Chapter IX

NEHEMIAH WIMPENNY, of Holmfirth, "Gentleman, one of Her Majesty's &c.," in other words a solicitor, was the only legal practitioner in the village or neighbourhood, and though not more than thirty years of age, enjoyed a considerable practice. His father, Ebenezer, had been a successful manufacturer and a zealous Methodist. Presumably he believed that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. Certainly he shared the common belief that lawyers are very scarce in the celestial regions. But these convictions did not deter him from storing up riches in this world, nor from bringing up his son to the legal profession. Perhaps he had confidence in the axiom that exceptions prove the rule.

Nehemiah was well cut-out for a country lawyer: he had the native shrewdness and common sense, and if he did not know much law he found common-sense a very good substitute for it. His local knowledge was like that of a historic character extensive and peculiar, and his father's acquaintances and business connections who, at first from friendship, gave their business to young Nehemiah, had no reason to complain of lack of his attention to their interests or ability to protect them. In person he was of medium height, of sandy hair and pale complexion, with a cold and fishy eye and a cold and clammy hand. He dressed loudly and flashily, but as the extravagance of his raiment was attributed to a twelve months' stay in London in the office of a town agent its fashion or propriety few questioned. He was fond of jewellery, and displayed a good deal of it on his person, and was supposed by envious young manufacturers and merchants to be a "devil among the women,"--a reputation of which he was not a little vain, and which he sustained by the amorous glances and _doubles entendres_ of refreshment rooms and bars. He had spent a week in Paris, and hinted that he could an' he would tell a thing or two about the iniquities of the gay city. This did not prevent Nehemiah from attending with laudable regularity at the Methodist Chapel, and anxious mammas with marriageable daughters, secure in the assurance that a reformed rake makes a very passable saint, viewed with complacency the attentions which it pleased this very common-place Lothario to pay to the virgins of their flock and fold; and the pastor of Zion Chapel himself, doubtless reflecting that he was sent to the lost sheep of the house of Israel, and to heal those that were sick and not those that were whole, was very tender indeed to a church-member who gave weekly signs of grace in the form of substantial contributions to the collection box, and whose quarterly pew-rent could always be depended on. It is only fair to Nehemiah to say that he never permitted his dissipations which were possibly much exaggerated, to interfere with business, and that, however deep his potations of the previous night, he was always to be found at his desk with a clear head and a steady hand, a circumstance, of itself, that secured Nehemiah more appreciation in a hard-drinking community, than would have been inspired by an intimate acquaintance with the whole _corpus juris_.

Among his clients Nehemiah numbered Mr. Jabez Tinker, and he was therefore not surprised when the master of Wilberlee presented himself in the small, dingy, stuffy office which Nehemiah found sufficient for his needs. Mr. Tinker, of course, was well aware of the somewhat dubious moral character of the gentleman he had come to consult; but then he did not go to Nehemiah for morals but for professional assistance.

"Well, Mr. Tinker, and how do you find yourself this morning--warm, isn't it."

"Very," said Mr. Tinker--"it's warm, and it's close for the time of the year. But any sort of weather 'll do for your kind of work, I guess, Wimpenny."

"Rather,--the warmer the better--get me used to a sultry climate. It's as well to be prepared for the future, eh?"--Mr. Wimpenny's expansive smile indicated his own appreciation of a very feeble jest; but his client's countenance was not responsive.

"H'm," said Mr. Tinker. "Well, Wimpenny, let's get to business. I want to make my will, and it's no use putting the thing off. I can always alter it?"

"Yes, yes, certainly--as long as a man lives he can alter his will, always supposing he remain _compos mentis_; and we're all human, Mr. Tinker, we're all human."

"It shouldn't be a very complicated affair either," went on Mr. Tinker. "Unfortunately, except the house I live in."

"Snug little hole, but too near the mill," thought his adviser.

"Except that, practically all I have is tied up in my business."

"And a very good business too, Mr. Tinker, by all accounts."

"I've nothing to complain of in that score; but it is unfortunate as things have turned out that I did not arrange differently. You see, I've no son to carry on the concern after my death."

The lawyer nodded assent.

