Chapter V: Part 5

“Who gave ye leave to make a dryin’-ground o’ my archard?” resumed the farmer, striding up to her. “These here apple-trees wasn’t made to hang clothes on. Whose clothes be these?”

All the pretty bloom fled from Alice’s face; for a moment she stood gaping, unable to find an answer; then all at once she laughed—or tried to laugh.

“Why, what a to-do,” she cried. “Whose clothes be they? Well, they be man’s clothes, as ye can see—an’ you be the only man about this here place, bain’t ye?”

An ominous pause ensued, during which Farmer Bolt, turning to the clothes-line, closely examined the garments thereon.

“I’d be sorry to wear that shirt,” he remarked; “and when did ye ever see me in trousers like them? They’m your ’usband’s—that’s what they be; an’ what be tellin’ lies about ’em for?”

Alice, who had always been known as a “spiritty maid,” fired up at this.

“I think it ’ud be a queer thing if I was to name my husband to ye,” she responded. “Ye can never find a good word to say for him. ’Tis natural enough for me to be unwillin’ to let his name pass my lips.”

“What be doin’ washin’ his clothes? I thought he’d emmygrated?” pursued the father suspiciously.

“They are his clothes, then,” said Alice, with flashing eyes. “There, they are his clothes; I’ll not deny it. I’ve a-washed ’em in the water what the Lard gave us all free, an’ I be a-dryin’ of ’em in the air what belongs so much to him as to you, father. An’ this here bit o’ rope’s what was tied round my own box, so I d’ ’low he bain’t beholden to ye.”

Mr Bolt, slightly abashed, moved a few steps away, and then paused again.

“Be ye a-goin’ to send his washin’ out to Ameriky to en every week?” he enquired.

His daughter made no answer, and Mr Bolt was obliged to go indoors to seek for further information.

“When did Ned Blanchard emmygrate,” he enquired abruptly entering the kitchen.

Mrs Bolt was stooping over the fire, and it was perhaps on this account that her face became so red.

“Thursday was a fortnight, warn’t it?” she enquired. “Yes, Thursday was a fartnight he shifted.”

“Ah,” said Farmer Bolt. “Them ships which goes back’ards and for’ards to Ameriky must travel martal fast. Our Alice be a-hangin’ up his clothes to dry in the archard now.”

“There, don’t talk sich nonsence, Bolt!” cried his wife sharply. “She be but a-washin’ a few o’ the things what he left behind, o’ course.”

“That’s it, be it?” said Mr Bolt with a keen glance.

“That’s it,” rejoined Mrs Bolt, making a great rattle with the poker between the bars of the grate. Mr Bolt eyed her for a moment or two in silence, and then went slowly out again, jamming his hat firmly on his head. Several times that day his wife and daughter encountered his fixed gaze, but he asked no further questions.

On the following day, chancing to look backwards at his snug house in the hollow, from the uplands where he was at work, he observed a white streamer dangling from his own gate.

“They’ve tied a towel to the gate,” he murmured to himself. “What can they be wantin’ carrier to call for?”

For by this simple expedient the carrier, journeying on the high road above, became aware of the fact that the dwellers in the lane needed his services. Farmer Bolt went on wondering all the way up that furrow and all the way down again, and presently caught sight of the carrier’s van turning down the lane. He continued to speculate while the green-hooded vehicle turned into his own yard, emerged again, and finally came crawling up the stony incline to the high road. Then Farmer Bolt, unable any longer to restrain his curiosity, brought his horses to a standstill, and leaving them to their own devices, hastened across the field to the corner which the van must pass.

“That parcel what my wife gived ye just now, Jan,” he panted, as he approached; “let’s have a look at it. I want to make sure it’s addressed right. My wold ’ooman bain’t no great hand with the pen.”

“’Twas your daughter wrote the address,” returned the carrier. “I d’ ’low it’ll be right enough.”

He produced the parcel, nevertheless, and the farmer hastily examined it. The address was certainly set forth in a clear, legible hand:—

Mr EDWARD BLANCHARD,
c/o The Black Inn,
Sturminster.

To be left till called for.

He spelt it out slowly, thrusting out his underlip the while, with a puzzled look.

“To be left till called for,” he repeated. “It do seem a queer thing that. How be the man a-goin’ to call for it when he’ve emmygrated to Ameriky.”

“Oh, and ’ave ’ee?” enquired the carrier, much interested.

“Ees, a fartnight ago.”

“Well, ’tis funny too; but I d’ ’low I must obey arders. Hand over that parcel, farmer. I did ought to be gettin’ on; we’m a bit late as it is.”

Mr Bolt handed him the parcel, and the carrier whipped up his horse; but the van had hardly rattled on a few yards before its driver was again hailed.

“Hi! bide a bit!”

“Well?” said the carrier, turning.

Mr Bolt came alongside, red and breathless.

“Ye mid just ask the folks at the Black who they expects to call for that there parcel,” he said. “I be a bit puzzled in my mind about it.”

“I will,” agreed the other; “but let me go now, good man, else I’ll never get to Sturminster to ask about no parcels at all.”

Mr Bolt was in a stern and silent mood during the whole of that day, and after tea, instead of settling down to his pipe with little Abel in his chair beside him, strolled out Branston way to meet the carrier. He had not long to wait before he heard the familiar creaking and rattling of the rickety van, and presently the solitary light of its swinging lantern came bobbing along between the hedges. The farmer repeated the procedure of the morning:—

“Hi, bide a bit!”

“Hullo, be it you, Mr Bolt? Ah, I axed that there question.”

“Did ye?” said the farmer, planting himself in front of the horse on the wet roadway.

“Ees. I d’ ’low there’s some mistake about Ed’ard Blanchard emmygrating. He be to call for that parcel hisself.”

“Be he?” enquired Mr Bolt with starting eyes.

“He be. There was never no talk of his emmygrating, the folks at the Black d’ say. He be a-workin’ under the same measter, an’ a-drivin’ o’ the same cart. He have shifted from the house he had to a lodging i’ the town, but that’s all the emmygration he did do.”

