NATIVES
 
 Ex Libris 
 C. K. OGDEN < 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 V 
 
 
 fa/A t'i
 
 NATIVES OF MILTON
 
 NEW FICTION, 
 
 THOMPSON'S PROGRESS. 
 
 By CUTCLIFFE HYNE. 6/- 
 
 THE TWO VANREVELS, 
 
 By BOOTH TARKIKGTON. 6/- 
 
 THE CAPTAIN OF THE GRAY-HORSE 
 TROOP. 
 By HAMLIN GARLAND. 6/- 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS OF A WIFE. 6/- 
 
 THB COLONIALS. 
 
 By ALLEN FRENCH. 6/- 
 
 BETTY'S HUSBAND. 6/- 
 
 THE LAST ALIVE. 
 
 By J. MACLAREN COBBAN. 6/- 
 
 THE SENTIMENTAL WARRIOR. 
 By EDGAR JEPSON. 6/- 
 
 BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 By W. STEARNS DAVIS. 6/- 
 
 THE LEOPARD'S SPOTS. 
 By THOMAS DIXON. 6/- 
 
 THE CRIMSON WING. 
 
 By H. C. CHATFIELD-TAYLOR. 6/- 
 
 MLLE. FOUCHETTE. 
 
 By C. THEODORE MURRAY. 6/- 
 
 A MAN OF SENTIMENT. 
 By THOMAS COBB. 3/6. 
 
 THE MISDEMEANOURS OF NANCY. 
 By ELEANOR HOYT. 3/6. 
 
 ASPIRATIONS. 
 
 By CONSTANCE WEST. 3/6. 
 
 ELIZA'S HUSBAND. 
 By BARRY PAIN, i/- and 1/6. 
 
 LONDON : GRANT RICHARDS.
 
 NATIVES OF MILTON 
 
 BY 
 
 R. MURRAY GILCHRIST 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "THE COURTESY DAME," "THE RUE BARGAIN" 
 "NICHOLAS AND MARY." ETC. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 GRANT RICHARDS 
 
 1902
 
 THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED 
 EDINBURGH
 
 i 
 
 4-C 
 
 A f- 
 
 t 
 
 TO MY 
 DEAR FRIEND 
 
 ROSE DERRY 
 
 1001821
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE RETURN OF UNCLE JOB ... 1 
 
 MALL'S WARM FRIEND .... 9 
 
 THE WISE BUSYBODY ..... 18 
 
 MATTHEW EOBSON'S LUCK .... 31 
 
 THE PIRRITTY PRIDE ..... 40 
 
 BECK AT THE PLAY ..... 49 
 
 POOR JOE ....... 62 
 
 THE COURTSHIP OF MRS WHITECROFT . . 70 
 OWD Music . . . . . .83 
 
 THE WAITRESS AT "THE CASTLE" . . 92 
 
 No IMAGINATION ..... 101 
 
 LAVINIA'S LAST TESTAMENT . . . .110 
 
 THE PAINTED CABINET . . . .119 
 
 A SALE IN PEAKLAND ..... 127 
 
 FOR OWD TIMES' SAKE . . . .135 
 
 A VAIN SELF-SACRIFICE . . . .149 
 
 THE LOST PRIZES ..... 158 
 
 MISTAKEN Vows 166 
 
 vii
 
 THE RETURN OF UNCLE JOB 
 
 IT was the last evening of Milton Wakes, and 
 Sarah Posnett's cottage (which stands facing 
 the ivy-covered parsonage, midway between 
 the "Bold Cloudesley" and the "Marquis of 
 Granby ") bore a candle in each of its brightly- 
 polished lower windows. Eight o'clock had 
 struck, and the dusk concealed the rain- 
 drenched asters and stocks of the forecourt. 
 Indoors, all was warmth and comfort; a big 
 fire burned in the grate, and the round table, 
 where the spinster sat with her two widowed 
 sisters, who had come down from their upland 
 farms, was covered with flowered china and 
 spice and buttermilk cakes. 
 
 Sarah was in her element, for this was her 
 special feast-evening. On all other occasions 
 when the sisters met, it was in the com- 
 fortable parlours of the hill-top homesteads ; 
 for, although her income was quite sufficient 
 for her simple requirements, they had been 
 amply portioned by their deceased spouses, 
 and when entertaining her they were apt to 
 imply that she must consider herself honoured 
 by the offer of a seat near the door. But, 
 A 1
 
 THE RETURN OF UNCLE JOB 
 
 at the Wakes, when she bestirred herself to 
 give them of her best, they relaxed their 
 social pride and treated her as an equal. The 
 two elder women belonged to a different type 
 they had the pallid, large-nosed faces of 
 the Bradshaw family (it is well-known that 
 the last Squire was wayward, and that Mrs 
 Posnett bore a repute for lightness, as her 
 spouse did for blind simplicity), and the sisters, 
 without ever speaking of their mother's frailty, 
 joyed in the knowledge of better blood. But 
 Sarah, with her homely ways and her beam- 
 ing pippin-like face, was a true daughter of 
 the Peakland peasantry. 
 
 "Gin for yo', Louey, an' rum for Hannah," 
 said the spinster. "Now, tell me when to 
 stop?" She poured a goodly measure of 
 gin into the tea, until the cup was brim- 
 ful. 
 
 " Dear ! dear ! " exclaimed Louisa Dane. " I 
 always did say as yo've gotten a heavy hand, 
 Sarah, wench ! Yor hospitality's very good. 
 An' the sperrit's as it owt to be." 
 
 " Ay, fill mine up to the top," said Hannah 
 Cocker, laughingly. "I'm none o' them who 
 cry ' enew ! ' when the pot'll howd no more. 
 Stephen, poor lad, always upheld it as theere 
 weere nowt like rum an' tea. Wy, yo're 
 temperate as e'er, Sarah yo're none takin' 
 ony ! " 
 
 " No, loove," replied Sarah. " Mine's a yead- 
 piece as soon creaks. Now, yo're surely a' 
 
 2
 
 THE RETURN OF UNCLE JOB 
 
 whoame here, an' all as is on the table mun 
 be eaten." 
 
 After the second cup the paleness of the 
 widows disappeared; the tightly-drawn skin 
 of their cheeks flushed warmly and their 
 handsome teeth were freely displayed. They 
 began to talk briskly of the lovers whom they 
 had dismissed in their youth, and of junket- 
 ings at distant fairs. Sarah was too much 
 their junior to remember these fine doings ; 
 but she sat listening, with her eyes sparkling 
 and her lips twitching in sympathy. 
 
 Mrs Dane turned soon and slapped her 
 smartly on the bosom. "Yo ! little mouse!" 
 she cried. "Yo're just as plump an' firm o' 
 flesh as yo' weere at twenty, when owd 
 William Brierly o' th' ' Rose an' Crown,' 
 poggled after thee like a God-knows whatten. 
 An' yo' weere that close, yo' ne'er let out 
 how yo' gied him th' mitten." 
 
 "Well," said Sarah, bashfully, "he's been 
 dead for fifteen year, so I need mak' no secret 
 o't. He came into the brewhouse, where I 
 weere cruddlin' soome milk for the turkey- 
 powts, an' he slipped a lozinse i' my hand an' 
 went off. An' theere weere writin' on't: 
 * When will yo' be mine ? ' an' as luck would 
 have it I had another i' my pocket wi': 
 'When pigs fly' for answer. So I calls 
 'William!' an' he coomes, an' says I: 'This 
 settles it.' Lord ha' mercy ! but he did curse 
 an' sweer ! " 
 
 3
 
 THE RETURN OF UNCLE JOB 
 
 "The owd gander!" said Mrs Cocker. "I 
 wonder at him havin' the cheek ! I do b'lieve 
 as theere's soome men as thinks they're fit 
 for any ooman ! In coorse, Sarah, yo' weerena 
 (she passed her cup for the fifth time) yo' 
 weerena so ladylike as Louey an' me, but yo' 
 weerena foul i' them days. Why, now we're 
 talkin' about such things only last week 
 Artie Dobson came up to Carter Knoll an' 
 asked me " 
 
 She was interrupted by a timorous knock- 
 ing at the door. Sarah rose hastily and lifted 
 the latch. In the honeysuckle-covered porch 
 stood a little bent old man with a long white 
 beard. A trunk, covered with cowhide, lay 
 beside like its owner it was soaked with 
 the heavy rain. 
 
 "Is this Miss Sarah Posnett's ?" he asked, in 
 a quavering voice. " They told me as there 
 was only one bearing the name nowadays in 
 the village." 
 
 " I'm Sarah Posnett," she replied. " Coome 
 inside out o' the rain. Whatten may yor 
 bus'ness be?" 
 
 " That'll wait a bit," he said, with a pathetic 
 giggle. " Why, bless me, you've got Louisa 
 and Hannah here! I can tell 'em by their 
 noses ! And growin' old women, though I be 
 older by twenty year ! " 
 
 The widows sniffed. "If it's a pedlar, 
 Sarah," said Louisa, " hadna he better coome 
 when yo've no coomp'ny?" 
 
 4
 
 THE RETURN OF UNCLE JOB 
 
 "I'm. no pedlar," said the stranger, "and 
 I'm tired with a long journey. Outside 
 Cowper's 'bus isn't the place for one of my 
 time of life. Getting on for eighty-two I 
 be." 
 
 Sarah Posnett motioned for him to take 
 her own easy-chair. " Set yo' down," she 
 said, "an' warm yorsen. I'll mak yo' a 
 fresh pot o' tea. Be yo' a native o' these 
 parts ? " 
 
 For reply the old man drew off one of his 
 black woollen gloves, and held a thumbless 
 hand within a few inches of Mrs Cocker's 
 face. The widow gave a loud cry of surprise, 
 then sprang to her feet. 
 
 "'Tis Uncle Job, coome back from Aus- 
 traly ! " she declared. " Well, o' all the won- 
 ders ! " 
 
 The gaffer chuckled as his eyes passed from 
 face to face. " Ay, Uncle Job it is. And you 
 two wenches, Hannah and Louey, stood by 
 my side in the churchyard whiles I buried 
 my thumb in a silver snuff-box. I'd got it 
 cut clean off in the turnip chopper. Sarah 
 wasn't there, bein' a babby at the breast." 
 
 Thus did Uncle Job, who had emigrated 
 half-a-century ago, and who was reputed to 
 have won a large fortune on a colonial sheep- 
 farm, return to his English kinsfolk. As he 
 sipped his tea, big tears rolled down his 
 cheeks and his lips trembled, for the past 
 came back to him in a flood.
 
 THE RETURN OF UNCLE JOB 
 
 " Lawful case ! " he murmured. " But for as 
 we've growed old folk, it might have been 
 only yesterday that I went away ! And 
 now you're as glad to see me as you can 
 be." 
 
 "Ay, that we be," said Louisa Dane. 
 "An' mark yo, yo've gotten to mak' yer 
 whoame wi' me, bein' as I'm the eldest, 
 an' weere yor favourite as a bairn, so to 
 speak." 
 
 "Yo' always want everything, Louey," said 
 Hannah, warmly. "'Twill be better for him 
 to coome to me. My house is sheltered wi' 
 trees, an' theer's more warmth for him wi' 
 us. Why, the childer '11 be off theer yeads at 
 the thowt." 
 
 "A man o' my uncle's years doesna want 
 botherin' wi' yor gran' childer," interrupted 
 Louisa. "I ne'er bred God be thankt! the 
 more childer, th' more sorrow ! I've gotten a 
 quiet hearth-nook." 
 
 To prevent further dispute, Sarah inter- 
 posed with: "Yo'ld best tak' him turn an' 
 turn about. I'm sure he'll be equally wel- 
 coome wi' both. Now, Uncle Job, sup up, 
 yo' mun be half-starvt." 
 
 A wintry smile lighted his face. " You're 
 the spit of your mother, Sarah," he said. 
 "Just the same costard face and little turn- 
 up nose! She was a good one to the poor. 
 And you've my brother Jem's mouth and 
 forehead." 
 
 6
 
 THE RETURN OF UNCLE JOB 
 
 Hannah and Louisa forthwith began to 
 question him concerning the sheep-farm ; but 
 their inquiries depressed the old man, and 
 he displayed an odd reticence. At last, after 
 Hannah's hint that maybe he thought of buy- 
 ing land in the Peak country, he disclosed 
 the fact that he had returned with little more 
 than he had taken away. 
 
 "I never was as well off as folks said," he 
 explained ; " and the last few years has well- 
 nigh ruined me. In course, there's enough 
 to keep me plainly for the rest o' my days; 
 but as for buyin' land well, I've a mind to 
 let that be." 
 
 As he spoke, the conveyance that was to 
 convey the widows to their homes, drew up 
 at the gate, and without a word they went 
 upstairs to don their mantles and bonnets. 
 When they returned, their chins were in the 
 air and their eyes steely. 
 
 "I've been thinkin' as, after all, the wind 
 would be too strong for yo' up at my place," 
 said Louisa, "an' 'tis likely enew as my gran'- 
 childer'ld worry yo'." 
 
 "An' I've rec'lected as my spare-room's as 
 damp as dew," added Hannah. "Good-night, 
 Sarah, loove, good-night, Uncle." 
 
 The old man blinked foolishly as they de- 
 parted ; but Sarah sat beside him, and stroked 
 his hand. 
 
 "I'm glad yo're none rich, Uncle," she said 
 softly ; " yo'll bide wi' me I've a chamber at 
 
 7
 
 THE RETURN OF UNCLE JOB 
 
 the top o' the stairs as yo' can hev', an' we'll 
 be as merry as crickets." 
 
 " They're right in doin' it," he muttered ; 
 "for they're their father's daughters . . . but 
 you're poor brother Jem's."
 
 MALL'S WARM FRIEND 
 
 A GAUNT elderly woman, gowned in the coarse 
 black serge that Milton Church doles annually 
 to well-reputed widows who are, despite their 
 poverty, not in receipt of parish pay, made 
 her way up the field path that leads from the 
 village to the moor. It was many years since 
 she had occasion to climb the hill, and half- 
 unconsciously she chose the rough walk 
 favoured by young lovers in preference to the 
 less laborious road. Her errand was urgent 
 enough ; but, now and then, when she paused 
 for breath (being asthmatically disposed), she 
 moaned querulously because of the associa- 
 tions aroused by this unwonted journey. 
 
 At the hollow where the track crosses a 
 peaty stream that runs down to Milton Brook, 
 she slipped from a loose stepping-stone and 
 stumbled into a bed of mud. Her boots were 
 made of cloth that saturated instantly, and 
 her white stockings were sodden and dis- 
 coloured midway up the calf. For the re- 
 mainder of her walk she held her skirt and 
 petticoats higher than was seemly. As she 
 reached the gate of the Nook old Daniel 
 
 9
 
 MALL'S WARM FRIEND 
 
 Pursglove's great farmstead she saw the 
 man for whom she had come driving the kine 
 into a squat thatched shippon. 
 
 He passed with a curt nod; she could not 
 speak because of a lump that rose and fell 
 suffocatingly in her windpipe. She followed 
 timorously to the building, and stood with 
 bony hands clinging to the hatch. 
 
 The man's back was turned ; he was whist- 
 ling softly to the drowsy accompaniment of 
 spirting milk. The tune was " She Wore a 
 Wreath of Roses," and somehow he contrived 
 to throw into it a deep, heartbreaking pathos 
 that no singer could have peered. The 
 woman's head jerked, in rhythm with the 
 movements of his arms. In that dumb watch- 
 ing she found herself admiring the square 
 shoulders and the round head with its thick 
 and crisp chestnut hair. He was so intent on 
 his work that he did not notice her until, 
 after milking the tenth cow, he rose finally 
 from the three-legged stool and approached 
 the doorway, carrying two huge pails, so full 
 that the foam hung over the brims. When 
 he saw her waiting there, he started slightly, 
 and lowered the pails to the floor. 
 
 "Is't me yo're after, Mrs Greaves?" he 
 said. "I dunna see whatten you want wi' 
 me." 
 
 She sighed very heavily, then her voice came 
 in a feeble whimper : 
 
 " Mall's coome back," she said. 
 10
 
 MALL'S WARM FRIEND 
 
 He raised the wooden latch and took up his 
 pails again. 
 
 "Ay, so I've heerd," he remarked gruffly. 
 " Would yo' mind lettin' me pass ? " 
 
 When she had moved aside, he strode away 
 without another word, and passing through 
 the farmyard, entered the ivy-covered dairy. 
 A stout servant- wench, new to the place, 
 chuckled as she saw, through the open 
 window, Mrs Greaves tip-toeing after him, 
 still holding her garments knee-high. 
 
 " Yo've gotten a pratty sweety eart ! " she 
 said, laughingly. " Lord ha' mercy, hoo'll nab 
 yo', sure enew ! " 
 
 The man's face did not relax ; she shrugged 
 her shoulders and began to pour the milk 
 through sieves into great stoneware punch- 
 eons. Her fellow-servant went towards the 
 inner door that opened to the house-passage ; 
 Mrs Greaves thrust her head anxiously through 
 the grated window, heedless that her rusty 
 bonnet was pushed to the back of her neck. 
 
 " Yeb, lad," she cried, " yo' might coome out 
 an' speak wi' me ? " 
 
 The dairymaid giggled ; the man turned on 
 his heel, primed with a fierce reply. His face 
 was flushed and sullen ; a deep wrinkle cleft 
 his forehead, rising between the eyebrows 
 and disappearing in the tumbled curls. He 
 was handsome after a fashion, deeply sun- 
 burned, with fine white teeth and big gloomy 
 eyes. Something in the wizened old face, 
 
 11
 
 MALL'S WARM FRIEND 
 
 however, kept back the imprecation he had 
 prepared. 
 
 "Go to the barn-close, then," he muttered, 
 "onless yo' want everybody to hear yo'. I'll 
 coome when I'm ready." 
 
 Mrs Greaves's fingers were clasped foolishly 
 together. 
 
 " Dunna be long, lad," she said. " I've gotten 
 to get whoame afoore dark. Emma Bag- 
 galley's tuk my plaace for an hour, but I 
 dunna feel easy." 
 