"I must provide for my widow, of course. She must have the house and furniture for her life, and I thought of, say, three hundred a year--not a penny more, she'd only give it to the chapel."

Again the lawyer nodded, making notes, as he listened, on a sheet of foolscap.

"That's plain speaking," went on Mr. Tinker, "but where's the £300 to come from? That's the difficulty. Mills aren't easy to let, and the bigger they are the fewer people want them. I suppose there's nothing for it but the hammer. It's enough to make us Tinkers all turn in our graves. But there it is.--Even if Dick--you won't remember my brother, Richard,--if he'd had a son, it would have been different."

"But we all know he left a very charming daughter," said Wimpenny with a bow and a smirk.

"Dorothy's right enough," said her uncle, curtly. "But you can't turn her into a manufacturer. Though she's a sort of partner all the same. You know her father died suddenly."

Of course Wimpenny knew.

"And her father was part owner of the mill and business. Well, the girl's money is in the business still."

"Phew! that's bad, Mr. Tinker."

"I know it is, and the worst of it, I've kept no separate accounts. I've treated Richard's share just as my own. But my will must put all that right. Subject to my wife's provision Dorothy must have all. There'll be nob'dy else for it."

Wimpenny did not speak for some time. He chewed the end of his quill instead, a way he had when absorbed in thought.

"It's a bad business Mr. Tinker;" he said at length; "it was scarcely like you to confound accounts in that loose fashion and to put trust money into what was practically your own business. People might call it by an ugly name."

Jabez flushed angrily. "What do you mean, sir? I treated my niece as my daughter, brought her up in my house as my own child, and now I propose to leave her my sole heiress. Nothing very ugly about that, I should think."

"Not as things have turned out," was the reply, "but you know as well as I do they _might_ have turned out differently, and where would your ward's money have been? However, it's to-day and tomorrow we're concerned with, not yesterday. Has it occurred to you that Miss Dorothy may marry?"

"Of course she may. One doesn't need to pay six-and-eight to learn that."

"Exactly," said the unruffled lawyer. "Now an adopted daughter and an adopted daughter's husband are often quite two different beings, and should Miss Tinker marry it's the husband we should have to reckon with."

"Well, I could pay him out, I suppose?"

"Of course you could--by selling Wilberlee at a sacrifice, a great sacrifice, or by putting a heavy mortgage on the property if it would carry it. We must remember that there are eighteen years of profits to set-off against Miss Dorothy's up-bringing, and the Court of Chancery does not weigh trustees' profits in a hair-balance, I can tell you."

Mr. Tinker rose impatiently. "I didn't come here to have you raise difficulties but to meet them, nor yet to be frightened by bug-bears."

"Now you are unreasonable, Mr. Tinker. I shouldn't be worth my salt if I didn't put the situation plainly before you. You don't go to a doctor for smooth sayings nor yet for sweetmeats instead of pills. No use getting huffed, you know."

But Mr. Tinker was huffed. He was a Tinker and a magistrate, and had been a man of mark these thirty years, and was not pleasant to be told these things by a young lawyer who might have been his son. But he had the good sense to know that what Nehemiah said was truth.

"Ah, well," he said, "I dare say we are meeting trouble half-way. You know what I want doing. I did everything for the best, and I don't know that I care very much what the world says or your infernal Court of Chancery either, if it comes to that. When will you have the will ready, Wimpenny?"

"Let me see. To-day's Monday. Say Thursday of next week. We close for Whitsuntide, you know."

"Very good, so be it. I'll call in on that day. I'll be glad to have the thing off my mind before the holidays. Mrs. Tinker's at Harrogate, and I was thinking of running over for a few days. Till Thursday, then," and Mr. Tinker went his way feeling less comfortable in his mind than he had done for many a long day.

"Confound the fellow," he said to himself, wiping his brow, "and confound his stuffy little office, too. It's worse than the sweating-room at the Bank."

Left to himself Nehemiah Wimpenny sunk into a deep reverie; and, to judge from the faint smile that occasionally played upon his face, a not unpleasing one.