“I see,” said the farmer, “Thank ’ee.”

“’Twas a funny thing as ye didn’t know, warn’t it?” remarked the carrier as he gathered up the reins. “Blanchard’s your daughter’s husband, bain’t he?”

“Ees, that’s right,” agreed Bolt. “I d’ ’low it be a funny thing.” He turned away, and the van jingled past him and soon disappeared into the darkness. Mr Bolt went slowly homewards, revolving this astonishing discovery in his mind. He’d been tricked—that was what had happened. They were all in it, Ned and Alice, and even his wife. They thought they could fool him just as if he were a child. He knew what they were at. They thought that once Alice and her children were established at the farm he could never find it in his heart to turn them out again; but he would soon show them whether he could or not. No doubt Master Ned intended to come marching in by and by, expecting to be received with open arms. They thought him, Farmer Bolt, a regular sammy, did they? He’d let them know what sort of a sammy he was! Perhaps he could make fools of them just as easily as they had made a fool of him. He stood stock-still in the road all at once—an idea had flashed across him, a scheme of vengeance quite as subtle as the offence, and moreover appropriate. They—those deceivers—should find themselves caught in their own trap!

He strode on now and presently burst impetuously into the family living-room. Alice and his wife were sitting on either side of the fire; little Abel had fallen fast asleep in his tiny chair, his curly head drooping at a most uncomfortable angle over the arm. The farmer stopped abruptly at sight of him.

“What’s that child doing here at this time o’ the evening?” he enquired, roughly.

“He did beg so hard to sit up till granfer come back,” explained Mrs Bolt, “we had to let en bide. There, nothin’ ’ud satisfy him. I give him his sugar-stick, but that wouldn’t do. He said he must stop up an’ smoke his pipe wi’ granfer. He’s been a-savin’ it till ye come—there’s but just the leastest little corner bit off, look-see.”

But granfer did not look. He sat heavily down in his chair and glared at Alice, who was knitting a woollen comforter.

“What be doin’?” he enquired, savagely.

She glanced up with a smile. “You mustn’t look,” she said. “It’s a Christmas present.”

“Ye be a-goin’ to send it out to Ned in Ameriky, I suppose,” he suggested sarcastically.

“It’s not for Ned,” returned Alice quickly, and Mrs Bolt added in a reproachful tone:—

“The poor maid be a-makin’ it for you, father.”

There was a pause, during which the farmer recalled his injury and resolved not to be mollified.

“Christmas,” he said slowly. “Christmas. I d’ ’low Ned ’ull feel hisself a bit lonely spendin’ Christmas in Ameriky. Ye’d best write an’ tell en to come back an’ spend it wi’ us.”

This was the scheme which the farmer had elaborated during his ireful descent of the lane. He would tell Alice to send for her husband, and she, carrying out her former plan of action, would pretend to write to America and invite him to return, but as soon as Ned appeared he would find he had met his match. Farmer Bolt would desire him and his family to emmygrate out o’ that house, and never set foot in it again.

“That’ll surprise ’em all a bit, I d’ ’low,” said Mr Bolt vengefully to himself.

He did not look at Alice as he spoke, half fearful of prematurely betraying his anger; but after a moment, finding she did not reply, he wheeled in his chair with an enquiring glance.

Alice had dropped her work on her lap and was leaning forward, gazing at him with eyes that were full of tears.

“Well?” he asked impatiently. Before he realised what she was about she had risen from her chair and thrown her arms round his neck.

“Oh, father,” she cried. “Oh, father, I can’t bear it! You’re so good—so good to me, an’ I’ve been that wicked and deceitful!”

As she uttered the last word, the farmer, who at first had struggled to free himself, became suddenly passive in her embrace.

“I have, I have,” she went on, sobbing. “There, mother, I be a-goin’ to tell en everything. I couldn’t go on actin’ lies when he be so kind. Oh, father, I’ve deceived ye shameful. Ned isn’t in Ameriky at all—he never emmygrated. ’Twas jist a made-up story.”

Shaking with sobs she clung closer to her father, who still sat immovable and looking straight before him.

“I don’t wonder ye can scarce believe it,” she wept. “I could never ha’ believed it o’ myself, but we was so wretched, Ned an’ me, an’ so terr’ble bad off, an’ I thought if ye once had me back i’ my wold place ye’d maybe get fond o’ me again—ye used to be so fond o’ me, father. I thought ye’d maybe take to the childern—an’ that by-and-by ye’d maybe forgive Ned, an’ gie en the carter’s place.”

“Oh,” said Mr Bolt, “that was it, was it?”

“Ye know ’twould be only nat’ral, my dear,” put in Mrs Bolt meekly. “Ye wouldn’t be out o’ pocket by it, an’ ye’d be pervidin’ for your own flesh an’ blood.”

Mr Bolt’s countenance changed; his wife’s suggestion was eminently practical, and he could not help being struck by it. Nevertheless the share she had taken in the recent plot was still too fresh in his memory to admit of his parleying with her.

“There, wold ’ooman,” he cried, screwing himself round in his chair, “ye needn’t be a-puttin’ your oar in. Ye’d better keep quiet. I wonder ye dare look me in the face,” he added sternly.

“’Twasn’t mother’s fault—’twas me thought of it,” cried Alice quickly. “’Twas me planfned it—”

“An’ ’twas very well planned too,” commented her father. “I only wonder ye should ha’ thought I’d ever change my mind. Ye do know I be a man o’ my word, don’t ye?”

“I do, I do,” sobbed she, “but still—oh dear, father, haven’t we been happy together these last few weeks, and haven’t ye got fond o’ little Abel, an’ wouldn’t it be nice for us all to be friends? Ye did use to say Ned was a terr’ble good worker,” she added wistfully.