 Then she dragged herself through the yard 
 and over the stile to a long field that was 
 bounded at the further end by the highway. 
 He left the dairy, unheeding the jerk which 
 the playful young woman gave with her elbow. 
 Outside, after he had carefully lighted his 
 pipe, he swaggered slowly after the dame. He 
 found her leaning against the gate, mumbling 
 her lips. After due consideration, he sat at 
 some distance, on the end of a sandstone 
 drinking trough, that had split from end to 
 end in last year's frost. 
 
 "I'm ready, missus," he said. " Get it ower 
 as soon's yo' can. I dunna want all th' fowk on 
 the farm to mak' a song about yo' bein' here." 
 
 "Yeb," she said, "yo' shouldna talk so, for 
 I be full of trouble. But for Mall's cryin' e'er 
 sin daybreak, lid ne'er ha' coome. I know 
 as yo've been wronged, Yeb, an' I'm shamed 
 o' beggin' owt fro' yo'. But whatten mun 
 I do whatten mun I do?" 
 
 12
 
 " Oh, domn it ! " exclaimed Yeb. " 'Tis laate 
 i' the day to coome wi' such a tale. Tell Mall 
 I've nowt to say to her, an' I want to hear 
 nowt about her. Hoo used me treacherous, 
 an' none till the end o' my days will I forgie 
 her." 
 
 Mrs Greaves moved suddenly forward and 
 caught his sleeve. 
 
 " Dunna say them words," she wailed. " My 
 dowter's coome whoame coome whoame to 
 dee ! " 
 
 Yeb quailed, then burst into a forced laugh. 
 
 "Oo, ay!" he cried, "coome whoame to 
 dee!" 
 
 She staggered back to the gate. 
 
 " Yeb, 'tis God's truth the doctor towd me 
 to-day as theere's no hope i' the world. Hoo's 
 to go none all as man can do '11 save her. 
 Yeb, listen to me, Yeb, hoo's been beaten 
 hoo's been starvt! An' hoo does nowt but 
 ding : ' I want Yeb my Yeb mun coome 
 Moother, go yo' an' fetch my lad Yeb ! ' ' 
 
 The man opened the gate, and she passed 
 through to the road. Without another word 
 he followed and walked by her side. After 
 the first glance, which showed her the muscles 
 of his face contracted and the eyelashes wet 
 with tears, Mrs Greaves's nerve returned, 
 and she began to speak in a high, shrill 
 voice. 
 
 " Her husband's a rank villain ; when hoo 
 took to her bed he offs wi' anoother ooman. 
 
 13
 
 MALL'S WARM FRIEND 
 
 Bit by bit hoo sold her furniture theere 
 weerena much i' the house till t' oother day, 
 when hoo crawled to th' 'Yellow Lion,' an' 
 Cowper browt her fro' the town in his 'bus. I 
 didna know, Yeb, or I'ld ha' gone to her. 
 Hoo's none written for months ; I knew nowt 
 till hoo tum'led in at the door, straight into 
 my arms. As light as a feather her as used 
 for to be so plump ! " 
 
 Yeb nodded ; his teeth were clenched firmly 
 to keep his chin from trembling. 
 
 "It weerena my wish for her to wed him," 
 she went on. " Yo' blamed me ; but pride kep' 
 me fro' setting mysen right wi' yo'. Hoo's my 
 only bairn I canna bear to say owt again the 
 lass. I know 'tweere cruel hard on yo', when 
 yo'd saved up yor wages an' took th' house 
 but hoo's paid for 't, Yeb hoo's paid for all 
 hoo did paid to the last farthin'." 
 
 She did not lower her voice as they passed 
 through Milton village. The women who 
 chatted to each other in the open doorways, 
 knitting socks, or binding children's patent- 
 leather slippers for the small shoe factories, 
 shook their heads sympathetically as she went 
 by, and displayed no mirth because of the 
 grotesqueness of her gait. Near the lower 
 end of the Lydgate a steep lane where, in 
 past centuries, the householders in turn kept 
 watch by night she began to run, and only 
 paused in front of a roughcast cottage. 
 
 "Look thro' the window, Yeb," she said, 
 14
 
 MALL'S WARM FRIEND 
 
 almost jubilantly. " Theere hoo sits i' the big 
 chair by the fire. Parson's wife, hoo's browt 
 her soome churchy books, but hoo wunna 
 read. Hoo does nowt but stare atween the 
 bars." Each pane of the window held a 
 greenish bubble, and the sill was covered with 
 hydrangeas in brightly-raddled pots. Some 
 time passed before Yeb could distinguish the 
 figure in the arm-chair. And then he saw 
 nought clearly, for the watery mist thick- 
 ened before his eyes. He turned aside ; Mrs 
 Greaves took his hand and drew him into the 
 house-place, and a ghostly little laugh rang 
 in his ears. 
 
 At the last, when Mall came back to rest 
 briefly in the house where she was born, she 
 displayed an unwonted look of refinement. 
 The buxom beauty Yeb had loved was gone 
 for ever, leaving in its place a wan emaciation 
 painful to behold. But the bony face with 
 its prominent chin told of infinite suffering 
 told of a patience taught by oppression. She 
 had persuaded the woman who had sat with 
 her during her mother's absence to curl her 
 bright yellow hair; even yet the air smelt of 
 ruin wrought by over -heated tongs. Her 
 hands were lying in her lap, clasping some- 
 thing beneath the apron. 
 
 " Well," she said, " yo've coome, Yeb, an' for 
 all the world yo' put me i' mind o' when the 
 schoolmissus used for to lug yo' into the room, 
 out o' the playground ! Set yo' down by me, 
 
 15
 
 MALL'S WARM FRIEND 
 
 Yeb ; I havena much to say, but I'ld liefer yo' 
 weere nigh to me." 
 
 He carried a low rush-buttomed chair to 
 her side, and sat looking into her face. She 
 drew one of her hands from its hiding-place, 
 and laid it on his crown. He flinched slightly : 
 the little palm was hot as fire. 
 
 "I'm none a-goin' to excuse mysen, Yeb," 
 she said merrily. " I know whatten I've been 
 a bad sweetyeart an' a bad dowter an' I'm 
 fixed on askin' yo' summat now as is o' a piece 
 wi' my character. I weere fause as wayter 
 took wi' a devil's fine cloathes an' rings an' 
 chains. An' cause I weere a domned fool, I 
 ran away wi' him, without searchin' for his 
 horns, or pullin' of his shoon to see if his feet 
 weere cloven." 
 
 She had ever been a whimsical talker ; Yeb 
 found nought strange in her words. 
 
 " A moonth afore the day we'd fixed for our 
 weddin' ! Let that be, Yeb, I'll say no moore." 
 
 Her hand had grown as cold as ice now; 
 she drew it away and put it with its fellow. 
 
 "I've paid the price," she said. "I've paid 
 wi' my life ; I've paid wi' all I had i' the world 
 all save one thing. Dost remember the bit 
 o' househowd stuff I kept th' prize yo' won 
 i' the Christmas raffle?" 
 
 She tugged her apron aside; in the hollow 
 of her lap lay a tall pot-bellied metal teapot, 
 with a faint steam issuing from its ill-fitting 
 lid. 
 
 16
 
 MALL'S WARM FRIEND 
 
 "I couldna part wi't, lad, tho' I weere 
 starvin'," she murmured. " I couldna an' I 
 wouldna! When I'd no fire i' the house 
 wheere he kept me, I used for to beg the 
 neeighbours to fill it wi' boilin' wayter, an' 
 I nursed it, as I'm nursin' it now just th' 
 same as if 'tweere a babby. Yo' see, Yeb, it 
 kept the cowd fro' me." 
 
 She laughed very softly, till a spasm of pain 
 checked the sound. 
 
 " Yeb, I looved yo' more nor I thowt, an' 
 I ne'er looved him. 'Tweere but a lass's fancy, 
 Yeb quickly made an' quickly repented. I 
 looved yo', Yeb, an' I'd gotten nowt but a 
 teapot. But 't has been a good warm friend. 
 . . . Oh, dall it, lad, stop thy belderin' ! I've 
 only a short time left me. ... I want yo' to 
 play at loovin' me whilst I bide." 
 
 "It'll be no play, Mally," said the man. 
 "Tis God's truth as I loove yo'." 
 
 17
 
 THE WISE BUSYBODY 
 
 SARAH LITTON sat near the geraniums in her 
 house-place window, feverishly stitching the 
 front of a white linen shirt for Squire Furness. 
 Although she was only thirty, she had worked 
 as a seamstress for the last fourteen years, so 
 that she might be able to keep at home her 
 only brother, who was much younger than 
 herself, and so weak with St Vitus's Dance 
 that since his early boyhood he had been in- 
 capable of doing ought for himself. The lad 
 had died on Christmas Eve, and the strain of 
 the last few weeks of his illness had com- 
 pletely broken her down, so that for fully 
 four months she had been scarce able to wield 
 her needle. Being of a high spirit, she had 
 refused monetary assistance from anyone; 
 and now every farthing of her money was 
 gone, before she felt anywise equal to the 
 struggle for existence. 
 
 It was not, however, the question of ways 
 and means that was troubling her just now, 
 but the fact that a man of settled position, 
 but altogether disagreeable repute, had seen 
 fit to make her an offer of marriage. Her 
 
 18
 
 THE WISE BUSYBODY 
 
 high, narrow forehead was puckered almost 
 angrily; now and then she shrugged her 
 shoulders in distaste. She had been some- 
 thing of a coquette in youth, and in a fit of 
 anger had sent away the only lad who had 
 ever appealed to her heart. At the time she 
 justified herself with the belief that duty for- 
 bade her to marry, and burden another's life 
 with the care of poor Jack, who, in spite of 
 all her tender service, had possessed a very 
 querulous temper though, to do him justice, 
 he had softened strangely before the end. 
 
 She was filled with bitterness now because 
 of the emptiness of her future. The widower 
 who offered himself now was in possession 
 of an income of a pound a week beyond 
 what he earned as butter-huckster for the 
 whole of Milton Dale. Her thriftiness had 
 fascinated him even more than the know- 
 ledge that the thatched cottage, with its 
 comfortable, old-fashioned furniture, was her 
 own property. His own house was large and 
 bare her chairs and tables would make it 
 homely ; moreover, when her health was re- 
 stored she could earn sufficient to keep her- 
 self, and he need only provide enough for his 
 own expenses. Sarah understood the fellow 
 fairly well; but she was so weary that she 
 felt incapable of summoning up strength to 
 say that she could never, never become his 
 wife. 
 
 As she sewed she heard the garden-gate 
 19
 
 THE WISE BUSYBODY 
 
 click, and, peeping through the lattice, she 
 saw the huckster, flushed with beer, coining 
 up the narrow path. His face was distorted 
 with a fatuous grin, and his lips were trick- 
 ling. He had never visited her in this con- 
 dition before, and her temper rose, and she 
 moved to the door and turned the key before 
 his hand pressed heavily on the latch. Be- 
 lieving that she was not at home, he soon 
 came to the window, and, as she had with- 
 drawn from sight, feasted his eyes on the 
 glossy black furniture of the house-place. 
 After a few minutes he grunted complacently, 
 and returned to the porch, where he left on 
 the stone bench three duck's eggs of doubtful 
 freshness. He retired reluctantly, as if dis- 
 appointed because he might not gratify him- 
 self with her thanks for such unwonted 
 bounty. 
 
 No sooner had he passed beyond a curve 
 of the lane, when a tall and thin old woman 
 made her way through a narrow stile, and 
 came towards the cottage. Sarah recognised 
 her as a kinswoman, who kept house for her 
 brother up Grassbrook way. So many years 
 had passed since she had undertaken such a 
 long journey, that the seamstress knew that 
 her errand must be of vital import. She 
 unlocked the door hastily, and Aunt Martha, 
 casting a furtive glance in the huckster's 
 direction, entered and sat rigidly on the settle, 
 her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She had 
 
 20
 
 THE WISE BUSYBODY 
 
 an impediment in her speech, and as she untied 
 the strings of her scuttle bonnet, and loosened 
 her grey-and-black plaid shawl, strange in- 
 coherent sounds came slowly from her throat. 
 
 The kettle was on the hob ; Sarah brewed 
 a pot of tea, and after the first cup, hurriedly 
 gulped, the old woman's talk became in- 
 telligible. 
 
 "Drat yo' for a fool, Sarah Litton!" she 
 said bitterly "as big a fool as God e'er 
 made ! I'd been i' the way o' respectin' yo' till 
 I heerd o't ; but now I know as yo've gotten 
 no more sense nor my broother James's crib- 
 eatin' filly ! " 
 
 Sarah was too startled to resent her plain 
 speaking; instead she began to weep. 
 "Whatten ha' I doone amiss?" she whim- 
 pered. 
 
 "Whatten ha' yo' doone amiss?" repeated 
 the dame. "Yo' to ask that, when yo've 
 settled to marry the butter-huckster to take 
 that greedy dottle, when yo'd once the chance 
 o' ha'in 1 one o' the best chaps i' the Dale ! a 
 chap as (tho' he's ne'er coome near yo' since 
 yo' flouted him) has kep' single 'cause he could 
 find no oother wench to his likin'." 
 
 The younger woman's cheeks had grown 
 rosy-red, and her chin was trembling oddly. 
 
 " If yo' mean William Aatram," she said, in 
 a low voice, "he's forgot me long since. I 
 couldna burden him wi' my poor Jack." 
 
 " Ay, 'twas that, o' coorse ! " said Aunt 
 21
 
 THE WISE BUSYBODY 
 
 Martha, "'twas that, naturyally ! None yor 
 sharp temper, oh dear no. Yo' made a mis- 
 take the Aatrams is set fowk if yo 1 thowt 
 he'ld ask yo' again an', dall it! yo've gotten 
 properly punished." 
 
 Sarah's temper was rising now; her colour 
 had died, and she was paler than ever. 
 
 "Tis a vast pity," she said, "as yo' an' 
 me, who coome together but seldom, mun 
 needs quarrel! If yo've owt to say again 
 the butter - huckster, prythee say it an' ha' 
 doone." 
 
 Aunt Martha's acid facetiousness disap- 
 peared. She was naturally of a kindly dis- 
 position (though her stumbling tongue could 
 bite like a file), and she felt genuinely sorry 
 for the young woman. 
 
 "Well," she began, "I'll as well get it out, 
 an' yo' mun see the man same as I've seen 
 him. If yo'll rec'lect, 'tis but two year since 
 his second wife deed, an' yo' may ha' heerd 
 as her an' me weere companions when we 
 weere wenches ? An' when hoo weere took 
 bad wi' the bronkittus (an' a carrybangle on 
 her arm, too), I used for to go an' see her now 
 an' then, an' as his land lays again' ours 
 'tweere easy enew for me." 
 
 She drew out a red pocket handkerchief 
 and wiped her eyes. " Poor thing, but hoo did 
 suffer ! 'tweere a penance to see her ! Hoo 
 deed o' fair neglect, hoo did ! The brute had 
 always kep' her skimpy wi' food, tho' he'ld 
 
 22
 
 THE WISE BUSYBODY 
 
 bezzle hissen well-nigh to death. Why, yo' 
 can see that writ on his face ! An' when I 
 went, tweere ne'er empty-handed, for I made 
 jillies an' custards an' owt as I thowt hoo'ld 
 fancy. But I could ne'er see her alone an' 
 feed her, for he weere always i' the chamber, 
 an' he'ld say : ' Hoo's just had a bit o' summat ; 
 yo' leave whatten yo've browt, an' I'll see 'tis 
 all right.' So, like a ninny, I did as he bade, 
 tho' theere weere that i' her eyen as might 
 ha' towd me." 
 
 She rose abruptly and went to the open 
 door, shading her forehead to look over the 
 fields, as if she expected to see someone ap- 
 proach. After a while she nodded sharply 
 and turned again to the house-place, and her 
 skirt twitched one of the duck's eggs, so that 
 it fell to the flag and splashed its unsavoury 
 contents over her shoes. 
 
 "Lord save us!" she cried vexedly. "The 
 fellow's left a fine loove-gift! Coomin' a- 
 coortin' yo' wi' rotten eggs ! Last year's 
 pickled an' pickled badly ! Get us thy floor- 
 clout, wench one as can be brenned." 
 
 Sarah came towards her with a rueful 
 countenance, and wiped her shoes and cleaned 
 the stone ; then, fearful lest another mishap 
 should occur, threw the remaining eggs into 
 a bed of nettles in the lane. 
 
 "Well, I mun on wi' my tale," continued 
 Aunt Martha. "It so happed as I knew 
 nowt o' the matter till the night hoo passed 
 
 23
 
 THE WISE BUSYBODY 
 
 away, when I sat up wi' her. Hoo'd been 
 onconscious e'er since morn, but just afoore 
 midnight when her husband weere liggin' 
 down for a bit on the settle downstairs 
 hoo came to an' spoke. 'Thank yo' kindly, 
 Martha Leech,' said hoo, ' thank yo' kindly 
 for whatten yo've doone i' the cookin' line. But 
 'tweere no good, for Jabez he had 'em all 
 hissen, an' I've fed on nowt since I weere 
 bedfast but whoatmeal gruel ! ' Them weere 
 her woords, an 'tis the first time I've spoken 
 o' 'em to ony livin' body." 
 
 Sarah's face had flushed again this time 
 with righteous indignation. " The dirty 
 wratch ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 "Ay, he is so," said Aunt Martha; "but 
 that's none all. Would yo' b'lieve as he came 
 a-coortin' me within two months after hoo 
 weere laid i' the graveyard ! Hee-hee ! I 
 weere sittin' by the fire, heelin' a stockin' o' 
 James's, when in he came an' put it to me 
 straight. Says he, 'Yo're a moneyed ooman, 
 and I'm a moneyed man, an, if yo'll gie me 
 control o' whatten yo've put by, yo'll be missus 
 by rights o' a better whoame nor thissen.' 
 An' then I just looks at him an' says : ' Missus 
 o' a three-footed porridge-pot ! ' Belike he saw 
 my meanin', for he catched up his hat an' flew. 
 Since then he's run after five oother oomen 
 both maids an' widows but none'll look on 
 the same side o' the road. Fowk is talkin' 
 about yo'!" 
 