"So Miss Dorothy's to be old Tinker's heiress," thus ran his thoughts, "and that means probably old Eph. Thorpe's into the bargain. Guess I rather frightened the immaculate Jabez with that hint of a probable Chancery suit. Talk about men starting at their own shadows, as if any possible suitor for the fair Dorothy would dream of muddling away not only her fortune, but her expectations by going to law with a man who could leave him or not leave him thousands of pounds just as the fancy took him. Should have thought Tinker was more level headed. It isn't the money he's frightened of, it's the scandal. These cold, reserved, proud men are always so devilish thin-skinned. Wonder who the happy man 'll be.--Haven't heard of anyone nosing around."

"By Jove! why shouldn't I cut in myself? She's a pretty little filly and a high-stepper too. I've had my fling, and it's about time I looked around for Mrs. Nehemiah. Wonder I never meet her out anywhere. Tinker keeps her up pretty close apparently, perhaps she doesn't care for high-teas, small talk, and cribbage. Shows her sense."

"Wonder how I can get to know her. No use fishing for an invitation to Tinker's. Jove! I have it. Didn't he say he was off to Harrogate to cheer up the old woman. Let's see, Jabez is an Aenonite. H'm, I must sweeten the Reverend David--well that's easy enough. Pity I don't go to Aenon; but that's soon got over. One chapel's as good as another to a broad-minded man. All retail the same blooming rot. I mean they all lead to the same place. Different roads to the same city--that's the phrase."

"Whitsuntide is it, next week? Shouldn't mind a run over to Scarborough. Better than sulphur-water at Harrogate, friend Tinker. Why! there'll be the Sunday School treats, band, flags, processions stale buns and coffee grounds. The sportive Dorothy's pretty sure to be doing the cheap philanthropic with the kids--and Nehemiah 'll be there or thereabouts, you bet."

"But I'll make sure how Richard left his money. Hearsay's all very well, but matrimony on hearsay might turn out a sell. I'll get a copy of his will. But that'll be all right, I fancy. Gad, it's dry work thinking. I'll step across and have a tiddley at the Crown, and I might as well take little Polly that pair of gloves I promised her. Heigho, I guess I'll have to swear off lovely Pollys, at any rate till the honeymoon 's over."

But before the sagacious Wimpenny abandoned himself to the delights of gin-and-bitters and the lively sallies of the lovely Polly, he dropped a confidential note to his London agent to procure a copy of Richard Tinker's will and such information as the archives of Somerset House could furnish to the interested or the curious as to the Residuary and Legacy accounts filed by the deceased's executor, Mr. Jabez Tinker, to wit.

This missive despatched with his own hand Nehemiah turned his steps towards the Crown, feeling very much at peace with himself and fully entitled to bask in the sunshine of Polly's ready smile. On the way he chanced across the pastor of Aenon Chapel, who was devoting his morning to calling upon sundry of his flock and getting up an appetite for his mid-day dinner.

"Good morning, Mr. Jones the very man I wanted to see. I've a crow to pull with you. Won't there be the usual school treat this Whitsuntide?"

"Certainly, Mr. Wimpenny We'd a special prayer last meeting for a fine day."

"Well, now, I go to Zion. But we Nonconformists are not so narrow as our Church friends, eh? So long as the good work goes on, that's the main thing isn't it?"

"Most assuredly, Mr. Wimpenny, most assuredly. We're only tools in the great Worker's hands."

"Quite so, Mr. Jones, quite so; my sentiments to a T, only better expressed. Now I know these efforts of the Sunday School cost money. I'm not good enough to be a teacher; but you must let me help in my own way. I hoped you would have called, as your predecessor did, and asked for a subscription, then we could have had a comfortable chat," and Nehemiah slipped a sovereign into the parson's palm.

Now Mr. Jones had gone very recently over the list of subscribers to the various efforts and celebrations of Aenon Chapel, and flattered himself that he knew to a nicety the amount for which every inhabitant of Holmfirth "was good;" but he certainly could not remember to have seen Nehemiah Wimpenny's name for so much as a widow's mite. But perhaps the lawyer was one of those worthy men who do good by stealth and blush to find it known. So he had no qualms about pocketing the coin.