Mr Bolt looked at first severe and then dubious; this was evidently an aspect of the case which had not before presented itself. The rigidity of his form relaxed in some degree, and for the first time since Alice’s confession he cast on her a glance which, though reproachful, was not unfriendly.

“’Tis true, that,” he said in a meditative tone, “’ees, ’tis true. Ye be a truth-tellin’ maid as a rule, my dear. I wonder how you came to make up such a lyin’ tale about the emmygration.”

As Alice hid her face he continued more kindly.

“There, we’ll say no more about that since ye owned up at the last. I mid own up about summat too, as maybe ye wouldn’t like.”

Alice raised her head quickly, and Mrs Bolt dropped the poker, and turned round. Little Abel, disturbed by the clatter, moved uneasily in his sleep. The farmer looked from the women’s scared faces to that of the child, and all at once smoothed the waving hair from his daughter’s forehead and kissed her.

“I don’t know as I will, though,” he said. “Nay, some things is best forgot. I d’ ’low I’ll forget this.”

“An’ ye’ll forgive as well as forget?” said Alice. Mr Bolt disengaged himself gently, rose, and took a hurried turn about the room.

“I bain’t one what likes to go again’ my word,” he said after a moment’s hard thinking. “I said I’d never let your husband cross my door—” Both the anxious women exclaimed simultaneously; the farmer threw out his hand to command silence.

“Bide a bit,” he said, “it’ll work out all right. When I said that about your husband, Alice, I didn’t know he were going to be my carter. That’s a different story, bain’t it? I shouldn’t wonder but what my carter mid have to come in and out of the house for arders.”

As Alice went quickly towards him, her eyes shining and her bosom heaving, he burst into a roar of laughter; and then, becoming suddenly serious, caught her in his arms.

“There, write to your husband, love,” he said. “Write to en so soon as ye like. Tell him”—he paused, and then began to laugh again, but unsteadily, “tell him he can emmygrate back again, an’ while he be waitin’ for Jim to give up the carter’s place, we’ll make shift to spend a merry Christmas together.”

FARMER BARNES’ DILEMMA

FARMER BARNES stirred his tea vigorously and continuously for some minutes, raised the cup to his lips, with the spoon still in it, paused, tasted again, glancing severely over the edge at his daughter Maimie, and then remarked, in somewhat stern tones:—

“You haven’t put no brandy in!”

“Nay, feyther; I clean forgot to tell ye as there was scarce a drop left in bottle yesterday. I put the little drain that was left in tea-pot, but I’m afeared there weren’t enough to make mich difference.”

“The tay bain’t drawed at all, lass—it makes all that difference. Ye should ha’ towd me when I was goin’ to town yesterday as bottle were nigh empty.”

“Ah, that I should; but I forgot.”

And Maimie wrinkled up her forehead until her eyebrows nearly touched her fair fluffy fringe. Her father set down his cup with a kind of groan, and looked at her with eyes that seemed puzzled, well nigh tearful, in spite of their severity.

“Yigh, you’re a good hand at forgettin’, Maimie—ye met tak’ a prize for’t. There weren’t a bit o’ sauce wi’ the cowd pork to-day, and the taters was as hard as hard.”

Maimie coloured and looked down; the farmer gazed at her sternly for a full minute, and then made a sudden lunge at the youngest child who sat next to him.

“What’s wrong wi’ thy bishop, Maggie? One side is all tucked up.”

“It’s tore,” announced Maggie, with a certain triumph in a statement which must call down condemnation on her elder. “Our Maimie said as she’d mend it—she’ve been sayin’ she’ll mend it all the week.”

“Thou’rt a nasty little tell-tale, Maggie,” cried Maimie with some heat. “Ye never think for to remind me wi’out it’s jest at my busiest time—when I’m gettin’ dinner ready or summat.”

“There, there, never mind,” interposed Barnes gloomily. “’Tis allus the same story. Young heads I suppose is what we mun look for on young shoulders.” And he went on with his tea, swallowing it in great gulps, and as it were under protest, and remarking every now and then below his breath that it wasn’t half drawed.

At the conclusion of the meal the younger children slid down from their seats, and began to play noisily in a corner, while Maimie “sided” the things. Her father pushed back his chair, with a squeaking sound, over the tiled floor, lit his pipe, and, extending his stocking-clad feet to the blaze, smoked meditatively and despondently.

Maimie glanced at him every now and then as she went backwards and forwards between kitchen and buttery, and at last, pausing opposite to him, encountered his steadfast and sombre gaze.

“Come thou here, my lass,” he said; “put down yon dish, and come and sit here aside o’ me. Maimie,” he continued solemnly, “I’ve been thinkin’ o’ summat.”

Maimie, impressed by his tone, gazed at him with scared blue eyes, not caring to speak.

“Ah, I’ve been thinkin’ o’ summat,” he repeated, “summat rather partik’ler. First off I’ve been thinkin’ a dale about your mother, Maimie. I miss her dreadful.”

“I’m sure ye do, feyther,” said the girl with a sob. “’Tis what we all do. Nobry can’t miss poor mother more nor me.”

“’Tis a twelvemonth or more since she was took,” continued Barnes, in the same sepulchral tone. “Ah, a twelvemonth ’twas last Sunday week—and the house don’t seem like itself at all. I don’t say but what you do your best, my lass, but things seem to be warsening every day. I don’t know whatever mother ’ud say if she were here to see it—I don’t I’m sure. I’m fair moidered wi’ nobbut thinkin’ on it. It seems same as if I wasn’t doin’ my dooty by her, poor soul. She was allus that house-proud for one thing, and sich a manager. Summat ’ull ha’ to be done, Maimie.”