 24
 
 THE WISE BUSYBODY 
 
 But Sarah, scarce heeding her, sat huddled 
 together, with her face hidden behind her 
 long, thin hands. After a long silence, Aunt 
 Martha rose and went again to the door 
 this time beckoning to someone who stood 
 behind the full-flowered elder-tree that grew 
 near the garden gate. A tall, loosely-built 
 young fellow, with a brown, eager face, came 
 timidly up the path; but, checked by her 
 gesture, withdrew behind the trellis-work of 
 the porch. The old woman returned and 
 touched Sarah on the shoulder. 
 
 "Will Aatram knows as the brute's a- 
 coortin' yo'," she said, in a gentler voice. " He 
 towd me how sorry he weere to find yo' pickin' 
 up wi' such rubbish. I gied him a bit o' advice 
 to coome and speak plain an' frank, but he 
 says nay, for yo' weere a wench as 'Id stick 
 to her woord till her deein' day. ' A man mun 
 be ay ther a man or a mouse, Will,' says I, ' an' 
 if yo' will be a mouse, why, then, yo' will, for 
 nowt as I can do'll hinder yo'.' I tell yo' he 
 weere wrung thro' an' thro' wi' th' thowt! 
 Oh, yo' hard-yearted hussy, a-spoilin' wi' yor 
 whimsies a good lad's life ! " 
 
 Sarah had flung her white apron over her 
 head, and was now rocking her chair so 
 wildly, that every moment it seemed as if 
 she would be flung out to the stone floor. 
 
 "He couldna ha' looved me," she wailed, 
 "or he'ld ne'er ha' stopped away all these 
 years! I didna know my own mind when I 
 
 25
 
 THE WISE BUSYBODY 
 
 sent him away. Men i' loove ne'er take a 
 maid's nay as meanin' owt!" 
 
 There was a rustle in the porch ; but the 
 old woman turned such an angry face that 
 it subsided instantly. 
 
 " Thou innocent babby ! " she cried mock- 
 ingly, " how long may it be since thou weert 
 shortened ? Dear, dear, to think as Will 
 weere picked off the same heap as oother 
 men ! Why, I tell yo' as his f owk weere e'er 
 noted for tender feelin's an' for belief i' 
 ooman's honesty. Yo' gied him a downright 
 blow, yo' did; yo' killed his nerves out an' 
 out ! Ask yo' again ? none he ! " 
 
 At that moment she heard a husky voice 
 in the porch, whisper : " Ay, but I will ! " She 
 moved threateningly to the door ; the man 
 standing there quailed before her infuriated 
 aspect. Sarah had been too much engrossed 
 in her own trouble to hear. 
 
 " 'Tis all very fine," growled the old woman. 
 "Owd broth's sooner hotted nor new broth's 
 made, as my mother used for to say. Ne'er- 
 theless, yo're none so low-minded as to try 
 to make him ask yo' again now yo're as poor 
 as Job's louse ! " 
 
 Sarah tore down her apron and waved her 
 arms frantically. "I'm none so poor as I 
 need stand this soort o' talk!" she cried. 
 "Bear i' mind as I took nowt fro' yo', an' as 
 I want nowt." 
 
 Aunt Martha appeared nowise intimidated. 
 26
 
 THE WISE BUSYBODY 
 
 "If yo' didna'," she said gravely, "'tweerena 
 'cause yo' weerena asked or weerena welcoome. 
 'Tweere all yor silly pride ! An' now yo're 
 well-nigh starvin'. Dunna yo' forget, more- 
 ower, as I'm owd enew to be yor moother, 
 an' as I wunna stand such talk! A sharp 
 tongue I may ha' ; but I've nowt but goodwill 
 for yo'." 
 
 The young woman's anger faded again. "I 
 mean no harm," she gasped ; " but things 
 is harder nor I can bear. . . . I'm broke 
 down I wish to God as I weere liggin' 
 aside o' poor Jack ! " 
 
 Aunt Martha drew a chair near, and sat 
 with one arm around Sarah's waist, with the 
 other drawing the thin peaked face until it 
 rested against her tight-clad bosom. 
 
 "I doubt I've been hard on yo', loove," she 
 said ; " but mind yo' 'tweere for yor own good. 
 I couldna stand the butter-huckster coomin', 
 an' yo' settlin 1 down to the thowt o' weddin' 
 him, when he's such a twoad ! Besides, fowk 
 is talkin'. Ruth Froggat, hoo had the face 
 to ask me i' the churchyard, o' all places 
 if the banns had been put up, her bein' deaf, 
 an' none catchin' woords aright ! So I've coome 
 to say as 'tis brother James's wish, an' mine, 
 too, as yo' lock up yor cottage, an' stay wi' 
 us till yo' be strong an' fit to tak' yor own 
 work again." 
 
 Had Sarah not been reduced to a condition 
 of great physical weakness, it is doubtful 
 
 27
 
 THE WISE BUSYBODY 
 
 whether she would have accepted her kins- 
 folk's hospitality ; for one of her proudest 
 thoughts was that she had never been beholden 
 to anyone since the day when she began to 
 earn her own living. But now the prospect of 
 rest and freedom from care, and a sufficiency 
 of good food was so comforting that she could 
 only sigh out her thanks. 
 
 " Theere's one thing as yo' mun reckon for, 
 tho'," said Aunt Martha, "an' that is, as like 
 as none, yo'll see Will Aatram every night ; 
 for he's been like a son to James an' me, a- 
 sittin' wi' us after milkin', an' readin' the paper 
 wi' all the news. Bless me, wench, cease 
 nippin' o' my arm I'm none a young man ! 
 Now, say yo' winna mind bein' pleasant wi' 
 poor Will?" 
 
 " I canna say owt," Sarah murmured ; " 'twill 
 all hang on how he uses me." 
 
 " If that's all, I needna worry," said Aunt 
 Martha; "for he thinks a vast lot o' yo'; he 
 towd me so, this very afternoon. I' fact i' 
 fact, he came along wi' me part o' the way, 
 Sarah an' I'd much ado to keep him fro' 
 runnin' after the butter-huckster. Now, dunna 
 take on, wench." 
 
 Sarah's hands were pressed to her heart; 
 the seams of her threadbare bodice cracked. 
 
 " Oh, aunt, whatten mun I do, whatten 
 mun I do ? Theere'll be war atwixt 'em, 
 an' the huckster'll fell Will wi' his great 
 fists!" 
 
 28
 
 THE WISE BUSYBODY 
 
 " I doubt that," said Aunt Martha, laughing 
 outright. " Gi'e me a young cockerel for 
 pluck ! the lad's limber as an eft'et ! Still, 'tis 
 yor duty to save further scandal, an' if I weere 
 yo' I'ld just say to Will as yo' begged him 
 to forget how yo've used him. I'm afeard, 
 if yo' dunna, as they'll fight it out this very 
 night. Be sure WilTll take what yo' say very 
 kindly." 
 
 A curious change had come over Sarah's 
 face ; her eyes were shining brightly, despite 
 the late tears, and all the lines of trouble had 
 disappeared from her forehead. 
 
 " Just yo' let me know wheere he is now," 
 she said hurriedly, " an' I'll go to him an tell 
 him whatten's truth as ne'er a day's passed 
 wi'out me longin' for him ! " 
 
 Before Aunt Martha could reply, the man 
 had left the porch and come with two great 
 strides into the house-place. Sarah's sharp 
 cry of astonishment died away in a soft 
 murmur as he caught her in his arms so 
 impetuously that both swayed against Aunt 
 Martha's chair. 
 
 " Drat yo' ! " said the dame, half -crossly. 
 " Yo' should ha' waited an' let her tell yo'. 
 "Us wise to humble a ooman's spirit." 
 
 But neither Sarah nor William paid any 
 attention. An hour later all three were 
 walking across the fields, and Aunt Martha, 
 who loitered in the rear, ostentatiously 
 swinging the door-key, chuckled merrily 
 
 29
 
 THE WISE BUSYBODY 
 
 as scraps of their talk reached her cunning 
 old ears. 
 
 " Lord ! but th' lad's growed mesterf ul ! " 
 she said. " Three week to-day it mun be, an' 
 nowt i' the world'll put it off!" 
 
 30
 
 MATTHEW ROBSON'S LUCK 
 
 UPSTAIBS in the "Bold Cloudesley" club-room, 
 the dancing class was holding its last meeting, 
 and the lads and lasses of Milton, stimulated 
 with the thought of coming festivities, were 
 more frolicsome than their wont. The crowd 
 of men in the bar -parlour looked nervously at 
 the worm-eaten beams overhead, whenever 
 some spirited couple, dizzied by the fiddler's 
 new waltz, fell with a heavy thud, amidst 
 the piercing acclamations of the surer-footed. 
 
 Most of the smokers had ascended the 
 staircase and looked for a while through 
 the open doorway: then, shrugging their 
 shoulders, had returned to the place of 
 fellow -toss -pots. Milton men renounce the 
 pleasures of the dance in their thirtieth 
 year, and look upon their juniors' enjoyment 
 with something akin to contempt. 
 
 The eldest grandson of Mrs Fearnehough, 
 a bright and comely lad of eight years, sat 
 beside a round table, writing figures on 
 green pasteboard gun- wads: leaning over 
 him, with both hands on the back of the 
 antiquated chair, was Matthew Bobson, a 
 
 31
 
 MATTHEW ROBSON'S LUCK 
 
 farmer from Cockey Hamlet, at the end of 
 Milton Edge. The man was simple and 
 lackadaisical, yet strikingly picturesque of 
 aspect. He was tall and well made; his 
 face was mild and pale, with great blue 
 eyes, and hair and beard of gleaming gold ; 
 his plump, softly curving lips were too short 
 to meet. At present his mouth was wide 
 open, and his tongue playing catch-me-who- 
 can with pure white teeth. His nose and 
 brow and chin were exquisitely shapen . . . 
 but for the inefficient lips the man's head 
 was worthy of being copied for a saint's 
 picture. A faded coat of blue velveteen 
 covered his slender figure; the unbuttoned 
 front revealed a mole-skin waistcoat, worn 
 in places to glossy bareness, and embellished 
 with a lustreless mosaic chain. 
 
 "Dear, dear!" he said, "yo' be a fine 
 scholar, Jem yo' can make numbers as 
 good as ony parson! An' count, too; why, 
 'tis a job wi' me whene'er I get beyond 
 twenty." 
 
 "Grandmother says that folk weren't 
 schooled before Mr Nichols came," said the 
 lad kindly. "Grandmother herself can't tell 
 a B from a bull's foot." 
 
 Mrs Fearnehough, who had come in with a 
 heavily-laden tray, covered with a white cloth, 
 overheard and quailed before the frankness 
 of her descendant. " Gran'moother can tell 
 whatten a birch - rod's for ! " she snapped. 
 
 32
 
 MATTHEW ROBSON'S LUCK 
 
 " Owd fowk do know summat. An' if yo've 
 doone scrabblin' the raffle tickets off yo' 
 go to bed." 
 
 An old gaffer interposed ; for the child, 
 innocent of wrong-doing, was beginning to 
 blubber loudly. "Let him be, missus," he 
 said. "He's gotten to howd the bag whilst 
 we're drawin'. I always howd as childer 
 should be taught early the ways o' the 
 woorld. Book larnin's nowt 'tis o other 
 things as matter ! " 
 
 Mrs Fearnehough set her tray on a dresser 
 and moved aside the cloth, displaying to all 
 a great turkey, plucked and trussed, with 
 a spray of holly skewered neatly to its 
 breast; a couple of plump ducks, a brightly- 
 glazed pork-pie, and a nickel-plated alarum 
 clock. The men clustered around, and 
 fingered the prizes with outspoken satis- 
 faction. Mrs Fearnehough, after acknow- 
 ledging their praise as modestly as if in 
 very truth she were giving these good 
 things merely out of kindness of heart, 
 went to the hearth, where Matthew Bobson 
 stood airing his back before the fire. 
 
 "How's poor M'ria?" she said. "I've been 
 thinkin' about her all the day." 
 
 "Hoo's the same as e'er," he replied. 
 "Patient as Job, wi' ne'er a murmur. I 
 havena seen her since noontide they would 
 ha' me at Foolow to practise carols. 'Twill 
 be a bit o' money, onyhow, for Kirsmas. . . . 
 c 33
 
 MATTHEW ROBSON'S LUCK 
 
 I mean to get her a bottle o' sherry-wine, 
 an' a couple o 1 pigeons. . . ." 
 
 "Then yo' arena goin' to try yor luck 
 at the raffle?" she said. "I'm sorry for 
 that " 
 
 "Yo've no call for to be, missus. M'ria 
 gave me a shillin' as hoo'd saved for weeks. 
 But I might as well chuck it on the fire 
 I've ne'er won owt i' my life, an' I ne'er 
 shall." 
 
 Mrs Fearnehough shook her head. "It 
 seems to me," she said, "as when a man 
 doesna care or he wins or loses, the luck 
 goes to him. Yo' used for to be sure o' 
 winnin' an' yo' ne'er did now, when yo' 
 care nowt, yo're very like to get first o' 
 all." 
 
 Then she fetched a pillow-slip from her 
 bed, and after carefully examining the 
 numbered gun-wads, she put them inside, 
 and shook the bag vigorously, and passed 
 it to each speculator, who conscientiously 
 strove to mix the contents well. When this 
 was done, the men ranged themselves by 
 the wall, and after paying their shillings 
 to the careful hostess (who protested once 
 or twice when she found the coin over- 
 much worn), they thrust their hands into 
 the bag, and each withdrew a wad, which 
 a tacit code of honour prevented him ex- 
 amining until all had followed suit. 
 
 Matthew Robson gave a loud chuckle of 
 34
 
 MATTHEW ROBSON'S LUCK 
 
 delight; for once in his life he had been 
 luckier than his fellows; the wad that lay 
 in his palm was sprawled over with the 
 words First Prize, Turk. His excitement 
 was so great that he could not wait to spend 
 anything "for the good of the house," and 
 after a few whispered words with Mrs 
 Fearnehough, who wrapped the bird in a 
 clean cotton towel, he stole from the inn, 
 and turned up the wide road towards the 
 churchyard, whence a field-path led to his 
 little farmstead on the moor-edge. 
 
 As he passed the " Red Lion," however, an 
 inn ill - reputed in Milton since the death 
 of the host's wife, an ancient piano began 
 to jingle, and he stopped short to listen to 
 a powerful female voice that sang with 
 considerable unction a song called "The 
 Captive Greek Maid." He stole nearer the 
 window, and peeped through a corner 
 where the blind was torn. The songstress, 
 who played her own accompaniment, was 
 splendidly attired in canary-coloured satin ; 
 a large expanse of bust was adorned with 
 a necklace and pendants of pearl glass 
 beads. He recognised her as a lady who 
 went round at Wakes and other holiday 
 times to attract unwise men to inns which 
 the more respectable did not frequent. In 
 the dim light that came from the smoky 
 lamps, her charms acquired a voluptuous 
 aspect unknown at other times ; to the 
 
 35
 
 MATTHEW ROBSON'S LUCK 
 
 weak - minded fellow outside she seemed 
 beautiful as an angel. 
 
 As he leaned forward, resting the prize 
 on the sill, the door opened, and a boon- 
 companion, who had seen his glowing face 
 against the pane, crept up on tiptoe and 
 struck him heavily between the shoulders. 
 
 " Hoo's i' her best form to-night," he 
 stuttered. " Hoo's a-singing like a larrock ! 
 Lord save us ! jewelled as if hoo weere 
 the richest lady i' the coontry ! Coome in, 
 Matthey coome an ha' a glass for the 
 season o' the year ? " 
 
 Robson hesitated, thinking of his ailing 
 wife sitting alone beside a turf fire, wait- 
 ing for his return, and of the pleasure the 
 magnificent turkey would give her. The 
 songstress's voice rose and fell in a piercing 
 cadence ; his demur died still-born, and he 
 shambled into the inn. 
 
 She was not a bad woman: in better days 
 she had been over -generous, and people had 
 preyed upon her. Now, in her widowhood, 
 with five young children to support, she 
 was compelled to stoop to unworthy means 
 to find bread for their callow mouths. Her 
 voice, had it been trained properly in youth, 
 would have been world -famed for strength, 
 compass and sweetness ; even to-day she 
 struck wonderful notes. She was handsome 
 still, in an opulent fashion, with a richly- 
 coloured skin and dull black hair. 
 
 36
 
 MATTHEW ROBSON'S LUCK 
 
 Matthew entered and sat beside the piano. 
 The woman knew him well as a ready giver 
 of drinks, and she smiled seductively when 
 the song was finished. He beckoned to the 
 landlord, paid his last sixpence for two 
 tumblers of gin and hot water. She nodded 
 gratefully ; they clinked glasses and drank 
 to each other's health, then she turned 
 again to the piano and sung a stupid and 
 vulgar music-hall song that appealed keenly 
 to the popular taste. Matthew, however, 
 who had little liking for coarse innuendo, 
 presented so blank a countenance that she 
 flushed with an odd mortification. 
 
 " That's not your kind, Mr Robson," she 
 remarked, " it's easy to see that you don't 
 approve. Now just name something you'ld 
 like, and I'll try to oblige." 
 
 The man scratched his head very deliber- 
 ately. "Last Wakes," he said, after a long 
 silence, " yo' sang ' The Last Rose o' Summer,' 
 an' I thowt I'ld ne'er heerd owt so grand i' 
 my life. . . ." 
 
 " I once sang that before three thousand 
 people," she said with a sigh. " Oh yes, if you 
 want it, I'm willing." 
 
 She played a florid prelude, then began to 
 sing. Her voice was softer now, more husky, 
 more emotional ; most of the listeners ex- 
 perienced mental disquietude. When she was 
 silent, she gulped down the remainder of the 
 gin and water, and taking a lacquered tray 
 
 37
 
 from the top of the piano, she went round 
 the room to collect gratuities, and received 
 a scanty guerdon of pence. When she came 
 to Matthew, she paused whilst he pretended 
 to search his pockets. 
 
 " Give me something worth having," she 
 whispered. " I've done very badly it's 
 God's truth I don't know where to-morrow's 
 food's coming from. There's the lodgings to 
 pay, or we're to be turned out, and my 
 youngest girl is ill abed." 
 