"They say open confession 's good for the soul," went on Nehemiah. "I was just on my way to have a nip and a snack at the Crown--just a glass of bitter, you know"--Oh! Nehemiah, Nehemiah!--"No use asking you, I know. The old Vicar, now, always had a glass of sherry with me when we met. But they say you are just ruining the trade, with your temperance sermons and your temperance missions. You mustn't do that Mr. Jones; for if you shut up public-houses _I_ might as well shut up shop too. Well, good day, good day."

Mr. Jones's face was beaming.

"Do they really say so?" he asked.

"Of course they do, and mean it. There isn't a publican in the town but would rejoice to have you popped off like an Irish rack-renter. Oh! By the bye, whose field do you have on Monday for your gala? I might manage to have an hour's romp with your youngsters--any road I could squander a few nuts and have them racing for oranges."

"Mr. Tinker has kindly let us have the loan of his paddock at the rear of Wilberlee. We've had it for years, till the school almost expect it as a right."

"I see, I see--a prescriptive right. A better sort of prescription than a doctor's, eh?"

Mr. Jones accorded the tribute of a smile. "You don't allow your drier studies to dull your sense of humour, I perceive. By the way, the dear children of Zion are joining us this year both in the procession and the after proceedings, so you will not be hampered by any sense of a divided duty. I must not omit to thank you for your generous donation, but I assure you we shall value your presence among us more highly than any gift."

"Don't mention it--a bagatelle. Wish it were more. Make it yearly. But now I really must be off or I shall miss my snack."

"And your glass of--bitter? I think you said,"

"Ah, well, I'll make it mild to-day. That's next to teetotal, you know. Again, good day. Hope to have the pleasure of an introduction to Mrs. Jones on Monday."

"What a very excellent young man," mused the reverend divine, as he scurried through his calls. "I wish brother Brown of Zion put more fervour into Temperance work.--He might win that young man to the cause"--a conclusion Mr. Jones might have modified had he seen the wink with which the very excellent young man favoured himself as he took the steps of the Crown Hotel and called for his "usual, and a smile with it, please, Polly."

"Miah's in extra spirits this morning. Wonder who's feathers he's been plucking so early," was the mental comment of the slim-waisted damsel as she handed the "usual" with a coquettish air and neatly evaded the proffered salute.

"There's someone coming!" she whispered, as she skipped away.

"There always is, damn 'em," said that very excellent young man.

Whit-Monday in Yorkshire is the saturnalia of the Sunday schools, a festival to which both teachers and taught look forward with delighted anticipation. A committee of the teachers and those members of the congregation who are supposed to be musically gifted, select the hymns to be sung at the services and at the halts of the procession on its route, and the discussion and final settling of the hymn-sheets are not always attended by the harmony appropriate to the occasion. The lives of the organist and the choirmaster are made a burden to them, and before the sheet reaches the printer there is often a coolness between ladies who had vowed eternal friendship. The scholars are very zealously drilled by the choirmaster, the girls singing with zest at the "practices," the boys stimulating their attention by pulling their hair, but lifting up their own voices under protest. The young ladies of the Sunday School wear a subdued modification of their Sunday best at the week-night practices and as they have neither father nor mother to escort them home at the somewhat late hour to which the practices are prolonged, have to make shift with the arm of a blushing and embarrassed teacher from the Boys' School, and, to do them justice, the young ladies cheerfully submit to be thus accompanied. If it should be discovered during the homeward walk of this sober minded Phyllis and Stephen of the mills that their voices go well together, the practising at the school not unfrequently conduces to domestic duets, never, let us hope, to matrimonial discords. An ingenuous bride, not long ago, assured the writer that she simply doted on the Sunday School. When asked for the reason, she naively confessed that it was there she first met her Billy. As this frank young lady has since sent in her resignation as a teacher, it is to be assumed that she now dotes on Billy to the detriment of the Sunday School; but she has not thought it necessary to return the time-piece presented to her by her fellow-teachers on the eve of her wedding-day.