Maimie began to whimper, and to wipe her eyes with her apron, and to protest in muffled tones from behind its folds that she did try, and she couldn’t tell how ’twas as things always seemed to slip her memory. The children was tiresome for one thing, and tore their clothes much more than when mother was alive, and they didn’t mind her a bit, and she had meant to make some apple-sauce, and, and—

“There, that’ll do,” interrupted Barnes, leaning forward with one great hand on either knee, “Thou’rt but young, as I say, and I mustn’t expect too much fro’ thee. Do what ye will ye can’t be like poor mother; nay, ’tisn’t to be looked for; nay, it ’ud want sombry else as is older and wiser nor thee, lass, to take mother’s place. Ah, I’ve been thinkin’ o’ that”—here he paused, slowly polishing the knees of his corduroys with his broad palms,—“I’m wishful for to do my dooty by your poor mother, my dear,” he resumed presently, looking very hard at Maimie. “Ah, I couldn’t noways rest easy in my mind, if I didn’t strive to do that, and so, as I tell ye, I’m thinkin’ o’ summat.”

“What are ye thinkin’ on, feyther?” cried the girl quickly.

Mr Barnes restored his pipe to his mouth, sucked at it, and then, blowing out a cloud of smoke, looked at his daughter with moist eyes from amid the blue mist.

“’Twill go hard wi’ me,” he said slowly; “it will indeed, but the question isn’t what I’d choose, but what she’d choose.”

“Who?” cried Maimie, quite at sea.

“Why, the poor missus, your mother. It’ll go agen me, as I say, but I’ve made up my mind for to do it.”

“For pity’s sake, feyther, speak plain. To do what?”

“Why, to take a second, my dear,” said the farmer, speaking somewhat indistinctly by reason of the pipe which was still firmly wedged in the corner of his mouth, but with the same solemn dignity. “To get wed—to pick soombry out as ’ud do for me the way your dear mother done for me—one as ’ud keep things straight, same as they used to be, and have an eye to all of you young folks.”

“Nay, but, feyther, mother ’ud never ha’ liked that,” protested Maimie. “’Tis the very last thing she’d wish, to have a stranger put in her place, and a stepmother cocked up over her childer.”

“Cocked up,” repeated the farmer sternly, “the one as I have in my mind isn’t like to be easy cocked up. A sensible, steady, hard-workin’ woman—a widder too, so ye may think she’ll have a feelin’ heart for me. And one as have childer of her own, a plenty of ’em, and ’ull know how to dale wi’ all on you.”

“Who is it, feyther?” gasped the girl.

“Why, Mrs Wharton o’ the Pit.”

“Mrs Wharton!” ejaculated Maimie. She checked the tears which were ready to fall, and sat looking at her father in amazement, the colour sweeping over her pretty face. “Why, she’ve got six childer of her own, and pretty nigh all of ’em lads.”

Her father nodded sideways with a contented air.

“They’ll come in handy about the place I dare-say,” he remarked.

“And she only buried Mr Wharton six month ago!”

“Ah! I reckon she’ll feel the want of him—very nigh as bad as I feel the want o’ your mother.”

“But she’d never think o’ gettin’ wed again—she’s fifty-five and more.”

Barnes removed his pipe, pointing with the stem at Maimie to enforce the comparison:—

“Your mother,” he said brokenly, “your mother, my dear, was fifty-four and a bit—’tis a nice age. The more I think on’t, the more I do seem to tak’ to the notion. Now, I’ll tell you what you’ll do, Maimie—jest pop round to-morrow and ax Mrs Wharton to come and eat her Sunday dinner wi’ us—her and all her fam’ly. Sunday is a good day for doin’ a bit o’ coortin’—her and me ’ull mak’ it up while you youngsters are making merry.”

“Nay, but, feyther—”

“Nay, but, I’ll not ha’ no buts,” shouted her father, good-humouredly but firmly. “Do what I tell thee, my lass. My mind’s made up, so thou met as well put the best face thou can on’t.”

When feyther hammered on the table after that imperative fashion, and threw so much determination into his one-sided nod, Maimie knew from experience that it was useless to argue, and, with a heavy heart, promised to obey.

Sunday came and proved to be all that Sunday ought to be: sunshiny and bright.

After church the Whartons and Barnes’ came trooping down the flagged path together: Jim brave in the flowered waistcoat which had been laid aside since the death of his missus, and the Widow Wharton displaying a white flower in her bonnet, and discarding her crape “weeper.” As they proceeded in single file, both being too portly in figure to walk side by side, the neighbours smiled and winked, and nudged each other, and remarked that it was a match for sure. The children of both families, stiff and prim in their best clothes, eyed each other somewhat shyly, but presently fraternised; though Luke, the eldest Wharton lad, a fine, well-grown young fellow already in the twenties, walked apart, silently, and with a gloomy face.

Maimie had stayed at home, busy over hospitable preparations, and now, with a flushed face and a heavy heart, stood awaiting her visitors. She revived a little presently, when Mrs Wharton praised her cooking, and remarked that she could not have made the pudden better herself; but her countenance soon clouded over again. During the meal feyther paid marked attention to the lady of his choice, filling up her glass until she was obliged to protect it by keeping one broad hand outspread on the top, piling her plate with beef, and leering in an amorous fashion whenever he caught her eye; and, at its conclusion, he requested Mrs Wharton to withdraw with him to the parlour, and jocularly told the young folk they might clear away and cut what capers they liked.

“I’ll go out for a smoke, I think,” said Luke; but he spoke somewhat hesitatingly, and looked questioningly at Maimie. “Without,” he added gallantly, “I can be of any service to you, Miss Barnes.”

“Do just what you please,” she returned shortly. “I don’t suppose you feel more like making merry nor I do mysel’. The childer can play if they’ve a mind to; but it ’ull take me all my time to clear away—and I’ve no great fancy for making merry as how ’tis.”

“Come, I’ll help ye with the tray,” said Luke. “There, little ’uns, ye can take hands round and start ‘The Mulberry Bush.’ ’Twill keep ’em quiet. I can’t but feel sorry for ye, Maimie,” he continued, as he took hold of the tray. “’Tisn’t what none of us ’ud like, I s’pose,” and he jerked his head towards the closed door of the parlour.

“Ye think your mother ’ull have him then?” said Maimie, with a sinking heart.