 The fool did not deliberate ; the earnestness 
 of the woman's appeal drove away the last 
 shred of his common-sense. He unwrapped the 
 turkey hastily, dumped it down on the waiter, 
 and then, half-cowed, went from the place, 
 banging the door in protest. 
 
 He walked home very slowly, and stood for 
 a long time in the farm-yard before he could 
 summon courage to enter. His wife rose as 
 he lifted the latch ; she stumbled over the 
 sanded floor to meet him. 
 
 " I weere gettin' uneasy," she said, watching 
 him smilingly ; " for Bill Taanend called an 
 hour ago, an' towd me as yo'd left th' ' Bowd 
 Claadesley' wi' the prize." 
 
 He put his arm around her waist and drew 
 her to the hearth. On the hob a little sauce- 
 pan, full of beer and spices, simmered. 
 
 " I called in at the ' Red Lion,' " he began. 
 
 "Ay, lad," said Maria, "'tis Kirsmas time, 
 an' very dull for yo' up here, wi' me coughin' 
 
 38
 
 MATTHEW ROBSON'S LUCK 
 
 till yo' be deaf. I've nowt again yo' en joy in' 
 yorsen, Matthey. . . . Wheere hast hidden the 
 turkey ? " 
 
 He stooped and hid his face on her shoulder. 
 " M'ria," he said, passionately, " I dunna know 
 how or why I did it, bu' I gave the bird 
 away to a singin' ooman. Hoo weere i' 
 woorse case nor oursens. . . . I've gotten no 
 excuse, wench, I've gotten nowt to say. . . . 
 I'd no right to part wi't. . . . M'ria, speak 
 to me, tell me as yo' dunna bear malice." 
 
 She sat down on the settle, and drew his 
 right hand to her shrunken bosom. 
 
 "Matthey," she said, "how can yo' talk so? 
 I ne'er bore malice for owt my lad did. 'Tis 
 only for yo' as I'm a bit hurt. . . . Yo' see, 
 Matthey, I weere feelin' glad as yo'ld ha' 
 summat good to eat on the last Kirsmas 
 Day as I shall be wi' yo'." 
 
 Her eyes called his face close to her own ; 
 she kissed him tenderly on the cheek. " Eh, 
 my poor lad!" she murmured. 
 
 39
 
 THE PIRRITTY PRIDE 
 
 THE Wakes were livelier than usual, and 
 since summer had dallied until the end of 
 September, the little forecourts of the 
 cottages glowed brightly with stock -gilli- 
 flowers and asters and dahlias. The garden 
 of the " Bold Cloudesley " was infinitely gayer 
 than the rest; for Mrs Fearnehough, the 
 hostess, had grown nought save scarlet 
 poppies, immortelles pink, golden, and snow- 
 white, and African marigolds, richly coloured, 
 but bitter of scent. This garden overlooked 
 the green where the show-booths and canvas- 
 shaded bazaars stood ; in a sheltered arbour 
 of trellis-work interlaced with honeysuckle 
 that was blooming for the second time, a 
 few farmers sat drinking, and chatting 
 without removing from their lips the green 
 glazed mouthpieces of their churchwardens. 
 They had spent the morning in saloon- 
 shooting, and in playing the game of "Aunt 
 Sally," with cocoa-nuts for prizes. 
 
 But Chapman of Milton Hollow (the farm 
 that runs alongside the brook), who was 
 usually the merriest in any party, was more 
 
 40
 
 THE PIRRITTY PRIDE 
 
 laconic than anyone had ever known him, 
 and after a while one of his neighbours 
 twitted him about his silence. 
 
 "Be yo' badly, Ike?" he said, "or ha' yo' 
 gotten summat on yor mind? Lawfu' case! 
 yo' mun ha' lost money wi' that face ! Weere 
 it pocket-pickin', or whatten ? " 
 
 The old man shook a closely-cropped grey 
 head. "'Tweere nayther," he replied. "I'm 
 but worryin' about Alice Pirritty. I've heerd 
 summat very sad this morn." 
 
 " Aunt Alice ? " cried the other. " Why, is 
 owt wrong wi' the poor soul?" 
 
 "Well, 'tweere Missus Drabble as towd 
 me: owd Aunt Alice has coome to her last 
 penny-piece, an' to-day hoo's a-starting for 
 the Bastille!" 
 
 "Then 'tis a domned shame!" exclaimed 
 another. "Eighty year owd or moore, an' 
 no better-respected ooman on the coontry 
 side. I'm for gi'in' her summat tisna fair 
 as one who's doone so much for her fellows 
 shouldna dee under a private roof -tree ! " 
 
 He rose to quit the arbour; Chapman 
 caught his sleeve as he passed. 
 
 "Yo're startin' on a useless task," he said. 
 " The poor owd lass has gotten all the 
 Pirritty pride, an' hoo'll tak' fro nobody. 
 I a'most went down on my knees to her; 
 but hoo just smiled quietly, an' said hoo 
 couldna be behowden to ony. Hoo's paid 
 rates for nigh on sixty year, hoo says, an' 
 
 41
 
 THE PIRRITTY PRIDE 
 
 'tis time as hoo got summat i' return. An' 
 when I came away, hoo'd called in her 
 neebours, for to gi'e 'em such odds an' ends 
 as hoo'd gotten, so as they might remember 
 her." 
 
 "I'd no notion as hoo weere so badly off," 
 said George Fox, of Silence Farm at Chel- 
 morton, twelve miles away, who had come 
 over for the Wakes. "Hoo used for to be 
 quite coomfortable when I weere a young 
 chap. Sixteen acres o' good wheatland, 
 down at the bottom end o' the Dale weere 
 her own prop'ty, beside the little farmstead 
 where hoo weere born. In coorse I heerd 
 o' her raisin' money on that to set James 
 Badger, her stepmoother's son, born i' her 
 first marriage, i' business; but I ne'er thowt 
 as hoo weere crippled at all. Why, James 
 he made a fine thing out o' cattle-brokin' ; 
 for I seed him, none a year ago at Buxton. 
 Frail and worn he looked, tho' scarce ower 
 sixty -five. He weere stayin' at a great 
 boardin'-house on th' Macclesfield road." 
 
 Chapman pursed his lips contemptuously. 
 " He took the money off her," he said ; " but 
 to my certain b'lief he ne'er gave a ha'penny 
 back. Ootherwise the fowk as held the 
 mortgage wouldna ha' sold the spot 'cause 
 hoo couldna pay the interest. "Us ten year 
 ago since that happed, an' owd Alice has 
 been livin' on her furniture. Soome grand 
 oak hoo'd gotten, an' the quality used for 
 
 42
 
 to buy it at th' price hoo fixed, which weere 
 ne'er onreasonable." 
 
 "Hoo weere as brave as they make 'em," 
 said Daniel Twigg, a meek gaffer, for an 
 hour or two freed from the control of a 
 careful wife. "My Lucretia told me as Aunt 
 Alice laughed quite cheerily whene'er hoo 
 parted wi' a chest or a table. 'Lord ha' 
 mercy ! ' hoo would say. ' Whatten a 
 digeshion mun mine be, when I can eat 
 solid oak, coovered wi' beeswax an' turps, 
 as readily as a younger ooman can eat 
 Bakewell puddin's ! ' Such sperrit ha' the 
 Pirrittys ! Lucretia, hoo once carried her 
 a basket o' banty's eggs laid by a pullet 
 as hoo weere vastly proud o' an' begged 
 Aunt Alice to accept 'em. Theere weere 
 summat stirrin' then the owd ooman begged 
 her to tak' 'em whoame, for on no account 
 could hoo ha' such a gift. Lucretia saw 
 hoo looked very thin an' peaked, an' so hoo 
 begged an' prayed sayin' as hoo'd saved 
 'em all on purpose. Aunt Alice cried, hoo 
 did, an' kissed my wife, an' said as hoo'ld 
 gi'e way; but next mornin' hoo came to 
 our door wi' the basket, an' in it theere 
 weere a little owd blue - an' - white cup an' 
 saucer, made in the days afore handles 
 weere used. So, since 'tweere worth ten 
 times moore nor the eggs, Lucretia daredna 
 gi'e her owt else. 'Tis a failin' the Pirritty 
 pride but 'tis a grand failin'." 
 
 43
 
 THE PIRRITTY PRIDE 
 
 "Martha Drabble said as 'tweere piti- 
 ful to look at Aunt Alice's cottage now," 
 said Chapman. "Everything's gone, save 
 a tent - bedstead, all worrum - eaten, an' a 
 chaff bed an' a three - legged table, an' 
 one rush - bottomed chair, an' the pair o' 
 pot dogs. Hoo's held out as long as hoo 
 could, an' now hoo's goin' to the Bas- 
 tille!" 
 
 As he spoke, a smart dogcart drew up 
 before the inn. It held four people a young 
 groom, a middle - aged woman, and a girl 
 and boy. The woman, who was stout and 
 fair, and comely of feature, wore a widow's 
 veil and a richly trimmed black silk mantle. 
 She was brimful of importance, kindly con- 
 temptuous of the noisy country holiday- 
 makers. The children were stolid and im- 
 passive of countenance ; the boy wore very 
 prominent cuffs and collar and tight kid 
 gloves; the girl's straw-coloured hair was 
 neatly crimped. 
 
 Mrs Fearnehough, anticipating custom, 
 signalled to the man in the taproom who 
 performed the duties of ostler, then went 
 to the door and greeted the arrivals with 
 a friendly nod. 
 
 " Is Miss Pirritty's house near here ? " said 
 the widow. "I was told that you'ld direct us 
 to it." 
 
 The hostess opened her mouth to speak ; 
 then, giving a swift glance up the road, 
 
 44
 
 THE PIRRITTY PRIDE 
 
 lifted her hand and pointed in the direction 
 of an approaching figure. 
 
 " God be thanked if yo're a friend o' poor 
 Alice ! " she said fervently. " Theere hoo is, 
 a-coomin' now." 
 
 A low - statured, round - shouldered old 
 woman hobbled feebly down the hill. She 
 was very neatly gowned in faded black, 
 with a drawn silk bonnet, and a checked 
 shawl. Her face was pale and withered ; but 
 the years had nowise dimmed the lustre 
 of her dark eyes. Her teeth had long since 
 disappeared, and her sharp chin played nut- 
 crackers with a big Roman nose. One hand 
 pressed heavily upon the handle of a 
 cumbrous gingham umbrella ; the other held 
 a little bundle tied in a snowy cotton hand- 
 kerchief. It was known afterwards that 
 this bundle contained a stuffed canary, rest- 
 ing on a blue -John perch, which had been 
 part of her mother's paraphernalia, and a 
 cast-iron tobacco box, the one her father 
 had always used. She was smiling courage- 
 ously, and nodding to some women who 
 caught their breaths; if she realised the sad- 
 ness of her position she was evidently deter- 
 mined to give no sign. 
 
 The widow from the town frowned slightly 
 as she noted her eccentric aspect. She had 
 never been told that Alice Pirritty was 
 peculiar to look upon indeed, the dead man 
 had ever shunned any mention of his family 
 
 46
 
 THE PIRRITTY PRIDE 
 
 connections, and had never expressed any 
 desire to revisit the scene of his youthful 
 days. But although she was stolid by nature, 
 she was not without good feeling; she deter- 
 mined to show no disappointment because of 
 the good woman's unexpected look of poverty- 
 strickenness. 
 
 Mrs Fearnehough ran eagerly forward to 
 meet her old friend, almost stumbling in her 
 haste. 
 
 " Theere's a lady coome askin' for yo'," she 
 cried. " Theere she be." 
 
 Alice Pirritty moved as sedately as her 
 bowed figure would permit to the side of 
 the dogcart. The widow held out a plump 
 hand, which the spinster seemed not to 
 see. 
 
 " I ask your pardon, ma'am," she said ; " but 
 I dunna recall your face." 
 
 " Why, you're not likely to," replied the 
 other, "seeing as you and I have never met 
 before. I'm Mrs Badger, your poor step- 
 brother James's wife." 
 
 Alice shook her hand now ; but the pleasure 
 the newcomer anticipated was lacking in her 
 expression : she appeared perfectly indifferent, 
 casting a look towards the Nether End, 
 through which she was to proceed on her 
 journey. " Poor James died four months 
 ago," continued the widow, lifting her hand- 
 kerchief to her eyes. " He left me and the 
 children very comfortable. I hadn't your 
 
 46
 
 THE PIRRITTY PRIDE 
 
 address, or be sure I'ld have written bidding 
 you to the burying. Consumption it was he 
 suffered horrible with his chest. . . . Nine 
 weeks in bed. . . . I'd scarce an hour's rest 
 all the time." 
 
 The old woman had winced. "I'm very 
 sorry to hear't," she murmured. " I'd the 
 lookin' after him when he weere a lad. Did 
 he ne'er speak o' me ? " 
 
 " Very seldom," sighed the widow. " He 
 seemed as if he wanted to forget Milton, so 
 I never drew him to the subject. When he 
 was at the last, he said I was to come and 
 look you up, and if you wanted anything 
 to let you have it." 
 
 " He weerena a Pirritty," said old Alice, 
 half to herself. 
 
 "I thought perhaps you'ld give us a cup 
 of tea at your house," suggested Mrs Badger, 
 who saw the curious farmers peeping over 
 the garden hedge. " It has been a long, dusty 
 drive from town." 
 
 The withered skin flushed scarlet. " I'm 
 af eard I canna," said the old woman. " I'm 
 bound to be i' Bakewell afore six o'clock." 
 
 The widow's placid temper was slightly 
 ruffled. "Well, if you can't, you can't," she 
 said. "I'll write asking you to spend a day 
 or two at Christmas with us. These here are 
 James's children, Lucy and John Henry." 
 
 The spinster did not heed the introduc- 
 tion. 
 
 47
 
 " Yo'd best none write," she said. " I 
 couldna coome, an' I shallna be wi'out 
 coomp'ny." And without another word she 
 passed on.
 
 BECK AT THE PLAY 
 
 BLEAKLOW HOLLOW, old Mrs Hattersley's 
 farm, lies in a concave of the East Moor, 
 near where the twin Burbages join their 
 waters for a wild dance down to the swift 
 Darrand. There is no other habitation in 
 sight, and only from the upper windows 
 can a glimpse be caught of aught save the 
 green fields that surround the homestead. 
 In Rebecca's chamber a small square of 
 diamond panes, set in black bands of lead, 
 commands the finest view; thence one may 
 see the moor curving, rising to rocky edges, 
 sinking abruptly, then growing steeper and 
 steeper until it is crowned by Kinderscout 
 itself. Sometimes when the girl was dress- 
 ing, she would rest her elbows on the blue- 
 washed sill and press her eager face to the 
 glass and wonder about the world beyond. 
 The grandmother often spoke of a country 
 that lay west of the mountains. " First 
 coomes the sea," she said, "a vast piece o' 
 wayter, big enew to flood the Darrand valley 
 ten times ower ; then theere's Ireland, wheere 
 owd Bartle lives. A grand place is Ireland; 
 D 49
 
 BECK AT THE PLAY 
 
 he's told me many an' many a time as 'tis 
 far better nor the Peak. But whatten I 
 wonder is why the coontry lads leave it to 
 help wi' our harvest when they'd best be 
 gettin' o' theer own?" 
 
 There is an old packhorse track running 
 midway through Bleaklow Hollow : it tra- 
 verses the Moor between Speckled Pole and 
 Fox Pole, ancient landmarks that have stood 
 from time immemorial. It was along this 
 path that William Pinder, of Woodseats, 
 came a-courting. He was one of the duke's 
 keepers, and his home was a square, high- 
 gabled lodge on the south side of the hill, 
 known as Lord's Seat, which rises four miles 
 away beside the chief tributary of the 
 young Darrand. For the last three years 
 (ever since his old mother's death) he had 
 lived there in solitude, all the while looking 
 forward to the day when Rebecca would 
 bring her mind to accepting him as her 
 husband. A pensive man, slow of thought 
 and slow of action ; moreover, a great reader 
 of such books as his mother (who before 
 her marriage had kept a dame's school) had 
 brought to the lonely house. 
 
 These were L'Estrange's " Fables of JEsop," 
 the novels of Mrs Sherwood, the queer 
 country romance known as " The Farmer 
 of Inglewood Forest," and also a com- 
 plete edition, with f's for s's, of the works 
 of Samuel Richardson. During the old 
 
 50
 
 BECK AT THE PLAY 
 
 woman's later years he had entertained her 
 nightly with a letter writ by the marvellous 
 Pamela, or a chapter of " Sir Charles Grandi- 
 son." Whilst the mother lived, no thought 
 of wedlock ever entered his brain ; and now, 
 when in his twenty-ninth year, he sought a 
 wife for the first time, his big forehead was 
 lined, and his hair lightly flecked with grey. 
 In Rebecca's company he was more silent 
 than when elsewhere ; but his eyes sparkled 
 very brightly as he watched the beautiful 
 girl moving deftly about her grandmother's 
 house. He was well-to-do; he brought her 
 many little presents, beginning with a cottage 
 made of gaudy-coloured shells, intended for 
 a chimney-piece ornament. Rebecca had not 
 appreciated this according to its value as a 
 work of art. Afterwards he chose fine silk 
 handkerchiefs, trinkets of "blue- John" the 
 Peakland jewel set in silver, and once 
 a wonderful gauze fan a souvenir of an 
 exhibition in a manufacturing town forty 
 miles away. 
 
 Rebecca's life had been absolutely devoid 
 of exciting incidents. Now that matrimony 
 loomed in the near distance, she began to 
 crave for something to happen something 
 coming from the outer world north, east, 
 south or west anywhere beyond the confines 
 of the moor. Thus it fell about that one 
 evening in early summer, when William came 
 as usual, but disclosed some remarkable news, 
 
 51
 
 BECK AT THE PLAY 
 
 her heart gave a glad bound, and the rich 
 blood rose to her cheeks. 
 
 " I've summat to tell yo', Mrs Hattersley," 
 he said, "an', more nor that, summat to ask. 
 Yo' rec'lect my sister Alice, her as married a 
 brewer i' Leicestershire when I weere a little 
 lad? Ay, I thowt yo' would. Yo' mind as 
 hoo deed i' childbed? Hoo left a lad bairn, 
 an' whatten d' yo' think?" 
 