He must be a very callous individual indeed who does not delight in the sight of the scholars as they marshal under the folds of the School flag, blazoned with the name of the chapel and borne in a somewhat staggering fashion by sturdy teachers who find consolation for their tribulations in the honour of being standard-bearers. Even a slattern mother and a drunken father will make a shift at sacrifice to turn the "childer" out decent for the "Whissun treat." It is indeed the time of year when the yearly Sunday suit is chosen. Poverty must indeed have made its home in the house of a Yorkshire mill-hand if a white muslin frock and brilliant sash and a new straw hat with bright ribbons cannot be found for the girls, and a new suit, be the material never so rough, for the lads. It is a feast to the eyes to see the young coquettes--a maid of five is often a promising if not a quite accomplished coquette--arrayed in all their glory, conscious of their charms and severely critical of the gowns of their comrades. There is the exhilaration of the strains of the brass band--which in all probability will be comfortably drunk before the day is out; there is the fluttering of the silken banners in the summer breeze, and, above all, there is the consciousness of being the beheld of all beholders. The boys look either bored or ashamed of themselves and wish they were nearer the buns and nuts, for which they are gloomily conscious they will have to pay by submitting to the humiliating exactions of kiss-in-the-ring. Every door of the village is open as the long procession winds through the narrow streets, and anxious matrons and elder sisters watch for their own to see the sash has retained its bunch and the flounces have not given: also to receive the soothing assurance that Annie or Lizzie is dressed as smart as the best of them. Then there is the singing of a hymn at the minister's house and before the deacons' and--pleasantest feature of all the day's proceedings--the lifting of the sweet young voices under the window of a sick companion who listens from a tear-stained pillow to the air she may never sing again. The distinction almost compensates for pain.

Among those watched the procession was Ben Garside, Hannah, and Lucy. She had been wheeled to the open door. Her father and mother stood on the other side. Tom was in his bedroom, "fettling hissen," as Hannah put it. Ben had put on his better suit, and shaved himself in honour of the holiday,--the last holiday of the year for working-folk till Christmas should come again. There were no Bank Holidays in those days. Hannah had put on her somewhat rusty silk dress, and would have scorned to acknowledge that it pinched round the waist more than it did a year before. As the rear rank of the scholars and the last banner disappeared up the street, Tom's feet were heard descending the stairs.

"Tom 'll be for off, nah," said Hannah, "pity he couldn't ha' his baggin' so's things wouldn't be lyin' abaat all hours."

"Now Ben," said Tom, cheerily, "I'm ready, are you?"

"By Gosh! Aw sud think yo' are ready: stan' ther an' let's ha' a looik at yo'."

Tom laughed, and stood to attention. "Do the creases show very much?" he asked, "I feel like a draper's parcel wrapped in brown paper."

It was a great event. Tom had got a suit of navy blue serge for the summer, and it fitted him like a glove.

"Aw mun gi' yo' a pinch for new," said Hannah, nipping the upper arm.

"An' put a penny in his pocket," added Lucy, "for luck."

"It should be a shilling if it's to match the pinch," laughed Tom, rubbing his arm. "But where's your bonnet, Hannah, and your hat, Lucy?"

"What's ta thinkin' on, Tom?" asked Ben.

"Why that we're all going to the field together. I'm going to wheel Lucy and stand by her, and you and Hannah are to enjoy yourselves with the other young folk."

Ben protested he wouldn't budge an inch. "Not but what he liked to see th' childer enjoy theirsen, but Whissunday wer' a heathenish festival an' a relic o' superstition."

"But you've knocked off work and donned--I mean dressed yourself," remonstrated Tom.

"Aye at nooinin'. Who could wark wi' that blethrin' brass band brayin' up an' down th' street?"

Mrs. Garside looked at Lucy. "It 'ud be a treeat for th' lass," she said.

"I should like it, but I should only be a hindrance. Fancy Tom standing by me for hours at a stretch and all the other young men in the field enjoying themselves. Take mother, father, and I'll stop at home. No one will run away with _me_." she added bravely, but there was a tear in her voice.

"If you stop at home, I stop," said Tom emphatically. "Besides, as for being tied to your side all the time, when you get tired of me, and mother there's tired of mooning about with Ben, we can take turn and turn about. I couldn't enjoy myself a bit if you were stuck here all by yourself, and what's more, I won't try."