“I can’t make out one way nor t’other. She’s got no call to be thinkin’ o’ wedlock, mother hasn’t. Feyther have left her every stick on the place. ’Tis a nice place, as ye know, Maimie, and she’s reet well off. I couldn’t help but ha’ words wi’ her last night, and she answered me back awful sharp. ‘’Tis time there was a change, Mester Luke,’ says she. ‘Thou’rt gettin’ above thyself, lad,’ she says.”

“An’ what do the younger ones say to it?” said Maimie, pausing in the act of setting a pile of plates on the tray which he held.

“Eh, they don’t say much. Mother can do what she likes wi’ they. They look a bit glum, but that’s all.”

“’Tisn’t much use lookin’ glum, I reckon,” sighed the girl. “Feyther’s that set on the notion he won’t hear naught agen it.”

“I dessay,” said Luke; “’tis a very good match for him?”

“Not a bit better nor ’tis for your mother,” cried Maimie, tossing her head.

“Why, our place is twice as big as this,” returned the youth; “and mother have money put by—a dale of brass she have. I don’t fancy your feyther could match it.”

They were slowly proceeding towards the buttery by this time, each holding on to an end of the tray; through the open doorway the children could be seen dancing round and round, while they vociferated shrilly the time-honoured refrain “Ring-a-ring-a-roses!”

“I don’t want him to match your mother’s brass, nor yet your mother,” said Maimie. “I wish she and the lot o’ you had kep’ away—that I do.”

“Well, if that’s all ye can find to say to me, I’d best take myself off,” cried Luke angrily, and he suddenly let go of his end of the tray.

There was a slide, a clatter, a crash; the piled up crockery, too heavy for Maimie’s arms alone, had slipped to the end of the tilted tray and fallen on the tiled buttery floor.

Maimie glanced at the heap of destruction for one moment, and then burst into tears.

“I didn’t go for to do it,” shouted Luke, overwhelmed with horror and remorse. “I thought ye’d firm howd on tray, Maimie.”

“Eh dear, eh dear,” sobbed Maimie, the tears pouring through her outspread fingers, her bosom heaving convulsively. “Whatever mun I do? Feyther’ll be mad. And I’ll be that shamed before your mother and all.”

Luke struck at his forehead vengefully.

“I’m a regular fool,” he cried. “I’m a downright wastral and good-for-naught, that’s what I am. I can’t forgive myself for being so rough. Dunnot take agen me, Maimie, dunnot! I’m right down sorry—awful sorry, I am.”

“I—don’t—belive—you are,” sobbed Maimie.

“I’ll swear I am,” asserted Luke, and, picking his way through the fragments of crockery, he put his arm round Maimie’s waist.

“Well, maybe you are,” she said, relenting a little, but still weeping piteously. “’Tis a judgment on me I’m sure; I didn’t ought to ha’ spoke that way about your mother to your face.”

“Nay, if it comes to that,” groaned Luke, penitently, “I didn’t ought to ha’ cast up about the brass to ye.”

By this time he was mopping delicately at Maimie’s eyes with a beautiful silk handkerchief, duly perfumed with a bottle of sixpenny scent; and Maimie was so touched by this attention that she presently smiled wanly through her tears, and the two concluded a compact of friendship as they cleared away the broken china.

Meanwhile Jim Barnes and Mrs Wharton sat face to face on either side of the parlour fire, gazing at each other for some time in unbroken silence. Presently the farmer spoke, pointing at the widow with his thumb, and inaugurating proceedings by heaving a deep sigh.

“I reckon ye miss the gaffer, Mrs Wharton?”

“I do indeed, Mr Barnes,” returned the widow, with an answering sigh, which made her stiff black silk creak alarmingly.

“Ah—ye can’t miss him more nor what I do my poor missus. She was a wonderful woman, Mrs Wharton.”

“She was—ah, she was. Providence seems to ha’ dealt a bit ’ard wi’ the two of us, Mr Barnes, but we munnot _re_-pine.”

After this there came a pause, during which the farmer scratched his head and rubbed his knees.

“My lass, Maimie, d’ye see—she’s a very good lass, but a bit giddy—she dunnot seem never to remember naught.”

“She’s but young,” said the widow tolerantly. “Our Luke—the eldest lad, he do seem to gi’ me a lot o’ trouble. Wants to know better nor me, and is ever and always trying to be gaffer. ‘Women don’t know naught about farmin’,’ says he to me as bold as ye please.”

“Did he?” ejaculated Jim, with a deeply scandalised air.

“Not but what,” continued the widow, half-laughingly, after a moment’s reflection; “not but what the lad have got a wonderful notion o’ farm work himself. Wonderful, he have—eh, he shapes wonderful well for a lad of his years. Mr Gradwell, now, o’ Little Upton, he was passin’ the remark to me only t’other day. Says he, ‘I never did see sech a long head as your Luke have got for sech a young chap,’ he says.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Farmer Barnes appreciatively, “he’s a fine lad, I’ll say that for him. He used to follow your poor master same as his shadow. I reckon ’twas your Joe what put him in the way of things so well. I reckon,” he continued sympathetically, “he’d ha’ been proud on him if he’d ha’ lived, poor owd lad.”

“I reckon he would,” agreed Mrs Wharton, puckering up her face and producing her handkerchief; from the turn the conversation was now taking she would have soon to cry again.

“Ah,” said Barnes, “your lad, I reckon he’s a comfort to you, Mrs Wharton.”

Mrs Wharton twitched down her handkerchief and spoke in a voice that was exceedingly clear and decided.

“Well, Mester Barnes, he is an’ he isn’t, if ye know what I mean. There can’t be two masters in one house, and that’s what I say—time and again I say it to our Luke. I’m fair tired sayin’ the same thing over and over again.”

The farmer nodded with a kind of groan.

“Jest so, Mrs Wharton, jest so. I can feel for ye there. ’Tis the very same way wi’ me an’ our Maimie. I do tell her a thing twenty times may-hap, an’ she’ll forget jest same, not but what she’s a good lass—I’d reckon you’d find her a good lass, Mrs Wharton, if you was to coom here.”