 The old lady meditated for a while, then 
 shook her head. " I'm sure I dunna know," 
 she said, lamely. 
 
 Rebecca came to lean upon the back of the 
 arm-chair. 
 
 " Well," he continued, " I weere just sittin' 
 down to my dinner this morn when a dogcart 
 pulled up at my door, an' out jumps a lad o' 
 twenty-two, a good-like lad, wi'out a hair on 
 his face, an' dressed up to the nines ! I weere 
 all mazed when he caught my hands an' 
 says as pat as may be : ' Yo're my Uncle 
 William ! ' " 
 
 " Eh dear ! eh dear ! " cried Mrs Hattersley ; 
 "an' 'tweere Alice's babby growed to man- 
 hood ! " 
 
 " Yo're right, 'tweere my nevvy Percy the 
 name bein' gi'en to him by his mother's wish. 
 Alice's husband weere proud - minded : after 
 the poor lass went whoame he ne'er as much 
 as sent word whether the child lived or deed, 
 an' when my mother wrote he wouldna notice 
 her letters. Yo' see, he weere makin' money, 
 
 52
 
 BECK AT THE PLAY 
 
 an' belike weere ashamed o' us. Onyhow, the 
 lad's gotten no false pride about him he 
 seemed right down glad to see me, an' when 
 we'd put up the horse he came in an' ate 
 bread an' cheese wi' me." 
 
 " He did but whatten weere right," said Mrs 
 Hatter sley warmly ; " bein' as yo're o' his own 
 flesh an' blood. An', after all, his feyther 
 weere only a brewer." 
 
 "Ay," replied William, "but the lad's none 
 a brewer. He's gotten his feyther's money 
 (Mester Barker bein' dead), an' if he would he 
 might live like a gentleman. 'Stead o' thatten, 
 he felt as he mun be workin' soomehow, an' 
 ha'in' a fancy for play-actin' he went on the 
 stage." 
 
 " Lord save us ! " exclaimed the dame. 
 " One o' them who go about wi' a 
 tent?" 
 
 " Nay," said William. " Theere's no need 
 for him to do that he's wi' a coomp'ny as 
 visits the best theatres, an' he taks the le'adin' 
 parts for men. I ha' na' been i' a theatre 
 mysen; but he described it to me, so well as 
 if 'tweere afoore my eyen. An' the long an' 
 the short o' 'tweere as he finished up by sayin' 
 as I mun go to Hathton on Saturday night, 
 an' he's a-goin' to send me tickets for a front 
 seat." 
 
 He caught sight of Rebecca's eager eyes, 
 and nodded meaningly. 
 
 "I told him as if I went I shouldna go 
 53
 
 BECK AT THE PLAY 
 
 aloane. D' yo' think, Mrs Hattersley, as as 
 Beck might coome too ? " 
 
 The grandmother's lips puckered ; she be- 
 gan to frown. Rebecca put her palms 
 under the double chin, and gave her a 
 hearty kiss. 
 
 "Yo' munna forbid," she said. "Tisna 
 oft I ask for owt, an I'ld vastly like to go. 
 'Twould be easy enew William could drive 
 the owd mare." 
 
 Mrs Hattersley yielded with a sigh. 
 
 "I dunna see how I can refuse," she said, 
 "seein' as 'tis William's nevvy. But I do 
 pray an' trust as yo'll none be set on theatre- 
 goin' i' the future." 
 
 Now that the matter was settled, William 
 was delighted to find his sweetheart more 
 cordial than she had ever been. For the 
 remainder of the evening he was less re- 
 strained than usual, and he responded quite 
 lengthily to Mrs Hattersley's inquiries con- 
 cerning everything the young man had done 
 and said. 
 
 Yet, as he returned along the worn pack- 
 horse track to his lonely house, a touch of 
 sadness overcame him, and his whistling, 
 which at first had been surprisingly gay, be- 
 came of a sudden melancholy in the extreme. 
 
 He had seen little more of the world than 
 had Rebecca; but his life had been full of 
 perfect sympathy with nature in all her 
 moods. He loved the moor with a passion 
 
 54
 
 BECK AT THE PLAY 
 
 almost as great as that aroused by the 
 beautiful girl. He craved for nought more 
 than to spend his years amongst the heather 
 and the rushes; he could imagine no setting 
 more perfect for Rebecca's loveliness. And 
 yet and yet there came to him a fear that 
 the glamour of an artificial life might prove 
 over-fascinating that she might leave him 
 and the moor for ever. 
 
 The maidens most admired in Peakland 
 are buxom and rosy, with dark brown hair 
 and pouting lips. Rebecca was slight and 
 pale ; her tresses were yellow as the 
 silver birch leaves in autumn. Her deep 
 grey eyes were given to dreaming, and her 
 movements were always quiet; although 
 Mrs Hattersley spoke the truth when she 
 declared that in all her seventy years' ex- 
 perience she had never known as good a 
 worker. She had dainty little hands; but 
 she used them well the butter and the 
 cheese made at Bleaklow Hollow were noted 
 for their excellence. 
 
 That night he slept ill, tossing restlessly 
 in his four-poster. A thousand odd fancies 
 came to him ; he saw Rebecca moving in a 
 different a loftier sphere than his own ; he 
 saw a smile of radiant happiness on her 
 face as she acknowledged the admiration of 
 crowds. More than once he woke suddenly 
 with a loud groan; and long before dawn 
 he rose and tramped across the moor, only 
 
 55
 
 BECK AT THE PLAY 
 
 returning when the sun had drunk the dew 
 from the topmost blades of grass. 
 
 The postman called during the morning 
 with a letter from the actor, enclosing an 
 order for a private box. When Saturday 
 came, William arranged for an under-keeper 
 to attend to his duties, and, soon after 
 dinner, began to prepare himself for the 
 evening. 
 
 First he took from the press his best suit, 
 which was made of smooth old-fashioned 
 broadcloth, the coat ending in a quaint 
 swallow-tail. It had been bought for his 
 mother's funeral, and had lain in lavender 
 ever since. There were deep creases every- 
 where ; when he donned it, he viewed his 
 reflection with singular dismay. In these 
 garments he looked considerably older than 
 his years, and, moreover, presented a ludicrous 
 resemblance to a local preacher, about to 
 hold forth at a Woodlands love-feast. 
 
 This would never do for a visit to the 
 theatre; he must certainly choose something 
 less lugubrious. He thought of a suit of 
 rich green velveteen, intended for the last 
 twelfth of August, and never worn, because, 
 at the last moment, he had feared the colour 
 was too striking for a man of his position. 
 It was well-made by a Hathton tailor, and, 
 best of all, it would be new to Rebecca. So, 
 after a very brief consideration, he discarded 
 the black and dressed in this ; finally putting 
 
 56
 
 BECK AT THE PLAY 
 
 on a stiffly -starched collar and a neckcloth 
 of dark red silk, besprinkled with a pattern 
 of tiny ivy -leaves. After the first glance 
 at the mirror, he dared look no more ; the 
 change of garments had made him appear 
 scarce older than a lad of twenty-five. He 
 fastened the smoked pearl buttons of his 
 gaiters hurriedly, and, fearful lest he should 
 lose courage and determine upon something 
 else, he locked the house-door, and set off 
 in the direction of Bleaklow Hollow. 
 
 Rebecca gave a little cry of surprise when 
 she recognised him in his unaccustomed 
 finery; then she greeted him with such 
 warmth that he was almost tempted to risk 
 everything by kissing her there and then. 
 She herself was attired more prettily than 
 usual, although at all times she wore clothes 
 that fitted her pretty figure admirably well. 
 This afternoon she had chosen a white muslin 
 gown (she had worn it only once before, 
 when she played bridesmaid to the daughter 
 of a moorland farmer), and a white hat with 
 pink tea-roses. She reminded him of the 
 fragile anemone that grows in springtime 
 amidst the grass of hill-country copses. 
 
 She held a spray of forget-me-nots in her 
 hand. "I've gathered 'em for yo'," she said. 
 "Let me pin 'em i' yor buttonhole." 
 
 Old Mrs Hattersley laughed gleefully. 
 "Dear yeart!" she cried. "Whatten a fine 
 couple yo' do make, to be sure! Tis for all 
 
 67
 
 BECK AT THE PLAY 
 
 the world like to a coloured almanac! Now, 
 William, yo' do look hot happen 'tis wi' 
 the walk so yo'll ha' a cup o' tea wi' Beck 
 an' me afore startin'." 
 
 She was extraordinarily alert to-day; she 
 made them sit together on the window-seat 
 while she boiled the water and cut bread- 
 and-butter and cake. 
 
 "Yo' see," she exclaimed, "I dunna want 
 Beck to soil her gown or her hands. Now, 
 just yo' stay wi' William, wench, an' let yor 
 gran'mother show as hoo's none altogether 
 useless. By Marry ! it makes me young again 
 to see yo' together." 
 
 Her mirth fretted the girl ; her brightness 
 disappeared, and for the next two hours she 
 was as quiet as William was wont to be. 
 This change of mood fretted the lover; he 
 ceased to finger his waistcoat pocket, in 
 which, carefully folded in tissue paper, lay 
 the costliest present he had ever bought. 
 He had meant to offer this for her accept- 
 ance as they drove over the moor behind 
 the staid old mare, whose pace had never 
 been known to exceed a jog-trot of five miles 
 an hour. 
 
 The rest of the evening always seemed like 
 a dream to William Finder. They drove to 
 the "Yellow Lion," in the heart of Hathton, 
 where they left the vehicle and strolled 
 leisurely up the High Street. Rebecca had 
 never been in the town on a Saturday evening ; 
 
 58
 
 BECK AT THE PLAY 
 
 the crowd flurried her almost involuntarily 
 she laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 At the theatre they left the soft twilight 
 a faint new moon hung overhead and 
 entered a vestibule brilliant with electric 
 lamps. A man in livery conducted them up 
 several nights of stairs to a box hung with 
 gold-fringed crimson velvet curtains, where 
 they drew back their chairs into the shade, 
 and sat in awed silence. After a while 
 Rebecca moved near the barrier, and looked 
 timidly downward, but returned instantly, 
 scared by the sight of so many strange 
 faces. 
 
 The orchestra began to play. William tried, 
 bravely enough, to catch the tune, and beat 
 time with lightly touching hands ; but the 
 music soon ceased unexpectedly, and the 
 curtain rose, revealing a modern drawing- 
 room, full of finely dressed men and women. 
 They spoke a jargon incomprehensible to the 
 country girl; still, the gaiety of the picture 
 attracted her, and soon she boldly shifted her 
 chair to the front of the box. 
 
 It was a vastly popular comedy, adapted 
 from the French. The nephew (William 
 touched her shoulder and whispered when 
 he first appeared) played the hero, a dashing 
 young adventurer of loose morals. Rebecca 
 watched him very curiously, turning now and 
 then to compare his appearance with that of 
 the man at her side; but soon she became 
 
 69
 
 BECK AT THE PLAY 
 
 interested in the proceedings of the women, 
 who each fought with her tongue to win him 
 for herself. 
 
 As the curtain fell at the end of the first 
 act, however, a revulsion came, and she leaned 
 forward to where William sat. 
 
 " I dunna care much for theer goin's-on," 
 she whispered. "'T seems to me as they're no 
 better nor they should be some o' 'em." 
 
 She was interrupted by the entrance of the 
 actor, whom William introduced with old- 
 fashioned punctilio. Off the stage he appeared 
 nothing more than a handsome lad, with a 
 genuinely kind manner. He thanked them 
 for coming, and made a few pleasant re- 
 marks ; then, as he had little time to spare, 
 he prepared to return to his dressing-room. 
 
 " Why not come and have supper with me 
 at my hotel ? " he said. " By Jove ! Uncle 
 William, I congratulate you on the aunt 
 you're going to give me!" 
 
 But William, reading reluctance in Rebecca's 
 eyes, declined very courteously, and the actor, 
 after shaking hands, retired in haste. 
 
 Then the play continued, growing frothier 
 and frothier with every speech. 
 
 At last Rebecca sat with closed eyes, and 
 William moved his chair so that he saw nought 
 save the beautiful girl whom he loved. And 
 when " God save the Queen " was played, they 
 stole away from the place and made their 
 way to the inn. 
 
 60
 
 BECK AT THE PLAY 
 
 The sky was now darkly blue, the crescent 
 moon shone very brightly ; only two or three 
 stars were visible. Rebecca spoke not a word 
 until they were beyond the suburbs of Hathton. 
 Then William saw that her cheeks were all 
 wet with tears. 
 
 " Dall it, my pretty ! " he cried. " Whatten's 
 vexed yo' ? " 
 
 She smiled for the first time since they had 
 left home. "I canna tell," she said gently, 
 "onless it be disappointment. The world's 
 vastly different fro' whatten I thowt. I've 
 larned as theere's no place like the moor. 
 Yo' an' me, William, weere ne'er made for 
 town life." 
 
 He took her hand. "Yo' didna know as 
 yo're akin to the wild birds ! " he murmured. 
 "Oh, Beck, my lass, I do loove yo' for them 
 words ! " 
 
 And when Rebecca lifted her hand she saw 
 encircling one finger a little jewelled ring. 
 
 61
 
 POOR JOE 
 
 FRONTING Milton Green, to the left of the 
 old standards of the stocks, where, within 
 living memory, evil-doers were pinned by the 
 legs, stands Mrs Joe Walton's cottage, a pretty 
 little place with arched windows which the 
 village folk call " The Chapel house." The 
 stonework of the front is entirely concealed 
 by creepers jasmine and clematis and in 
 summer white convolvulus festoons the latticed 
 porch. In fair weather, a magpie in a wicker 
 cage hangs near the door (crying " Jack ! 
 Jack ! " to all who pause), and an obese tabby, 
 with marks of Persian descent, lies purring 
 on the threshold. 
 
 There is an atmosphere of perfect peace 
 about the place. One associates the dainty 
 cleanliness with serene old age, unmarred by 
 any trouble. And if a glimpse be caught of 
 Mrs Joe sitting beside her window, knitting 
 cloth hearthrugs for her poorer neighbours, 
 her bland face lighted with a patient smile, 
 one longs for the art of the sentimental 
 almanack painter. 
 
 The young students at the Dissenters' College 
 62
 
 POOR JOE 
 
 on Darrand bank often visit her; she brews 
 tea well and makes pleasant cakes strongly 
 flavoured with pudding-spice. When she ex- 
 pects them, she spreads freshly-washed hop- 
 sacks over the parlour carpet, and places a 
 comfortable kneeling hassock near each arm- 
 chair. She is, moreover, one of the most 
 generous women in the parish ; innocent 
 children unblushingly ask her for halfpence 
 whenever they meet her out-of-doors. 
 
 Matrons uphold her as the phoenix of her 
 sex; there's no better creature to be found 
 for the performance of the first and last duty 
 to humankind. The menfolk, however, view 
 her with a less favourable regard ; for this 
 her next-door neighbour, Pym Slack, an un- 
 married retired cobbler, is alone responsible. 
 More than ten years have passed since this 
 couple last held converse; but even to-day 
 the good woman offers a petition that Pym's 
 wicked heart may be changed. He has been 
 heard to say that he hopes he may die of a 
 sudden, lest in his weakness she might minister 
 to his departing moments. 
 
 Every third month Pym makes a long 
 journey for a man of his years, and for at 
 least a week following each return wears a 
 perplexed and uneasy countenance. It is well 
 known that he goes to Derby to see his old 
 crony, Joe, who has spent ten years, and will 
 probably spend the remainder of his life, in 
 the county asylum. And after his latest visit,
 
 POOR JOE 
 
 some few days ago, he was moved to speak 
 plainly of Joe's tragedy. I had met him 
 taking the air along the ridge-road, and he 
 had very politely accepted a pipeful of 
 tobacco. 
 
 "Ay, mester," he said, "I've been frettin' 
 about Joe, tho' Lord knows why I should, for 
 he seems comfortable enew, poor lad." 
 
 Then his smile quivered away, and, turning 
 aside, he drew a red-and-white cotton hand- 
 kerchief from his pocket, and wiped his eyes. 
 
 "I'm full up," he remarked, in a broken 
 voice. " Poor Joe ! poor, poor Joe ! " 
 
 My house being near by, I invited him to 
 enter, and whilst he sipped from a big tumbler 
 of what he called " brown cream," but what is 
 known in more genteel circles as Jamaica rum, 
 he told me the following story : 
 
 " I've always had my doubts about his brains 
 softenin', but now I doubt no more. Joe's 
 as clear-yeaded a chap as lives onywheere. 
 When he weere put away I said as much 
 to his wife; but hoo cocked her eyen an' 
 mumbled summat about the will o' Providence, 
 an' then we brangled an' hoo bade me ne'er 
 speak to her ony more. . . . 
 
 "Yo' see, him an' me had been friends for 
 well-nigh fifty year afore he married Hannah, 
 who'd lived servant wi' the Squire e'er sin' I 
 can rec'lect, an' had saved a good bit o' money. 
 None as Joe wanted the money tho', for he'd 
 gotten more o' his own, thro' heirin', an' like- 
 
 61
 
 POOH JOE 
 
 wise thro' whatten he'd put by out o' his 
 earnins i' makin' cloathes for all Milton parish. 
 An' I'll none say as Hannah weerena coomely ; 
 for hoo weere the same as hoo is now, havin' 
 scarce changed for the last thretty year. 
 Hoo's i' soome respects one o' the kindest an' 
 thriftiest bodies yo' could meet ony wheere. 
 
 " The f aut weere i' two f owk as had kept 
 single for so long e'er gettin' wed at all. 
 'Tweere to be expected as both weere set i' 
 theer ways, an' yo' know as well as onyone 
 as bachelors' ways arena the same as owd 
 maids' ways. He'd lived aloane for so long 
 that he'd gotten to care nowt whether the 
 house weere clean or dirty, or whether he'd 
 a cloth on the table at meal-times or none. I 
 will say, tho', as whene'er he stirred out o' 
 doors he weere always dressed very smart, wi' 
 his shoon well-blacked, an his collars white as 
 driven snow. But at such times as none but 
 his friends could see him, he looked vastly 
 different his breeches all ragged, no coat on, 
 but a knitted vest, an' his slippers down at 
 heel, an' great holes i' his stockins. But all 
 the same, he weere the cheeriest an' the 
 merriest lad as I e'er did know. 
 