"Well, then, that sattles it," said Hannah. "We'll all go, an' th' haase mun tak' care on itsen. Awst put mi silver spooins i' mi pocket, an' there's nowt else 'at means owt. Nah! Ben, stir thee, mon, an' dunnot stan' theer like a stuck sheep."

"_Aw'm_ ready," said Ben, "Aw'n nowt to do but don mi cap an' that won't tak me as long as it'll tak' thee to don thi bonnet. Tom an' me could go to the field an' be back afore yo' an' Lucy 'll be ready."

"Aw said stir thee. Put th' kettle on. What's th' use o' goin' to th' field an hour afore there'll be ony theer. Tha doesn't want a whole field to thissen, does ta? We'll ha' us baggin afore we start, an' then we'st ha' th' day i' front on us."

"But aw could put mi finger dahn mi throit an' feel mi dinner yet," demurred Ben. "It's nooan three o'clock bi th' Church."

"That's noah odds. Aw'm nooan baan to ha' thee worritin' me all th' afternooin becos yo'n nooan had thi baggin, an happen sneakin' off into th' village to get a pint becos tha's a sinkin' i' thi' stomach, an' me lookin' for thi all ovver th' field, wanderin' abaat gawpin' as if aw'd just bin let loise aat o'th 'sylum, an' thee stuck at th' _Cropper's Arms_ as large as life, makkin' a beeast on thisen becos it's Whissunday. Nooah! if yo' dunnot want yo'r baggin nah, yo' mun ha' it agen yo' do want it."

Hannah's feet and hands had been as busy as her tongue. She had turned up the skirt of her gown and put an apron over all, spread the cloth, fetched up the bread and the butter, cut and spread thick slices for herself and the men, and thin ones for Lucy, washed the lettuce, radishes, and shallots, smoothed the top of the salt-cellar, set Tom to toasting a couple of currant teacakes, produced a jar of raspberry jam and mashed the tea before you could say Jack Robinson.

"Aw've getten a caa-heel for thi supper, an' tha can bring thisen a pint o' Timmy (best ale) for supper as it's holiday time," she conceded to Ben, evidently in great good humour with herself at the prospect of their outing.

And so as the large field near Mr. Tinker's house--there was but a privet hedge separating it from the house garden--began to fill, as the boys and girls gathered from their respective school-rooms, flushed from their hasty tea-drinking, the lads not without a guilty consciousness of a filched bun bulging their trousers pocket, as the brass band played their final tune before withdrawing to the nearest inn to partake of something better than "spotted Dick an' washin'-up watter," as a member irreverently styled the scholars' repast, Ben Garside sauntered into the field trying to look as if Sunday School treats were an every-day occurrence of his life, Hannah sailed behind, whilst Tom with Lucy brought up the rear. There grew a large beech tree on the slope of the ground, and under its full-leaved branches Tom drew the chair in which Lucy sat, her cheeks faintly tinged with a delicate bloom and her eyes sparkling with the unwonted excitement. Her mother raised her to a sitting posture and settled the cushions and wraps as only she could, and "theer yo' are, lass," she concluded, with a fond look at her darling child, "theer yo' are as right as ninepence." But the mother's heart was full as she remembered the day, but as yesterday, when Lucy's little feet would have skimmed the greensward light as a fairy's dance.

But Hannah was not long suffered to indulge in reflections sad or otherwise she was a popular character in the village, and everyone knew that Hannah's bark was worse than her bite. Soon the good wives of the village began to stroll about the field, scanning each others' dresses, and exchanging kindly greetings, whilst their good men sought secluded corners where they might enjoy a furtive pipe, and talk over the topics of the day; the serious minded discussing the last sermon, the pugnacious revelling in the shortcomings of Parliament and the misdeeds of ministers. A small group gathered round Lucy's chair, some of them rosy-cheeked young lasses, who had worked with Lucy in the mill, and who now brought up their young men to be exhibited with all the pride of conquest. And Lucy had a smile and pleasant word for all, and many a strapping swain, as he lounged past the nook where Lucy held her little Court and let his glance dwell upon the delicate face with its refined and chastened beauty, knew rebellious thoughts against the fate that had put the crippled girl beyond the sighs and vows of man; and grey-headed grandsires, bent with age and toil, recalled the former days when they had suffered and striven for the easier lot their children owned.