“Eh, Mr Barnes,” said the widow bashfully, “whatever put that in your head? Coom here, d’ye say?”

“This ’ere house,” said Jim firmly, “wants a missus summat awful, an’ I want a missus to see to things an’ keep the young folks in order, and there’s nobry in the parish I’d like better nor yourself, Mrs Wharton. You an’ me can feel for each other—ah, that we can—I don’t see nothin’ in the world to prevent us from lendin’ each other a helpin’ hand.”

Mrs Wharton paused to reflect, pleating the edge of her black-edged handkerchief.

“If there was but you an’ me,” she said presently, “the matter ’ud be easy settled. I could do wi’ you very well, Mester Barnes. As ye say, we can feel for one another—but there’s the childer to be thought on—all they little lads o’ mine—there is but the one lass, ye know.”

“The more the merrier,” returned Jim placidly. “There’s plenty o’ little odd jobs they can be doin’ on, at arter school be over. I often wish I’d ha’ had more lads mysel’.”

“Well, but,” continued Mrs Wharton, to whom the various aspects of the situation were slowly unfolding themselves, “there’s your big lass to be thought on—your Maimie. I doubt she’ll not make it so very pleasant for me. I could manage the little ones right enough—I was allus fond o’ childer. But your Maimie—I doubt we shouldn’t get on so very well together.”

“Oh, ye’d get on,” said Barnes, “ye’d get on at arter a bit, I dare say.”

He did not speak very confidently, however, and presently continued in a still more dubious tone: “’Tis your Luke as is a bit of a stumblin’ block. I hadn’t reckoned he were that masterful. I doubt it’ll not be easy to get him to content hissel’ wi’ workin’ here under me, at arter he’s been cock o’ the walk at your place.”

“Workin’ here under you,” repeated Mrs Wharton blankly. “He’d never do that—never. I don’t know however it’s to be managed, Mester Barnes, I’m sure. I didn’t reckon to leave our place, ye see. I reckoned—well the thought jest happened to strike me, as if I was to take a second husband he’d be content to coom an’ live at the Pit.”

Farmer Barnes rolled his head from side to side, and gazed at the good woman with a sternly disapproving air.

“That wouldn’t suit me,” he said, “nay, that it wouldn’t. Our family have been settled here for a hundred year an’ more; I bain’t a-goin’ to shift.”

Again Mrs Wharton considered. She was not disposed to relinquish her rights without a struggle, but, on the other hand, Jim Barnes was the most eligible suitor who was likely to come her way. The widowed state of both seemed to make the alliance peculiarly desirable; none of the neighbours could cast up at her for replacing poor Joe so soon when her second husband stood as much in need of consolation as herself. Then he was well-to-do, and a most excellent father. She had thought, moreover, that his support would have enabled her to get the better of the recalcitrant Luke. But there were limits which could not be outstepped. To expect a youth of twenty-two to accept a subordinate position on strange premises was too much.

“The Pit Farm is a very fine farm,” she remarked tentatively, after a pause. “The Whartons have lived there a good few year too. ’Tis but nat’ral as our Luke should look to steppin’ into his feyther’s shoes some day when I’m laid under ground. ’Tis what he’ve a right to expect.”

“Well, let the lad step into ’em now, then,” exclaimed Jim Barnes jovially. “Let him step away. I don’t want to be gaffer at the Pit Farm; all as I want, my dear, is for you to come an’ be missus here.”

Mrs Wharton relaxed. When her wooer smiled so pleasantly and called her “my dear,” it was difficult to maintain an attitude of aloofness; nevertheless, though her heart was insensibly softening, her shrewd, stolid North-country head by no means followed suit.

“There’s a deal to be thought on, isn’t there?” she remarked. “Our Luke—if I was to let our Luke set up for hissel’ at our place, there’d be no doin’ anythin’ wi’ him. An’ the lad’s ower young too to be livin’ alone there—”

“Why need he live alone?” interrupted Jim. “Pick out a wife for him—that’s what ye’d best do—pick out a wife for him an’ let the yoong folks set up there, and you coom here along o’ me.”

Mrs Wharton smiled dubiously. “It met be a good thing in one way,” she conceded, “but still—well, ye see, I didn’t reckon to give up the Pit Farm to our Luke for a good few year yet. There’s all the little uns to bring up and eddicate. I couldn’t expect to be lookin’ to you for everything.”

“That’s true,” said Jim, becoming suddenly very solemn. He, too, had heard about the good bit of brass that was laid by, and, as every sensible person knew, when brass was laid by, it was laid by, until the time came for the fortunate possessor to leave it by will to somebody else. Still he had not reckoned on the possible contingency of having to feed and clothe at his expense the five younger Whartons.

After deep meditation, he struck the table with his fist.

“Why not make the chap pay ye rent for it?” he said. “That ’ud be the thing. Set him up there an’ pick him out a missus, an’ let the two of ’em manage for themselves, and pay ye a lump sum every rent-day—a good sum, mind ye, so as Mester Luke mayn’t be kickin’ up his heels an’ thinkin’ too much of hissel’. Coom,” he cried, “what d’ye think o’ that notion?”

“I think well on’t,” said Mrs Wharton, pursing up her lips, and nodding with a satisfied air. “I think ’tis a capital notion, Mester Barnes. I must just turn ower in my mind a bit, the lasses I’d like our Luke to choose from. There’s Sally Lupton now; she’s a nice little body, an’ folks say owd Lupton left a good bit to her mother.”

“Ah,” said the farmer, “she met do very well.”

“An’ there’s Rose Blanchard,” continued Mrs Wharton, ruminating, “she’s a nice lass; wonderful house-proud Rose is.”

“Ah!” agreed Barnes, nodding.

Mrs Wharton was struck by something peculiar in his tone, and looked at him sharply; a deeper shade of colour was slowly overspreading his face, and he was smiling in an oddly bashful way.