 " I used for to warn him, whilst he coorted 
 Hannah, as hoo'ld mak' a change i' all that, 
 an' poor Joe he'ld laugh an say : ' Loove 
 blinds a ooman,' tho' afterwards he'ld add : 
 ' Hannah's gotten an eye as'll draw a duck 
 off the wayter!" 
 
 E 65
 
 POOR JOE 
 
 " To my thinkin' 'tweere a great mistak' i' 
 Joe none to make th' ooman coome an' look 
 at the house afoore they went to church 
 together. He did mention it, so he towd me ; 
 but Hannah seemed shy, an' talked soome 
 stuff about it none bein' proper for her to go, 
 so he said no more. Yo' mun onder stand as 
 hoo cared for proper things more nor for owt 
 else i' life. But I hold as if hoo'd seen the 
 condition the house weere in, hoo'ld ha' bruk 
 the engagement theere an' then. 
 
 "None as poor Joe didna strive his best to 
 put things i' order. For a whole fortnight 
 afore the weddin' he swept an' yaller- washed, 
 an' made all (to those who weerena curious) as 
 bright as a new pin. If I said as he didna 
 hide away mucky floor-clouts an' such like i' 
 the drawers aside o' the new linen he'd bought, 
 'twould be a lee : still, 'tweere done more thro' 
 thowtlessness nor owt else. 
 
 " But when parson had made 'em man an' 
 wife, an' they came whoame after a few days 
 spent wi' Joe's sister i' the Woodlands, Hannah 
 declared, gently enew, as the spot weerna fit 
 for a pig to bide in, an' began riddin' things 
 out wi' a vengeance. An' for a full month 
 hoo did nowt but clean an' clean an' clean. 
 Joe said as ? tweere surprisin' what a mort o' 
 dust an' flew had drifted into the corners. 
 He weere none very coomf ortable, to be sure ; 
 but he used for to chuckle an' say, 'New 
 brooms sweep clean,' an' oother owd proverbs.
 
 POOR JOE 
 
 " Hannah ne'er grum'led I will gie her that 
 credit but went about wi' a stricken look, 
 just as if soomebody near akin lay a-deein'. 
 Hoo weere very patient on the surface I 
 dunna b'lieve as all the while they kep' house 
 together, hoo gied him as much as a hard 
 word. But all that time hoo weere settin' 
 things straight, hoo weere makin' up her mind 
 about the future ; an* once hoo'd made up 
 her mind, none all the prayers i' the world'ld 
 change her. 
 
 "At last the job weere done, an' the Chapel 
 House made as 'tis now, wi' white lace curtains 
 an' blinds an' pots o' fuchsias i' the windows, 
 an' antimacassars on every chair. An' one 
 night, just afore Kirsmas, Joe cam' in to see 
 me, smock -faced, an' tremblin' like a leaf. 
 'Pym,' says he, 'I'm i' great trouble o' mind,' 
 an' then he fairly beldered, loud as a toothin' 
 babby. 
 
 " 'Tweere a good bit afore I could mak' out 
 whatten weere wrong ; but after he'd had a 
 sup o' yale, I learned as he'd gone indoors wi' 
 muddy feet, an' made a few stains on the 
 house-place floor. 
 
 " Hannah didna open her mouth, but laid a 
 hand on his showder, an' pointed to the mat 
 as lay aside o' the door ; then, seein' as he weere 
 gapin' foolishly, hoo very calmly marched him 
 back an' made him clean every atom o' dirt 
 fro' his shoon. An' when he got i' his chair 
 by the hearth, hoo found an owd newspaper, 
 
 67
 
 POOR JOE 
 
 an' set it under the soles, so as the rug 
 shouldna be soiled. Poor Joe, he sat for a 
 few minutes dazed like, then up he gets an' 
 makes for me. Hannah ne'er fancied his 
 coomin' after that I reckon he told her 
 whatten I said about lettin 1 a ooman wear 
 the breeches. 
 
 " A man mun be a man an' none a mouse 
 I told him that scores o' times. But he weere 
 timid by nayture, an' theere's no gettin' ower 
 that. An' the upshot o' it all weere, as for a 
 twelvemoonth Joe lived like a wax flower 
 under a glass shade. 
 
 "Hannah weere fond o' him, theere's no 
 gainsayin' that ; but as time passed, her care 
 grew more nor he could stand, an' bein' a 
 whoame-bred, an' none a tavern-tattler, he 
 began to mope, an' had scarce a word for ony 
 o' his owd companions. Lord ! I've seen him 
 sittin' theere coovered wi' a dust-sheet, whilst 
 Hannah swept up the ashes which hoo did 
 about onct i' every three hours ! 
 
 "An' at last hoo got into the way o' 
 mimimowkin' at f owk pullin' such wry faces 
 as yo' ne'er did see ! Sometimes he'd burst 
 into song hymns 'tweere an' then stop short 
 wi' a cackle. Doctor Hancock (he'd only been 
 i' Milton a few moonths) heerd him at it, an' 
 said as 'tweere melinky madness ; so i' coorse 
 o' time Joe weere sent to the 'sylum though 
 Hannah, to do her justice, begged 'em to let 
 him be." 
 
 68
 
 POOR JOE 
 
 Pym had drunk all his rum ; he drew out his 
 handkerchief again, and mopped his stream- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 "Oh, dall it!" he said. "Poor Joe! poor 
 Joe ! I've always jealoused as he weerena so 
 mad as they thowt, an' t'other day, when I 
 went to see him, I found pluck enew to tell 
 him so. (He has nowt to complain o' theere, 
 seein' as he's paid for, an' they let him ha' 
 plenty o' liberty.) After I'd said it, he button- 
 holed me, an' laughed as cheery as ony lad. 
 
 "'I weerena cracked one jot,' says he; 'but 
 I soon should ha' been if I'd stayed. I couldna 
 i' decency leave her ony other way. I sham 
 a bit soometimes, for fear they'ld send me 
 back else. But yo' munna tell Hannah, none 
 on no account.'"
 
 THE COURTSHIP OF MRS 
 WHITECROFT 
 
 MRS WHITECROFT sat in an old - fashioned 
 wicker chair beside the moss - grown grit- 
 stone wall of her garden. The widow was 
 very comely of face, and plump as a partridge. 
 Her mourning for Samuel, whose second wife 
 she had been for six years, was now modified 
 to a chaste lilac ; a small bow of black and 
 grey ribbon was coquettishly pinned above her 
 left ear. Twelve months had elapsed since 
 the good man had been put to bed beside 
 the yew tree in Milton churchyard, and the 
 loneliness of her position had begun to tell 
 upon her spirits. That afternoon, as she had 
 donned her new gown for the first time, 
 she had shed a few tears because of her in- 
 tended disloyalty to his memory. 
 
 " He weere good," she said, " an' very good ; 
 but 'tis a comfort to me as when we talked 
 ower the future, a few days afore he passed, 
 I said as I weerena cut out by natyure for 
 livin' aloane, an' when I'd paid my respects 
 to his mem'ry, I'ld be 'bliged to take another 
 
 70
 
 COURTSHIP OF MRS WHITECROFT 
 
 mate ! An' he made no to-do, bein' as he'd 
 wedded one afore me." 
 
 It was a hot July afternoon, and the air 
 was heavy with thunder. In the fields beyond 
 the garden, whence the hay -crop had been 
 successfully gathered, the swallows dipped so 
 low that their breasts almost touched the 
 ground. And the warmth at last overcame 
 Mrs Whitecroft, so that the long white 
 stocking she was darning fell gently to her 
 lap, and her head sank to the chintz-covered 
 cushion of her chair-back. She slept peace- 
 fully, her mouth closed and her pretty chin 
 tilted, and she dreamed that she was in her 
 maidenhood again, frolicking with a young 
 man at Grassbrook Feast. 
 
 Jim Whittingham, her head-man, found her 
 thus, when he returned from Calton-in-the- 
 Water Fair, where he had sold to advantage 
 some of the widow's young stock. He was a 
 tall, brown -skinned lad, with shy blue eyes 
 and a thoughtful forehead a second cousin 
 of Samuel's, who had lived at Moorend Farm 
 since his childhood. His reputation as a 
 steady bachelor was immaculate, and she 
 relied much on his sobriety and excellent 
 business ability. 
 
 But this afternoon the tantalising heat had 
 entered his blood, and an unaccustomed 
 draught of home-brewed beer at the "Bold 
 Cloudesley" had stolen away his brains and 
 left him in order for any childish mischief. 
 
 71
 
 COURTSHIP OF MRS WHITECROFT 
 
 Besides, not even a woman-hater could have 
 denied that the slumbering widow made a 
 pretty picture. 
 
 He climbed the wall from the lane very 
 quietly, and stood gazing upon her face ; 
 then, breaking off a sucker that grew from 
 the root of a young sycamore, he lightly 
 flicked her smooth cheek. Her dream, 
 affected by the touch, took on such a de- 
 lightful turn that her mouth parted just 
 enough to show a line of little white teeth. 
 In another moment, Jim stooped and gave 
 her a kiss full on the lips then drew back 
 in sudden horror, sobered by his unaccount- 
 able presumption. 
 
 Mrs Whitecrof t's eyes opened ; she flushed 
 crimson. "Whatten be yo' a-doin' o', James 
 Whitt'am?" she inquired angrily. 
 
 His face had grown very pale. "Theere 
 weere a wasp," he stammered, holding out 
 the twig, " a wasp settlin' on yor nether lip. 
 I twitched him off just in time." 
 
 The widow recovered her temper at sight of 
 his confusion. " Drat 'em ! " she said, " 'tis the 
 worst summer I've e'er knowed for wasps ! 
 Thank yo' kindly, James." 
 
 He told her of the sale of the beasts, and 
 gave her the money-bag, and shamefacedly 
 hastened to the stable-yard ; she rose and 
 went into the house. She was still warmer 
 of colour than was natural. 
 
 " Of all th' thowts ! " she said. " Me dreamin' 
 72
 
 COURTSHIP OF MRS WHITECROFT 
 
 as Jonty Middleton weere bussin' me at Grass- 
 brook leppin's, an' 'tweere but James drivin' 
 a wasp off me ! I'm more nor thankful as I 
 didna let out whatten my mind weere on ! " 
 
 She went out again and broke another 
 bough of sycamore, and stroked her lips 
 with it, but shook her head and frowned as 
 if she nowise understood. And Jim, who was 
 conscience-stricken, kept out of her way that 
 evening, lest she might read the guilt in his 
 face. 
 
 On the following Sunday evening, three 
 suitors for the widow's hand called at Moor- 
 end. They had fluttered about her for several 
 months ; but she had resented their coming 
 so soon after her bereavement, and had 
 given them to understand that they must 
 not repeat their proposals for a whole year. 
 The eldest was Frank Eades, of Barley 
 Paddocks ; the second, Thomas Pursglove, of 
 Milton Four-Lane-Ends ; and the third, young 
 William Morley, of Little Chatsworth. All 
 men of considerable means, and all suitable 
 in the matter of moral character and domestic 
 habits. But the types were too familiar to 
 be piquant, and Mrs Whitecroft was given 
 to flouting each mercilessly. She showed no 
 difference in her recognition of their claims, 
 and varied but slightly in her inhumanity. 
 As it fell out, they all arrived at the same 
 time, just as the bells of Milton Church were 
 beginning to call worshippers to evening 
 
 73
 
 COURTSHIP OF MRS WHITECROFT 
 
 service ; and, once seated in her big parlour, 
 each displayed no sign of retiring to leave 
 his rivals in the field. 
 
 Mrs Whitecroft was very light-headed that 
 evening ; nothing seemed to give her pleasure. 
 To Eades, whose appearance was not as trim 
 as his fellows', she quoted the old advice for 
 men whose minds were set on courting : 
 " Ne'er go a-wooin' when the beard's a- 
 growin'," and she likened Pursglove's nose 
 to a rum - bottle ; and as Morley began to 
 chuckle with the belief that she favoured 
 him most, she declared a powerful aversion 
 to " smock-faced " lads, which silenced him 
 until the time when she dismissed them by 
 asking if they purposed to stay all night, 
 "for if so," she added, "I mun ha' the sheets 
 aired, for yo' all to lig i' the best bed, which 
 hasna been used since Samuel deed!" 
 
 When they were gone, she stole gently to 
 the house - place, where Jim Whittingham 
 sat before the hearth with his book. The 
 old woman who had spent all her life in the 
 service of the Whitecrofts was dozing in her 
 chair, and the young girl who helped her 
 with the indoor work sat at the table beside 
 the cow-lad, sharing his studies of The Song 
 of Solomon. The widow sighed audibly, then 
 she went away, shaking her head in self- 
 reproof. 
 
 In the week that followed, she grew oddly 
 restless, and towards the end decided to try 
 
 74
 
 COURTSHIP OF MRS WHITECROFT 
 
 a change of air. Her only sister had wedded 
 a farmer in Cheshire ; she determined to go 
 over on the Saturday and stay for a f ew days. 
 She could very easily be spared at Moorend; 
 for Samuel had always insisted upon her 
 living, as he said, "like a lady born," and 
 since his death she had seen no need for 
 taking an active part in the management. 
 
 Whittingham drove her to Miller's Dale in 
 the new dogcart. As he saw her safely into 
 the train, she marvelled somewhat at the 
 quiet courtesy of his manner. He was her 
 junior by four years she remembered him 
 as a hobbledehoy, and familiarity had bred 
 indifference. As the train was starting she 
 offered him her hand, and allowed herself to 
 feel the grasp of his strong fingers longer 
 than the occasion demanded. 
 
 "Yo'll be sure an' write every day to tell 
 me how things go on a-whoame?" she said. 
 "I've ne'er had a letter fro' yo', an' 'twill 
 cheer me up." 
 
 " Ay, ma'am," said he, " I'll be glad to write." 
 
 The train moved from the platform, and 
 Whittingham stood watching till it was out 
 of sight. Some kindly impulse prompted 
 Mrs Whitecroft to lean from the window 
 and shake a white handkerchief with a nar- 
 row black border. Jim left the station 
 mournfully, and let the mare return to 
 Moorend at her own pace. 
 
 "I dunna know how I dare think o' such 
 75
 
 a thing," he muttered. "My missus is the 
 looveliest ooman as I e'er did see, an', moore- 
 ower, as rich as onybody i' all Milton parish ! " 
 
 Then he began to whistle so pathetically, 
 that an old woman at the wayside (she was 
 gathering dandelion roots for her liver-com- 
 plaint) was moved to tears. 
 
 "Tis loove, an' loove wi'out ony hope in't, 
 as makes a chap whizzle like that ! " she 
 sighed. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs Whitecroft was being 
 borne towards Cheshire. No sooner had she 
 changed stations at Buxton, when she re- 
 gretted having left home. Her feelings 
 were in a decidedly interesting condition, 
 and she began to fear the turmoil of her 
 sister's large family. If it would not have 
 looked foolish, she would certainly have re- 
 turned post-haste to Moorend. 
 
 When she reached the large farm-house, 
 which in its day had been an important 
 hall, her humour had become so melancholy 
 that her sister, fearing that she was still 
 grieving for the dead Samuel, took her to 
 her bosom and bade her be of good cheer, 
 since fine fish still remained in the sea. 
 
 "That is so," said the widow, petulantly; 
 "but I'm sick o' the thought o' men! Now, 
 for Lord's sake! Emma, yo' let me be. I've 
 coome to yo' for a rest, an' none for advice, 
 an' I'm goin' to bother about nowt." 
 
 Nevertheless, when Whittingham's first 
 76
 
 COURTSHIP OF MRS WHITECROFT 
 
 letter arrived, her eyes sparkled, and she 
 declined to open it until she was in the 
 solitude of her chamber. 
 
 "Dear Madam," he had written, "You told 
 me to let you know all as went on, so I 
 take up the pen to write. Collier's young 
 bullocks got into the oats yestereven, and 
 ate till they swelled like fuzz-balls, and there 
 was talk of having them tapped. Told Collier 
 as he will have to pay for the damage they've 
 done, and it must be valued. A hen as sat 
 astray came back to the fowl-yard with a 
 brood of thirteen " 
 
 "Dear, dear!" exclaimed the widow, "I 
 did think as he'ld write a more comforting 
 letter!" Then she continued to read. 
 "Cochins they are, and strong on their legs. 
 Mr Eades and Mr Pursglove and young Mr 
 Morley came up yesterday (Sunday) and 
 were sadly bedone to find you gone away. 
 They would have no naysay, but sat in the 
 parlour drinking ale I gave them some as 
 is being saved for vinegar for three full 
 hours. Very branglesome they were." 
 
 The widow chuckled. " Yo' did right, James, 
 lad ; I hope it gave 'em stomach-yek ! " she 
 muttered. 
 
 "And going down the lane, Mr Eades and 
 Mr Pursglove had some words, and came to 
 blows, whilst Mr Morley cleared out of the 
 road. I had to run and part them they'd 
 been betting as to which'ld get you." 
 
 77
 
 COURTSHIP OF MRS WHITECROFT 
 
 She pursed her lips and nodded curiously. 
 " Happen nayther ! " she said. 
 
 "They turned on me; but I showed them 
 something. It is a dull house without you; 
 there's not one of your folk but longs for 
 you back again. When you are away 
 everything seems very different. That you 
 may soon and safely return is the true 
 wish of your respectful servant, 
 
 JAMES WHITTINGHAM." 
 
 When she had perused it thrice, she folded 
 the sheet into a small square, and hid it in 
 her bodice, just above her heart. That 
 night she slept with it beneath her pillow, 
 and waking at daybreak read it carefully 
 again. Her sister, entering the chamber as 
 she prepared to go downstairs for breakfast, 
 found her flushed and smiling. 
 
 "Yo've been ha'in' pleasant dreams, I 
 reckon," she said. "Lord! yo' look as fresh 
 as a young maid!" 
 
 The next letter, which came that same 
 morning, pleased the widow still more, and 
 her spirits rose so high that she frolicked 
 with her nephews and nieces as boisterously 
 as if she were of their own age. On the 
 Saturday, however, she wore a wry face, 
 and declared that the post had brought 
 tiresome news, and that she must return to 
 Moorend at once. 
 
