cluett; her countenance relaxed.

“But he haven’t axed I yet,” said Alice discreetly.

Mrs. Cluett drew a long breath.

“Well I haven’t got no objections to your walking out wi’ he on Sunday, my dear,” she remarked condescendingly; and Alice dropped her apron and went away smiling.

Sunday came, and the pair duly set forth, Mrs. Cluett watching their departure from the kitchen window, not without some elation, for indeed her maid was, as she said to herself, a fine piece, and Adam, as he strode along by her side, was “so well set-up as a granadier”.

Alice chattered away gaily while they walked, tucking up her pretty blue skirt to show her starched white petticoat, while her curly head, under its rose-crowned hat, turned this way and that as they passed friends and neighbours. Other heads turned to gaze after her, and many jests and laughs were exchanged, and not a few sly innuendos as to the possible outcome of events. Alice would laugh and blush then, and glance surreptitiously at Adam; but the ex-warrener was more taciturn even than usual that day, and though his face wore a contented expression, he appeared to take little heed of his surroundings.

Presently the girl became silent, and by-and-by distinctly cross; she lagged a little behind Adam; once or twice she stumbled, and once paused, having tripped over a stone.

“What be to do?” inquired Adam, bringing down his eyes all at once from the horizon, where the irregular parti-coloured lines of Oakleigh Wood had hitherto held his gaze.

“You do walk so fast,” complained Alice, “and the road be so rough--and--” in a still more aggrieved tone--“all the other boys and maids what we do meet be a-walkin’ arm-in-crook.”

“Come,” said Adam diffidently, “us can do that too, I suppose.”

Alice curved her arm, and he, after a little practice, supported her elbow in the recognised fashion prescribed for courting-folk. He looked down at her with a softened expression as they advanced afresh.

“Be enjoying of yourself, my maid?” he inquired.

“E-es,” returned Alice dubiously. “Be you?”

“Jist about!” said Adam, at which she brightened visibly.

They now turned off the dusty road that for the last half-mile had climbed up almost perpendicularly, with the downs rolling away on one side and a carefully enclosed fir plantation skirting it on the other. A sheep-track that presently lost itself, wound away over the downs between patches of grass and low-growing thorn and elder bushes to where Oakleigh Wood spread its exquisite, undulating length invitingly before them. Adam quickened his pace; his whole face lightened and brightened in a manner of which it had not hitherto seemed capable; presently he began to sing in a rich ringing joyous voice, and Alice, clutching at his arm to stay his progress, exclaimed in amazement:--

“You do seem quite another man to-day!” she cried half petulantly.

“I d’ ’low I be another man,” answered he. “Let’s run, maidie, let’s run. Let’s get there.”

He caught her by the hand, and the girl, infected by his excitement, raced with him at her topmost speed. Off they flew over the springing turf and only paused, laughing, when they reached the shelter of the belt of firs which stood at the outskirts of the wood. The cool green fragrance was refreshing after that breathless race in the fierce sunshine; Alice’s eyes were dancing and her heart leaping, but Adam had suddenly become grave again; when he spoke it was in a subdued voice almost as if he were in church, the girl thought. Nevertheless he looked very tenderly at her as he touched her lightly on the shoulder.

“Now, maidie,” said he, “I be goin’ to show ye such things as ye did never see in your life--I be a-goin’ to let ye into a few of the secrets o’ this place.”

“Ye’ve never been here yourself afore,” protested Alice.

“I know ’em all the same,” returned Adam. “I do know all about woods. A squirrel, see! Look yon.”

“Where?” whispered Alice.

“On the big crooked branch there. Keep still, and he’ll come nigh us.”