"Eh! but it's gran' to see yo', Hannah," one would say, "Why aw declare aw hannot seen yo' donned up an' aat sin' we put owd Susan o' 'Lijah's under th' graand. An' yo' do looik weel to be sure, an' aw will say 'at if theer's a woman i' th' village 'at does her clo'es credit it's yo', Hannah. And your Lucy, too, aw declare oo's quite a colour. Yo're lookin' mony a pund better nor th' last time aw seed thi, Lucy, an' tha mun keep thi heart up, lass, theer's no tellin' yet. See yo' Hannah, theer's yar Jud (George) an' yo'r Ben t'other side o'th' field, an' Jud's shakkin' his fist i' Ben's face, an' Ben's dancin' like peeas on a bake-ston'. It's them plaguing politics, but they're enjoyin' theirsen. An' theer's yar 'Tilda yonder i'th' kiss-i'th-ring an Jim Sykes after her. Run, lass, run--eh! he's caught her. Th' clumsy felly, he'll rive all th' clo'es off her back. Gi' 'im one an' get it ovver. Eh! it fair ma'es one young agin to see th' young folk enjoy theirsen."

Lucy had insisted on Tom joining the revels of the field, the gay and innocent sports of the youths and maidens, and her eyes followed him as he joined in the games at "Tirzy," hand ball, and what not. But Tom's thoughts seemed elsewhere, and Lucy knew that his eyes wandered from the laughter-ringing throngs to the rustic gate that led from Wilberlee to the pasture land.

"He's watching for Dorothy," she thought, and there passed, maybe, a shadow over Lucy's gentle face, "and there comes Dorothy herself. Ah! well, I knew it long ago. God send it may not spoil our Tom's young life."

There was a rush of twinkling little feet to meet the young mistress of Wilberlee as she passed slowly through the gateway, and moved into the field, clad in a loose gown of sprayed muslin of palest blue. She swung her hat in one hand that the soft cool air might play about her face, and the rays of the declining sun gleamed upon the auburn tresses, and gave them a golden sheen.

A dozen youngsters danced up to her, shouting their childish welcome, and more than one little toddlekin did Dorothy catch up in her arms and kiss. They danced round her as she walked up the field, or clasped her hand to claim her for some favourite game. And Dorothy smiled down upon the uplifted faces, and made feint to run away from them, but was captured and prisoned in their midst. And so, surrounded by bright and happy faces, Dorothy moved about the field, speaking to many, and giving a pleased recognition to all she knew,--and there was not a man or woman of Aenon chapel she did not know, not a worker at her uncle's mill she could not address by name.

"As free as th' air, Miss Dorothy is," said one, "but she never demeans herself nor forgets she's th' young mistress." And the hands respected her, the more for it. The working people of the mills knew their place, and were not ashamed of it, nor servile to those above them. They did not care that anyone should assume a familiarity they knew must be feigned and which they were bound to suspect.

The Rev. David Jones was in his glory. He had shaken hands with everyone there above the age of thirteen, had inquired about everyone's health as though he loved them, and their pains were his, had narrowly escaped being decoyed into a game at romps, and had looked as though he liked it when a hand-ball knocked off his hat. This did not prevent him confiding to Mrs. Jones, a placid little woman who took life serenely, that he should be glad when it was all over.

As the afternoon wore to evening and the pastor, wearied of parading the field and repeating stale vacuities, he saw, with the pleasure we experience when we realize what we had hoped for rather than expected, that young Wimpenny had not forgotten his half-promise of a day or two ago. Wimpenny was speaking to the minister of his own chapel, a meek, timid man, but hard-working, sincere and self-sacrificing, beloved of little children and their mothers, and for whom even the hard-hearted operatives had a good word. The lawyer was not long in making his way towards Mr. Jones.

"You see I have been able to come, though I'm afraid I'm a late scholar. Won't you introduce me to Mrs. Jones?" and the introduction was duly made. The three paced together through the changing throng, parted occasionally when some eager urchin, in full cry after the flying ball, darted under the parson's arms or a breathless Daphne, with ringlets streaming in the breeze, fled in simulated fright from a pursuing swain.