 "It seems to me as if everything weere 
 78
 
 COURTSHIP OF MRS WHITECROFT 
 
 goin' wrong a-whoame," she said. "I'm loth 
 to go ; but a house is nowt wi'out a missus 
 always on the spot." 
 
 Her sister laughed meaningly. "Ay," she 
 said, "yo' weere always one to bother, yo' 
 weere. I can see thro' yo', Betty, an' I know 
 theere's mischief i' yor mind. Out wi' it 
 yo' can surely tell me all theere is to tell?" 
 
 "Theere's nowt at all," said the widow, 
 composedly. " How yo' do but worry me ! 
 Let me be, prythee theere's all my packin' 
 to be done, an' a telegraph to be sent to 
 Moorend, so as the trap'll meet me." 
 
 Later in the day, as she passed through 
 Buxton, she called at a tobacconist's and 
 purchased a handsome meerschaum pipe, 
 and when Jim was driving her up Tideswell 
 Dale, she drew it from her hand-bag. 
 
 "Tis a little present as I got for yo'," she 
 said. "I canna bear to see yo' suckin' at 
 them mucky clays. An' when yo' smoake it, 
 think o' the giver." 
 
 " Why," exclaimed Jim, " I'm always thinkin' 
 o' yo', ma'am! . . . Yo' see, bein' a servant 
 o' yors, 'tis my duty to look after yor 
 interests." 
 
 "Ay, I know that, in course," she said 
 hastily, "an' none can say as yo' ha'na done 
 yor duty by the land since Mester Whitecrof t 
 deed. He always trusted yo', he did, an' like- 
 wise I shall. But yo' know, lad, soomeday 
 yo'll be gettin' wedded an' leavin' Moorend." 
 
 79
 
 COURTSHIP OF MRS WHITECROFT 
 
 "I'll ne'er do that till I'm turned away, 
 ma'am," he interrupted, "an' that'll be when 
 yo' make up yor mind to one o' them as is 
 coortin' yo'." 
 
 "An' that'll be ne'er!" she said, "so dunna 
 speak o't again. Now, Jim, lad, ha' yo' a 
 ooman i' yor mind yo' can tell me I always 
 like to hear such things ? " 
 
 " Ay, I've gotten one," he replied sheepishly ; 
 "but I canna tell onybody. Yo'll excoose me, 
 ma'am, but I hate to talk about my feelin's. 
 Tis one as I Ve been fond o' for mony a long 
 year." 
 
 "But yo' mun out wi' it," she said, in an 
 earnest voice. " 'Tis on wise to loove i' secret. 
 Theere's nowt worse it turns a lad's brain. 
 My mother hoo used always to say so." 
 
 Whittingham shook his head, and knowing 
 him to be of an obstinate cast, she ceased to 
 pursue the subject, and remained silent until 
 they reached home. When she went upstairs 
 to doff her travelling things, she stood a while 
 before her mirror, gazing with comfortable 
 satisfaction on the pretty reflection. 
 
 "Drat it!" she said, as she turned away. 
 "He's a chap as'll ne'er dare to put the ques- 
 tion, an' I should just sink into th' ground if 
 I did it my sen! Yet that's whatten 'twill 
 coome to if he doesna speak. I doubt if I 
 could choose better ; Samuel weere that fond 
 o' him always. Held be real pleased if 
 'tweere to coome about that I do know." 
 
 80
 
 COURTSHIP OF MRS WHITECROFT 
 
 On the following morning, before she 
 dressed for church, she went down to the 
 shippon, where Jim was milking. She stood 
 for some minutes watching his shapely back 
 as he swayed to the movements of a roan cow. 
 He was whistling again this time he had 
 chosen a popular hymn. 
 
 "Well, lad," she said at last, startling him 
 so that he nearly overturned the pail. " Ha' 
 yo' settled to tell me about the wench?'' 
 
 " Nay," he replied, shortly. " I wunna tell 
 yo', an', whatten's more, I shanna tell her." 
 
 Mrs Whitecroft retired in high dudgeon. 
 " 'Tis onnatural ! " she murmured. " I canna 
 bide the very idea o't." 
 
 But that afternoon, after tea, as he sat on 
 the bench in the stackyard, sunning himself, 
 and smoking twist in his meerschaum, the 
 widow watched him intently from behind the 
 curtains of the parlour window, until she saw 
 the pipe laid carefully aside, and the lad fall 
 asleep, resting his head against the wall. And 
 then, as there was nobody in sight she tripped 
 out, taking in her right hand a withered 
 sycamore bough, and kissed him on the 
 moustache. 
 
 To her great consternation, his eyes opened 
 before her face had withdrawn, and he sprang 
 to his feet and caught her hands in his own. 
 " Yo' dunna mean " 
 
 " 'Tweere a wasp ! she stammered. 
 
 " A wasp as leaves a sweet sting," he said. 
 F 81
 
 COURTSHIP OF MRS WHITECROFT 
 
 The widow's face, half-averted, had taken a 
 very charming colour. " Lord ! " she cried, 
 "theere be my three sweety earts coomin' up 
 the lane, an' I've gotten to tell 'em as they 
 needna coome ony more!" 
 
 82
 
 OWD MUSIC 
 
 AT the western end of Milton Dale, nigh to 
 where the brook emerges from a low-pitched 
 cavern, lies a platform of rough sward, 
 sheltered from all winds save the south by 
 a rough three-sided natural screen of grey 
 limestone. The herbage here, from spring 
 until late autumn, is somewhat marred with 
 bluish-black discs, showing where the travel- 
 ling folk have burned their outdoor fires; 
 here and there lie small heaps of rusty tin 
 shavings, or stubs of heather too short to 
 be used for brooms. The broken wall that 
 separates this resting-place from the road is 
 more often than not seen covered with the 
 family washing of a tinker, or a pot-salesman, 
 or a shooting-gallery proprietor. Occasion- 
 ally the neck of the Dale is odorous with the 
 frying of onions, or the baking of saleable 
 gingerbread in antiquated charcoal ovens. 
 
 Miss Mary Ansell, the wicker-weaver, had 
 rested here briefly with her vans so many 
 times that she believed herself possessed of a 
 proprietary right. She journeyed twice a 
 year through the Peak country, selling finely 
 
 83
 
 OWD MUSIC 
 
 wrought baskets and hampers and easy- 
 chairs. Down in Staffordshire she owned 
 five acres of willow -marsh. The "round" 
 was inherited from her father she could 
 relate how her grandfather travelled through 
 Milton Dale with wicker-laden packhorses in 
 the days when nought but a bridle-track ran 
 from end to end. 
 
 It was not to be wondered at that when, 
 early in the summer, her forehorse stopped 
 at the entrance gap, the old woman consider- 
 ably resented the presence of a maker of 
 children's toys, whose gaily-painted van had 
 been drawn to precisely the same position 
 she had always preferred. The owner, a 
 stranger to her, was sitting on the grass 
 between the shafts, carefully whittling the 
 leg of a wooden horse, which when completed, 
 was to bear a marked resemblance to a tiny 
 barrel supported by four chips. He was old 
 and lean and round-shouldered, with a gentle, 
 clean-shaven face and crisp, silver hair. 
 
 He touched his right temple in token of 
 salutation to the new-comer ; but she was too 
 disturbed to acknowledge his courtesy save 
 with an angry frown. He whistled softly and 
 resumed his work; but seeing that she stood 
 stock-still at the wall, whilst her horses began 
 to graze on the further side of the road, he 
 rose and went towards her, carrying the 
 uncouth plaything under his arm. 
 
 "Is there owt I can do for yo', missus?" 
 84
 
 OWD MUSIC 
 
 he said. "I reckon this spot is open to 
 all?" 
 
 Miss Ansell's unreasonable vexation sub- 
 sided when she saw that he was desirous 
 of pleasing. "More years nor I can count," 
 she replied, " ha' I been i' the way o' puttin' 
 my house-van where yo've got yor'n. Yo' 
 see, I've e'er chosen the time o' the year when 
 nobody else weere like to be here, an' it has 
 none happed afore as another'd gotten my 
 place. I've failed into fixed ways, an' 'tis 
 very tiresome to change. I'ld take it as a 
 favour if yo' could let me ha' my own 
 corner." 
 
 The old man went to the door of his van 
 and peeped in, but came back with a per- 
 plexed countenance. " I'm af eard as I canna, 
 just now," he said. " If yo'll let me explain " 
 
 She tugged jerkily at the bridle of the 
 nearest horse, until it had drawn the living- 
 van just inside the gap. Since he would not 
 oblige, she meant to keep as far distant as 
 was possible. Then she brought in the van 
 that held her stock-in-trade, and unharnessing 
 both horses, hobbled them to feed beside the 
 brook, where the grass grew most generously. 
 
 The toy-maker watched her very ruefully; 
 more than once he opened his mouth to speak; 
 but her aspect was so forbidding that he 
 shook his head in despair. Miss Ansell finally 
 climbed the steps of her house-van, shut the 
 door, and lighting her spirit-lamp, prepared 
 
 85
 
 OWD MUSIC 
 
 tea. Then she sat in a spring-bottomed chair, 
 especially designed for her own comfort, and 
 unfolding a newspaper of the preceding day, 
 she began to read and refresh herself after 
 the tiring afternoon's journey. She was a 
 great politician, a woman of strong natural 
 loves and hatreds, and she cooed pleasantly, 
 or groaned in derision, over certain speeches. 
 
 " When I weere young," she said, at last, 
 "Parliament gen'lemen weere Parliament 
 gen'lemen good or bad. But Lord save me ! 
 whatten some o' 'em be now is more nor I 
 can say ! " 
 
 Meanwhile the toy-maker was walking 
 slowly up towards Milton. A slender, dark 
 lad, dressed in a loose Norfolk jacket and 
 knickerbockers, leaned heavily on his arm. 
 His face was that of a student ; the features 
 sharply cut, the forehead abnormally large, 
 the eyes dark and lustrous, and the mouth 
 curiously sensitive. A delicate flush warmed 
 his cheeks ; his feet were uncertain in their 
 movement. It was impossible not to see 
 that he was convalescent after some severe 
 illness. 
 
 "Ay," said the old man; "but I weerena 
 goin' to rouse yo' out o' such a rare sleep. I've 
 offended her, Tom, an' happen I'm a bit sorry ; 
 for hoo's gotten a kindly look, though her 
 temper's hot as fire. Mind yo,' I amna against 
 oomen wi' tempers yor gran'mother had as 
 powerful a one as could be found, an' yet I'm
 
 OWD MUSIC 
 
 ready to sweer her the best creatur' God e'er 
 made." 
 
 The lad laughed brightly. " Temper's a 
 virtue, after all," he said. "My best masters 
 are the worst-tempered. A stagnant pool is 
 no use in the world save for the breeding of 
 frogs and newts. No, my dear grandfather, 
 you should have wakened me 'twould have 
 done me no harm, for you know that I'm the 
 laziest chap who ever lived." 
 
 " Ay, yo' be so," cried the gaffer. " A reg'lar 
 idle ne'er-do-well!" He squeezed his grand- 
 son's arm fondly. " I'ld knock ony man down 
 who said such a thing," he added, " tho' I call 
 mysen a loover o' peace. 'Tweere nowt but 
 ower-study at yor music as laid yo' up. . . . 
 An' now yo've walked far enew. Lord ! Lord ! 
 how my yeart sings now yor strength's a- 
 coomin' back ! " 
 
 They strolled along so slowly that when 
 they reached their van the Dale was brilliant 
 with the risen full moon. Miss Ansell had 
 come out for a breath of fresh air ; she sat 
 on a quaint camp-stool near the brook, her 
 fingers dexterously plaiting withes. The lad 
 doffed his hat as he passed. 
 
 " I'm very sorry," he said, " but I was asleep 
 when you came, and as I've been ill, my grand- 
 father did not care to waken me. But to- 
 morrow morning well move our van." 
 
 She did not look up ; but shook her head 
 coldly and muttered something incoherent; 
 
 87
 
 OWD MUSIC 
 
 then they entered their home and ate supper. 
 The windows were opened ; but there was not 
 sufficient breeze to flutter the muslin curtains. 
 As the old man filled his pipe, the lad pressed 
 the spring of a long black box, and lifted out 
 an ancient, highly-polished violin. 
 
 " Perhaps the old lady will object," he said, 
 mischievously feigning to replace it. "The 
 sound may be distasteful to her." 
 
 " Then, domn it ! " cried the gaffer, " hoo'll 
 be th' first i' the world as e'er did owt but 
 loove yor playin'!" 
 
 Tom slowly tuned the instrument; looking 
 from the right-hand window his grandfather 
 saw Mary Ansell evince considerable uneasi- 
 ness at the strange sounds. As the lad began 
 to play " Greensleeves," she bundled her canes 
 together and rose, but suddenly plumped back 
 on her stool, so carelessly that one of the 
 straps almost broke asunder. . . . Soon her 
 cloth-shod feet were beating time on the sun- 
 burned grass. 
 
 He ceased abruptly, then struck into one of 
 Gliick's minuets. The dame was quite mysti- 
 fied; only occasionally could she catch the 
 ghostly melody. Once more she thought of 
 seeking the seclusion of her own van. The 
 toy-maker laid a hand on his grandson's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Nay, no moore o' the things yo' play at 
 the College," he pleaded ; " owd daunce-toones 
 to-night the things as th' owd missus an' I
 
 OWD MUSIC 
 
 can onderstand wi'out trouble them as we 
 knowed when we weere young as yo'. Canst 
 rec'lect ' Bunch o' Blue Ribbons ' ? " 
 
 Tom nodded; in another minute the most 
 rollicking of melodies leaped out to where 
 Mary rested. Faster and sprightlier it grew 
 with every note; until she found the sitting 
 position intolerable, and rose once more, re- 
 solutely determined to resist the foolish fas- 
 cination that was overcoming her. Then the 
 tune changed to "Roger de Coverley," and 
 her thoughts went back to the days of her 
 youth, when she had danced with gay lads on 
 many a polished threshing-floor. She sighed 
 heavily, brushed the back of her hand over 
 her eyes, and made her way towards the 
 door. But as she paused midway, "Roger 
 de Coverley" glided whimsically into the 
 " Varsoviana," and a clear old voice sang well- 
 known words : 
 
 " Oh, Mary, my dear, why don't yo' coome here? 
 Yo' think I don't loove yo' what a foolish idear ! " 
 
 The lover who died had teased her with the 
 selfsame song. She tossed her head, and 
 moved further ; as she lifted her right foot to 
 the first step, the " Varsoviana " gave place 
 to the "Elfin Waltz." . . . She glanced fur- 
 tively at the window of the toymaker's van ; 
 but seeing nobody there, began, in spite of a 
 goodly share of common-sense, to whirl round 
 and round. And as she span for the third
 
 OWD MUSIC 
 
 time, she felt an arm encircle her waist, and 
 fingers interlock with hers, and saw a merry 
 old face smiling above her shoulder. 
 
 "Tis my grandson's doin','' said the toy- 
 maker, disconnectedly. " His mesters call him 
 a genius ; I do know that once he sets his 
 mind on't, he can make fowk do just whatten 
 he pleases. An' 't seems to me as he's chosen 
 for us to dance to-night. I couldna bear to 
 cross him, e'en if I wished, for he's been ill, 
 an' 'tis the first time he's played for long 
 enew. . . . But I scarce thought he'ld move 
 yo' i' this fashion!' 
 
 She blinked, but said nothing, and they 
 danced together the queer old dip-waltz of 
 their youth, fluttering over the moonlit grass, 
 like two great fighting moths. Round and 
 round and round again, faster and faster, 
 giddier and giddier, until the old man stumbled 
 and would have fallen had she not caught 
 him by the coat tails. 
 
 "Yo've gotten a light foot," he stammered, 
 as he wheeled to face her. "By Jowks! I 
 thought 'tweere a wench o' eighteen I held 
 i' my arms I thought as I weere a-jiggin' 
 hobble-de-hoy ! " 
 
 "Well," said Mary Ansell, wistfully; "if 
 onybody'd said I should be such a fool, I'ld 
 ha' gi'en 'em the lee!" 
 
 The music had ceased, and the young 
 musician, gleefully smiling, descended from 
 the van. 
 
 90
 
 OWD MUSIC 
 
 Mary lifted her hands in amazement. 
 " Why ! " she cried, " he's but a young lad ! 
 Nay, my deary, I'ld like to thank yo' is theere 
 owt I can do for the pleasure yo've treated 
 me wi' ? " . . . He shook his head with a pretty 
 pride. "Then I mun coome a-beggin'," she 
 added. " Wilt let an owd ooman shake hands, 
 so as hoo may remember, i' time to coome, as 
 hoo's greeted a wonderful musicianer ? " 
 
 Tom's laugh ended in something not unlike 
 a sob; as their hands met he bent towards 
 her and kissed her wrinkled cheek. 
 
 91
 
 THE WAITRESS AT "THE 
 CASTLE" 
 
 THE room at the "Castle Inn," devoted to 
 functions of importance, lies to the left of 
 the sanded lobby, from whose rough oaken 
 ceiling-beams hang weird shrouded hams and 
 gammons. The dining-parlour, as it is still 
 called, is a great square place, lighted with 
 a long window of heavy lattice. A century 
 ago, the walls were covered with a curious 
 paper, whose pattern displays immense panels 
 of malachite framed with festoons of ruddy 
 ribbon. This was glazed with a clear varnish, 
 to-day still perfect enough even where the 
 plaster background is uneven to cast strange 
 reflections of the dancing firelight. 
 
 On the third Monday of the new year, good 
 Mrs Bartle, the hostess, always prepared with 
 state and assiduity a magnificent dinner for 
 the Peakland tenantry of his Grace the Duke 
 of Derbyshire. A huge sirloin (sent from the 
 home-farm) was roasted in the cradle-spit; 
 two haunches of venison were baked in coffins 
 of heavy paste. As much beer as each farmer 
 
 92
 
 THE WAITRESS AT THE CASTLE 
 
 could drink, was served in pewter tankards, 
 and the second course consisted of a massive 
 plum-pudding flanked with dishes of mince 
 pies, strongly flavoured with brandy. 
 