“Can ye call to mind no other lass?” he said, after a pause, and, edging his chair round the table, he nudged the widow meaningly.

A light suddenly dawned on Mrs Wharton; she began to laugh with a rather conscious look.

“Well, theer’s one lass as ’ud suit very well. In more ways nor one she’d suit, I reckon; but I’m sure I don’t know whatever you’d say to it, Mester Barnes.”

“Give her a name,” said Jim, grinning more broadly.

“Well—I hardly like—’t ’ud coom best fro’ you, Mester Barnes; but she’s a very nice lass, an’ I’ve heard as her mother left a nice bit o’ money behind her.”

“Meanin’ my missus,” shouted Jim, the smiles forsaking his face immediately.

“Oh, I named no names, Mester Barnes, though I did hear that poor Martha had a nice bit put away in the bank.”

“Maybe she had, an’ maybe she hadn’t,” said Jim. “As how ’tis, whatever was left was left to me, an’ it’s me as’ll have the settlin’ on’t.”

“Of course, of course—I’m only sayin’—blood’s thicker nor water, when all’s said an’ done, isn’t it?”

“’Tis indeed, an’ I’m sure that’s a sayin’ as you’ll bear in mind, my dear, when you’re setting your Luke up. He’s his feyther’s son, ye know, an’ what did his feyther lay by so mich brass for, if not for the lad as is to stand in his shoes?”

There was a twinkle in honest Jim’s eyes as he made this home-thrust, and when Mrs Wharton replied, it was with a sort of giggle.

“Ah, to be sure, he’s to stand in’s feyther’s shoes, poor lad, but I doubt he’ll find ’em a tight fit if I take your advice, Mester Barnes, an’ make him pay me a big lump o’ rent.”

The farmer laughed outright.

“Ye had me there, Lizzie,” he said. “I hadn’t give a thought to the chance o’ my lass settin’ up along o’ your lad when I gave you that there advice, my dear. ’Tis as broad as ’tis long, that’s one thing—’twill be but takin’ the brass out o’ one pocket and puttin’ it into another. Blood’s thicker nor water, as ye said just now. I doubt we’ll agree very well.”

“I doubt we shall,” said Mrs Wharton.

“Well, the first thing agreed on is that you an’ me is to be shouted soon,” pursued Jim, smiling, “and next thing is to tackle the yoong folks.”

“Reet,” said Mrs Wharton. “If you’ll have a quiet talk wi’ your lass at arter we’re gone, I’ll say a word to our Luke while we’re goin’ home.”

“Nay,” cried the farmer, rising, “I’m never one for half-measures. Let’s have the pair of ’em in now, and put it to ’em straight.”

Before Mrs Wharton had time to protest, he had thrown open the door, and was shouting lustily for Luke and Maimie.

After a moment or two the young couple appeared, Maimie, rather pale and inclined to be tearful, Luke, flushed and determined.

“Coom in, my lad,” shouted Barnes, clapping him cheerily on the back. “Coom your ways in Maimie, too: we’n summat to tell ye.”

“An’ we’n summat to say, too,” said Luke, firmly. “Mother, I know very well what you’re goin’ to say, an’ I’ll ha’ my say out first. You an’ Mester Barnes here are goin’ to make a match on’t. Well, Maimie an’ me has been talkin’ a bit, an’ though we’re not wishful any way to hurt your feelin’s, we’ve made up our minds, both on us, as we’ll not stop here to have strangers set over us.”

Farmer Barnes whistled, and Mrs Wharton, whose wits, as has been said, moved slowly, looked a trifle alarmed.

“So what we’ve settled,” continued Luke, resolutely, yet looking from his mother to the farmer, with a kind of compassion, for he felt that the blow which he found himself obliged to deal them, was of a staggering nature, “what we’ve made up our minds to do is to get wed to each other and go away to earn our own livin’s.”

“An’ a very good notion too,” said Jim approvingly, sidling the while towards Mrs Wharton, and winking solemnly as he intercepted her somewhat startled gaze. “’Tis a very good job as ye’ve settled the matter that way, my lad—’twas the very thing me an’ your mother was thinkin’ o’ proposin’ to ye.”

“Eh, feyther, ye’d never be so cruel as to want to turn me fro’ the door,” gasped Maimie, her ready tears bursting forth.

“Well,” exclaimed Luke, “an’ that’s a pretty thing, I will say. Have ye the face to tell me, mother, as you an’ Mester Barnes had made it up between ye to get shut of us—your own flesh ’an blood, for the sake o’ takin’ up wi’ each other?”

Barnes, who had by this time reached Mrs Wharton’s chair, gave her a warning nudge with his elbow, and winked again.

“Nay, lad, me an’ your mother is not for turnin’ ye out, but if you an’ our Maimie have settled everything between yourselves we haven’t nothin’ to say, have we Lizzie? ’Tis a very good thing for young folks to earn their own livin’—a very good thing.”

Luke and Maimie looked at each other blankly. The bomb which they had expected to discharge with such deadly effect had unaccountably fizzled off; nobody seemed a penny the worse for it. On the contrary, this plan, which they had expected to be so strenuously opposed, appeared to suit the older couple to a nicety.

“Well,” said Luke, drawing a long breath, “what I says I’ll stick to. If you’ll keep your word to me, Maimie, I’ll keep mine to you. ’Tis a bit hard to turn out of the old place after bein’ brought up to look for somethin’ so different, an’ I doubt you’ll find it a bit hard too, my lass, to settle down in a little small cottage—I doubt if your mother were alive—or my poor feyther, as thought such a dale o’ me—”

He broke off, choking; there were tears in his blue eyes.

Mrs Wharton could stand it no longer; rising hurriedly from her chair, she pushed the farmer on one side, and, squeezing herself round the table, threw her arms round Luke’s neck.