"Miss Tinker seems to be enjoying herself," said Nehemiah to Mrs. Jones, after he had duly admired her own numerous offspring whom she had indicated in various quarters of the field.

"Is she as nice as she is pretty?"

"Yes, she is very nice, and seems fond of the people. She spoils the children though,--my husband is sometimes a little put out. She does not take life seriously enough, she says, and he is vexed she won't be baptised, though she is quite old enough to become a full church member. I asked her if she had religious scruples that Mr. Jones could assist her to banish; but she only laughed and said the immersion costume of the girls was hideous enough to account for a bushel of scruples without searching further. But then you know she is Mr. Tinker's niece, and I daresay she is indulged too much at home."

Nehemiah did not think this very likely, but, all the same, he replied that it was a great pity.

"Do you now," he said, "I have never had the pleasure of meeting Miss Tinker in society. She doesn't go out much. I fancy. Would you mind----?"

"Certainly, Mr. Wimpenny, if you wish it. See, she is resting now and fanning herself with that outlandish hat of hers. Shall we join her?" And presently the diplomatic Wimpenny was making a somewhat exaggerated bow before the heiress of Wilberlee.

And Tom's eyes followed the graceful girl as she walked by the side of Nehemiah, chatting gaily and seeming well content with his companionship; and Tom plunged his hands deep into his pockets and stalked moodily with clouded brow about the field, deaf to every entreaty from tempting lips to "choose the girl that he loved best," and feeling that for him life had lost its zest. The blue of the sky was dulled, the music of the lark soaring in the azure might have been the cawing of the rooks, and the gentle summer breeze that scarce stirred the leaves an icy blast from eastern shores.

"What a fool I am, crying for the moon. I, Tom Pinder, apprentice to Jabez Tinker, Esquire and Justice of the Peace. Go to yonder rosy faced weaver with sparkling eyes and towzled hair. _She_ will lend a ready ear, you can send her home to-night, her heart in a tumult of delight; in her dreams heaven will open to her, and she will wake with your name upon her lips. Or go down yonder to the _Clothiers' Arms_. There are some jolly fellows there, and you will be all the more welcome because you have been set down as a strait-laced, sour-faced curmudgeon with lead in your veins for blood. Go drink with them and join in their drunken chorus; better that than eat your heart out after fruit that is not for you."

And so with head down-bent he makes for where he had left Hannah and Lucy; and in his abstraction nearly walks into Wimpenny and Dorothy. Mrs. Jones had remembered the wise saying that two are company and three are none.

"Mind where you're walking, will you?" exclaimed Wimpenny, cut short in a very flowery compliment which Dorothy was perhaps not sorry to have curtailed.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Tinker, I'm afraid I was very careless. I did not see. I was thinking."

"Now that is not a very gallant speech, Tom--I mean Mr. Pinder. Mr. Wimpenny would have assured me that he never thought at all except of me, and that he would have divined my presence by instinct a mile off."

But Wimpenny was not to be rallied into good humour. He had put on a very tight-fitting pair of patent-leather shoes, and he suffered from the usual infliction of those who wear tight boots,--and Tom had grazed his foot.

"Mr. Pinder! indeed," he thought, "why, damme, it's one of old Tinker's mill hands."

Now Tom, having made his apologies to Dorothy, was for pursuing the tenor of his way, being by no means disposed to offer any to Mr. Wimpenny.

"Oh, you mustn't go, Mr. Pinder, you must take me to Lucy; but first you must help me to gather some flowers. You know Paris so well, Mr. Wimpenny, and must excuse my accent. Shall I say _Au revoir_ or _A bientot_, and without waiting for a reply she turned in the direction of the garden at the house, Leaving Nehemiah dumbfounded.

"Curse the jade," he muttered to himself, "chucked over for a dirty weaver, by Jove. But I'll be even with her yet. It doesn't do to play tricks with Miss Dorothy, and so you'll find some day. But I can bide my time. I'll go and have a drink at the _Crown_, Polly 'll be glad to see me anyhow."

And Tom walked as in a dream. The sky was blue again, and the lark trilled a clearer note, and all the earth was glad in its summer joyousness.