“Nay, my lad,” she cried, “nay, dunnot believe it. Dunnot think as your mother could ever be that ’ard. Ye shannot be treated no worse nor if your feyther wer alive—maybe a bit better, for our gaffer were wonderful masterful, and I doubt he’d not be the one to turn out to make room for thee the same as I’m thinkin’ o’ doin’.”

Luke, who had been warmly returning his mother’s embrace, now jerked up a somewhat ruffled head, his flushed face disclosing distinct traces of tears.

“What’s that ye say, mother?” he asked.

Meanwhile Jim had been shaking his head waggishly at Maimie, and uplifting an admonitory forefinger.

“Well, of all the little noddies! So I’m goin’ to turn thee out, am I, to shift for thysel’. Water’s thicker nor blood, I s’pose, ho, ho, ho!”

He laughed prodigiously at his own wit, and Maimie dashed away her tears and smiled a doubtful smile.

“Mester Barnes and me,” said Mrs Wharton solemnly, “have made up we’re minds for to get wed, him bein’ in want of a missus an’ me bein’ that awful lonesome wi’out your poor feyther, Luke, as I feel I mun put soombry in’s place.”

“Very well said,” interpolated the farmer, in a deep and admiring growl.

“At same time,” continued Mrs Wharton, “we both knows our dooty to our childer, an’ we think the best way o’ settlin’ the matter ’ud be for me to live here at arter we are wed, and for you, Luke, to stop on at the Pit wi’ Maimie for your missus. Mester Barnes an’ me,” she added, looking towards her newly-chosen partner for confirmation of her words, “’ull give an eye to things from time to time—me inside an’ him out. An’ ye’ll have to pay me rent for the place, ye know, Luke—”

“Allowin’ yoursel’ a fair profit, o’ course,” interposed Farmer Barnes, “a fair profit.”

“An’ Mester Barnes bein’ a lovin’ feyther, an’ mindful o’ what his poor missus ’ud wish,” continued the widow, “’ull help ye to start, my lad—for stock an’ that. Ah, ye may be sure we’s both do the best we can for our own flesh an’ blood.”

Luke smiled broadly on his future stepfather, and gripped his sunburnt hand, murmuring heartily: “’Tis very well done o’ you, I’m sure. Very handsome—ah, that ’tis.”

Maimie had crossed over to Mrs Wharton and was uttering on her side profuse expressions of gratitude and satisfaction.

Jim Barnes himself, however, looked slightly puzzled, and presently took occasion to murmur surreptitiously in Mrs Wharton’s ear:

“Ye had the last word arter all, Lizzie, my dear!”

THE MISSUS’S CHAIR

WHEN the congregation of St Mary’s Church, Thornleigh, came gaily forth on Christmas Day, pausing in the porch and on the steps, and almost blocking the gateway as they exchanged cheery greetings and good wishes with friends and neighbours, old Joe Makin loitered behind. He spoke to no one, scarcely venturing to show himself, it would appear, till the merry groups had dispersed and the last gleeful youngster had come clattering down from his place in the choir, and scampered off to join the family circle.

When all at last was still, Joe came slowly out, pulling his hat-brim down over his eyes, and looking neither to right nor to left. Instead of, however, descending the steps that led to the lich-gate he went hobbling round to the rear of the church, and then paused before one of the graves.

The headstone bore the name of Annie, only child of Joseph and Mary Makin, and recorded her death as having taken place at a date full thirty-five years distant. Lower down was another inscription in memory of the aforesaid Mary Makin, who had departed this life, it seemed, but a few months before that very Christmas Day.

Joe looked round to assure himself that no one was in sight, and then, stooping stiffly, endeavoured to brush away with his hand the slight sprinkling of snow which had fallen on the little mound. Drawing a pair of scissors from his capacious pocket, he clipped the grass here and there where it had grown rank, muttering to himself the while.

“’Tisn’t much harm, I don’t think—nay, it canna be much harm, though it is Christmas Day, just to fettle it up a bit for our Mary. Hoo allus liked everything gradely—eh, that hoo did. Now hoo must have a bit o’ green to mak her know ’tis Christmas—ah, and the little ’un too. Annie shall have a sprig wi’ some pratty berries on’t.”

He took from beneath his coat two sprigs of holly, and after some difficulty succeeded in sticking them upright into the half-frozen ground, the larger one at the head of the grave, the smaller, all gay with red berries, at the foot.

“Theer, owd lass,” he said, straightening himself at last, “thou shall have a bit o’ green at head o’ thy bed same as ever—eh, I could wish I were a-layin’ theer aside o’ thee—Can’st thou see the berries, little wench, wheer thou art, up yon?—Well—I mun be off a-whoam now. Eh, but the grave looks gradely.”

Somewhat comforted by this reflection he turned about, and set off homewards.

There were few loiterers in the village street; every one was indoors, either preparing for, or already partaking of, the Christmas dinner. When Lancashire folks make merry they like, as they say, to have plenty “to mak’ merry wi’.” For weeks, nay, months past, thrifty housewives had been looking forward to this day, and not a little self-denial had been practised in order to ensure the keeping of it with becoming lavishness. From every house that Joe passed issued sounds of cheerful bustle, jests and laughter; he could see the firelight glancing on the window-panes, and catch glimpses of wonderful decorations in the way of cut paper and greenery. Here and there a little head would be pressed against the shining pane to watch for some belated guest; now and again he would hear a greeting exchanged between one and another; “Merry Christmas, owd lad!” “The same to you, man!” And then the chairs would draw up and there would be a clatter of plates, and a very babel of acclamations would declare the goose or the bit o’ beef to be the finest that ever was seen. Joe was going to have a goose for his Christmas dinner; he had always subscribed to a goose club in his missus’s time, and he had not yet learned to get into new ways; but the thought of that goose of which he was to partake in absolute solitude served only to increase his melancholy.

Poor Mary! how she would have enjoyed it—and she lay yonder in the cold ground.

When he arrived at his cottage he took the door-key from its usual hiding-place behind the loose brick under the ivy, and let himself in.