 On the last occasion the head waitress, 'a 
 spinster hired for the evening, and gaily 
 dressed and bedizened so that she might 
 present a faint resemblance to one in the 
 early prime of life, aroused the interest of 
 all the more thoughtful of the duke's tenants. 
 Mrs Bartle explained to her intimates that 
 she had been compelled to employ an outsider 
 her own favourite handmaid having left to 
 attend an ailing brother in the Woodlands. 
 
 Miss Fletcher, for that was the stranger's 
 name, was dark-complexioned, with crisp black 
 hair and vividly-coloured cheeks ; her eye- 
 brows were thickly pencilled ; her long lashes 
 rose from ebony ovals. She had white, spark- 
 ling teeth (too uniform to be natural), and 
 lips of a hue that outvied the cherry. All the 
 time that she served her manner was ex- 
 ceedingly genial and homely she wore a 
 smile that never waned, and her voice was 
 almost piteous in its deprecation to all to eat 
 their fill. 
 
 Mr Bower-Barnby, the duke's steward, after 
 the dinner made inquiries concerning the odd 
 creature's identity, and Mrs Bartle began to 
 regret that she had ventured to exhibit such 
 a curiosity. 
 
 " My good lady," said the gentleman, wrought 
 93
 
 THE WAITRESS AT THE CASTLE 
 
 to a kindly humour by her excellent whisky 
 and cigars ; "I consider that you are acting 
 very indiscreetly very indiscreetly indeed, in 
 permitting such a ahem! person to stay in 
 your house. The poor creature has an air 
 distinctly distinctly disreputable ! " 
 
 " Lord ! Lord ! " cried Mrs Bartle, uplifting 
 her palms, "if yo' weere to seek fro' end to 
 end o' the Peak country, yo' wouldna find 
 onyone wi' a better character nor poor Jane. 
 Ne'er a breath has e'er blowed upon her! I 
 be surprised at yo', Mester Bower-Barnby, that 
 I be ! " 
 
 Old Charles Bradwell, a bachelor farmer 
 with the best stock in the valley, was vastly 
 charmed by the lady's genial attentions. 
 Being somewhat short-sighted, he was un- 
 aware that her physical charms were palpably 
 aided by artifice ; and more than once his 
 knife stopped midway on its passage betwixt 
 platter and lips, whilst he gazed upon the 
 flitting figure with the beaming face. 
 
 "Hoo's pratty pratty as flowers i' May," he 
 murmured. " By Jowks ! hoo's gotten a skin 
 like a rose-leaf ! An' her voice well, I ne'er 
 did hear such a voice i' ony ooman afore." 
 
 He was notoriously shy; indeed, his neigh- 
 bours were wont to declare that he would 
 rather walk a mile than meet a woman ; yet, 
 strange to relate, to-night the trammels of 
 his bashfulness were loosened, and he found 
 himself wondering curiously whence she came, 
 
 94
 
 THE WAITRESS AT THE CASTLE 
 
 and whether or not she had a settled lover. 
 Later, when prosy, incoherent speeches were 
 being made, and the dining-parlour was full 
 of tobacco smoke, he stole away from the 
 table and hastened to the great kitchen, where 
 he found the stranger drinking tea by the 
 fire. An unoccupied chair stood near ; he 
 drew it quite close to her side. 
 
 " Tell yo' whatten, miss," he said, " it has 
 been a pleasure to me to watch yo' a-doin' 
 for us I dunna rec'lect i' all my life seeing 
 a young lady so handy. . . . Yo'll pardon me 
 for speaking so frank?" 
 
 She nodded, still smiling. " No offence," she 
 said. " When the beer's in, the wit's out." 
 
 " Nay," he protested. " I've had no more nor 
 a quart since I came in." 
 
 Miss Fletcher saw with some compunction 
 that he had flushed painfully. " I'm none 
 used to flatt'ry," she said, "nat'rally it takes 
 me a little aback." 
 
 Charles took heart-of -grace ; he laid a hand 
 on her sleeve and looked into her eyes. " Yo' 
 needna tell me as a wench as bonny as yor- 
 sen hasna oft been told things by men-fowk. 
 If yo' did, miss, I shouldna b'lieve yo', so 
 theere ! ' 
 
 She laughed in a strained fashion. " Hap- 
 pen I have, happen none," she said. 
 
 " Be yo' a native o' these parts ? " he in- 
 quired. " I dunna think I've e'er seen yo' afore." 
 
 " My whoame's t'other side o' Bakewell, 
 95
 
 THE WAITRESS AT THE CASTLE 
 
 Monyash way," she said. " I live theere wi' 
 my mother. An' if yo' havena seen me, why, 
 I've oft enew seen yo' at the market. . . . Now 
 yo' mun excuse me I'm off to help wi' the 
 dish-washin'." 
 
 But the old man did not loosen his grasp 
 of her sleeve. " Wou'st mind tellin' me the 
 name o' yor whoame," he said earnestly ; 
 " so as sometimes I might gie yo' a call ? " 
 
 " Bless us ! " she cried. " Whatten for should 
 yo' coome to see such poor fowk as mother 
 an' me ? 'Tis true the spot's our own theere's 
 bu' twenty acres but 'tis the very worst 
 land i' the coontry. Sparrowbite Close is 
 th' name." 
 
 "I'm glad yo've told me," said Bradwell, 
 gravely. " Yo' may be sure as I'll take ad- 
 vantage o' yor kind invitation." 
 
 " Lawful case ! " she exclaimed, jerking her- 
 self away, "I didna know as yo' weere in- 
 vited. Well, mother'll be pleased to see yo'." 
 
 " 'Cause hoo's about my age ? " he demanded, 
 waggishly. 
 
 "I reckon hoo's a bit owder," she replied. 
 "Now, I mun go, an' I canna forbear sayin' 
 as yor proper place is i' the dinner-parlour." 
 
 Late that night as she sat alone with Mrs 
 Bartle by the tap-room fire, the hostess shook 
 her head sadly and wiped her eyes with her 
 handkerchief. 
 
 " Yo'll ne'er do for waitress- work, Jane," she 
 said, in a feeble voice. " I've heerd shockin' 
 
 96
 
 THE WAITRESS AT THE CASTLE 
 
 things said about yo' to-night. First, Mester 
 Bower - Barnby, he hinted as yo' weere no 
 better nor yo' should be. . . . I'm. sorry 
 as I decked yo' out i' that fashion I mun 
 ha' overdone it; but God knows as I meant 
 well." 
 
 Miss Fletcher laughed cheerily. " It has 
 been a treat, onyhow," she said. "I'm none 
 sure as I blame fowk. Whene'er I caught 
 sight o' mysen i' the glass, I felt like runnin' 
 off an' dippin' my yead i' a bucket o' wayter ! 
 Nay, Hannah bad as money is wanted at 
 Sparrowbite, I'm afeard as I canna addle it 
 wi' waitress-work." 
 
 " Tisna as yo' dunna do the job to per- 
 fection," rejoined the hostess; "for yo're as 
 'tentive an' as capable as onyone could be." 
 
 " But 'tis 'cause I look such a Jezebel ! " cried 
 Miss Fletcher. " Eh dear, eh dear, 'tis a pity 
 as we e'er mun grow owd. Men canna stand 
 owd oomen a-tendin' o' 'em an' when I've 
 gotten mysen up i' this guise, a'most as if I 
 weere goin' a-mummin'." 
 
 "Well, yo've gone too far," said the other. 
 " Theere's no gainsayin' as yo' did an' do look 
 pratty but 'tis a wicked sort o' prattiness. 
 Heigho, lass, I'm worn out let's go bedward." 
 
 Miss Fletcher slept very badly ; more than 
 once she wakened in tears, although she was 
 as brave a creature as could be found in a 
 twenty-mile march. She had hoped against 
 hope that she might get regular employ- 
 G 97
 
 THE WAITRESS AT THE CASTLE 
 
 ment as a waitress, so that, with a year or 
 two's wages she might save enough to pay 
 off a little mortgage which her father had 
 raised on Sparrowbite Close twenty years ago. 
 There was none left of the family now save 
 her mother and herself, and disease had just 
 carried off two of the cows. . . . Still, in spite 
 of her grief, she felt a not disagreeable excite- 
 ment as she thought of the interest her odd 
 appearance had aroused. 
 
 "Mester Bradwell touched me close," she 
 murmured. "He's a goodly man, an' onyone 
 as sees him can tell as he's kind an' clean- 
 lived. I could a'most wish as I weere young 
 an' gaudy so as he could fancy me i' earnest 
 'stead o' bein' forty-five, an' wi' a face lined 
 wi' care. An' Hannah would ha' me paint 
 an' blacken my hair. Tis right enew, I 
 know, for men to want us young when we're 
 helpin' 'em to vittles . . . but I'll ne'er coome 
 out i' false colours again so long as I live. 
 An' if Mester Bradwell does turn up, why, 
 he'll see me just as I be. But I may be sure 
 as he'll ne'er coome, none he ! " 
 
 Nevertheless, one evening during the follow- 
 ing week, when she was sitting with her 
 mother discussing ways and means, a 
 timorous knock sounded on the door, and 
 poor Jane's heart beat very painfully. 
 
 " I'm sure 'tis Mester Bradwell, mother,' 
 she said. "I feel it just as if someone had 
 told me. I'm a-goin' to hide mysen." 
 
 98
 
 THE WAITRESS AT THE CASTLE 
 
 She disappeared ; the old woman rose her- 
 self and lifted the latch. A light rain 
 was falling ; the farmer's rough overcoat 
 glistened with the drops. He shook her 
 hand nervously. 
 
 " Bein' i' this part o' the world," he said, " I 
 thought I'ld like to call an' see Miss Fletcher. 
 I heerd fro' Missus Bartle at ' The Castle ' 
 as hoo weere a-whoame wi' yo'." 
 
 The mother nodded politely. "Yo're very 
 welcoome," she replied. "Now, prithee, sit 
 yo' down. Jane ran off when hoo heerd yor 
 knock into the kitchen, I fancy; the wench 
 is a bit shamed o' seein' yo'." 
 
 " Shamed ? " he stammered. 
 
 "Ay," said Mrs Fletcher. "Yo' see, mester, 
 'tweerena her 'tweerena my dowter as hoo 
 is i' real life. Hoo'd been coloured an' fuzzed 
 up for the night, mainly 'cause hoo thought 
 hoo could get a bit o' money by waitin', 
 an' hoo's always frettin' about me ha'in' to 
 cheese-pare." 
 
 The kitchen door opened, and the real Jane 
 came out. This time there was a natural flush 
 in her thin cheeks, and her eyes were very soft 
 with tears. 
 
 "Dunna bother Mester Brad well wi' our 
 worries, Mother," she said, gently. " I'm 
 glad to see yo', sir; for I've been very on- 
 comfortable e'er since that night, an' I've 
 wanted to explain to yo' as I'm nayther 
 young nor pratty. Yo' weere good enew to 
 
 99
 
 THE WAITRESS AT THE CASTLE 
 
 say yo' admired me, an' I've felt right-down 
 bad-principled e'er since." 
 
 The bachelor drew his spectacles from a 
 waistcoat -pocket, and with trembling fingers 
 placed them above his eyes. 
 
 "An' I've been very oneasy," he said, hesi- 
 tatingly; "for yo' seemed so much younger 
 nor me. But yor voice has been dingin' i 
 my ears by night an' by day." 
 
 He took her hand and led her into the halo 
 of candlelight. "By Jowks!" he said, "yo're 
 fifty times more to my fancy nor yo' weere 
 then." 
 
 100
 
 NO IMAGINATION 
 
 AT Nether Braddon, a tiny hamlet on Milton 
 Edge, two miles distant from the village, the 
 Wakes is celebrated with a greater enthusiasm 
 than elsewhere in the Peak country. For one 
 week in late autumn, every house is packed 
 with friends and kinsfolk some from towns 
 hundreds of miles away and at night merry 
 dancers shake the ancient floor of the upper 
 storey of the big barn belonging to the little 
 inn, which bears above its only doorway the 
 sign of " The Marquis of Granby." 
 
 This " dauncin' chamber," a place originally 
 intended for the storage of fodder, is both 
 quaint and inconvenient. To reach it one 
 must pass through the shippon, where Frank 
 Barker the host's meagre cows are stalled ; 
 then climb a creaking ladder with broad 
 rungs, and pass through a trap-door in the 
 low ceiling. A lad is always stationed here to 
 give all who come a well-meaning hoist, and 
 to prevent the dancers from falling down. 
 This year it fell about that Bill Mather, a 
 fellow of weak intellect, occupied the post. 
 He is twenty-five years old, undersized, with 
 101
 
 NO IMAGINATION 
 
 a long chestnut beard fancifully plaited in 
 three tails. In matters of attire he displays 
 the spirit of a coxcomb ; his favourite costume 
 consists of a dark-blue corduroy coat and 
 waistcoat (made long ago for his father, who 
 had been gamekeeper in Squire Furness's em- 
 ploy), and a worn pair of grey tweed knicker- 
 bockers, presented by the last curate, shortly 
 before his elopement with Cowper the carrier's 
 pretty wife. His stockings are of faded green 
 wool, very carefully darned for Bill is handy 
 with the needle and his evening shoes, or 
 rather slippers, are made of woven listing, 
 scarlet, white and blue. 
 
 When old Mrs Partridge heard that he was 
 to play doorkeeper during the busy week, she 
 bethought herself of a curious plan by which 
 she might gain peace for her latter end. She 
 had settled seven daughters in comfortable 
 wedlock, and she regarded it as an offence 
 against Heaven that Maria, her youngest-born, 
 showed no disposition to clinch matters with 
 the timorous bachelor who had sat with her 
 and walked out with her for upwards of ten 
 years. 
 
 Maria had inherited little of either the old 
 woman's vivacity or wit. She was a prim 
 creature, on the verge of thirty, pale and 
 shrewish of feature ; but quiet and placable as 
 a cade-lamb. In spite of her mother's depre- 
 cations it being possible for her husband to 
 take up his abode at Brosterfields Farm, and 
 102
 
 NO IMAGINATION 
 
 occupy himself upon the land she could not 
 make up her mind to practise any arts that 
 might bring Thomas Turner to the point. 
 
 " If I weere to do as yo' bid me, Mother," she 
 would say, "I'ld ne'er lift up my yead again. 
 Tom an' me mun go on as we are doin' 
 theere's no knowin' whatten a day'll bring 
 forth." 
 
 "There isna," was the old woman's reply; 
 "but I will say as yo're gettin' grizzleder an' 
 grizzleder every week, an' I can a'most see yor 
 wrunkles a-creepin'! Take my word on't as 
 Tom'll wake up soome morn wi' his fancy set 
 on a younger wench, an' then he'll gi'e yo' the 
 lurch. I know men-fowk, I do. He's one o' 
 the meek sort butter wunna melt i' his 
 mouth an' 'tis the meek as always plays the 
 drattiest tricks ! " 
 
 Then poor Maria would lift her apron and 
 wipe away some foolish tears, and Mrs Part- 
 ridge, who was a bed-lier with rheumatism, 
 would cluck like an angry hen. 
 
 " 'Tisna as I want to get rid o' yo," she said ; 
 "for yo'll ha' to go on tendin' me just the 
 same ; but I reckon it ondecent none ha'in' a 
 man i' the house ! Tom could set his land easy 
 enew, an' mine'ld be all the better for him 
 workin' on't. Eh dear, it makes my yeart 
 bleed when I see the shirts he weers ne'er a 
 button on 'em all tied wi' bits o' string. ... I 
 soometimes do b'lieve as yo' havena a ooman's 
 f eelins at all ! " 
 
 103
 
 NO IMAGINATION 
 
 But as neither entreaties nor threats moved 
 Maria in her determination, the dame resolved 
 to take the matter entirely in her own hands. 
 So on the market day before the Wakes, when 
 Maria had gone to town with her butter and 
 eggs, she sent the farm lad up to the cottage 
 on the moor-edge where Mrs Mather lived, 
 with word for Bill to come down during the 
 afternoon and spell out a chapter of " Father- 
 less Fanny " a romance to which she had been 
 devoted ever since her childhood. Before he 
 arrived, she crept from her bed, and hobbled 
 painfully to an oaken desk, whence she took a 
 bag of the huge mottled sweetmeats which are 
 known in that country as " bull's eyes." 
 
 Not much reading, however, was done; the 
 serving-woman in the kitchen listened in vain 
 for the buzzing drone of Bill's voice. For the 
 hour he stayed there, she heard her mistress 
 talking very impressively, and the man re- 
 sponding with high-pitched giggles. She 
 caught their parting words as Bill opened 
 the door of the parlour where the invalid lay. 
 
 "Now, I'll trust yo', lad, to keep it quiet; 
 an', mind yo', yo'll get as mony more as'll 
 last yo' for a month . . . strong uns, too. . . ." 
 
 "No imagination, no imagination," Bill 
 cackled proudly. " No imagination ! " 
 
 As he left the house, she noted that his 
 cheeks were greatly swollen, and that his 
 breath was laden with the aroma of pepper- 
 mint. When she took in Mrs Partridge's 
 104
 
 NO IMAGINATION 
 
 tea, the old woman was still shaking with 
 laughter. 
 
 "Well!" she cried, "yon poor lad's gotten 
 more sense nor soome o' us think. Theere's 
 a good many parsons as arena ony wiser. 
 Now, Libby happen happen yo'd best none 
 mention to my dowter as he's been to-day. 
 None as it matters owt theere's no partic'lar 
 reason." 
 
 Wednesday night is the most popular time 
 of the Wakes. It is regarded as a point of 
 honour for every hale person who lives on 
 Milton Edge to be present for "the good o' 
 th' house." This year Maria was slightly 
 averse from going; she had already been 
 present half -a- score times with Tom for 
 escort; but as the time drew nigh, the wise 
 mother sternly overruled her objections. 
 
 " Yo've gotten to be theere for the credit o' 
 our fam'ly," she said, "an' if yo' say ony more, 
 I'll just get out o' bed, an' crawl to th' ' Markis 
 o' Gran by ' as well as I can. Tom'll be here i' 
 an hour, an' I make no doubt as he'll gi'e me 
 his arm." 
 
 Maria made no reply; but went to her 
 chamber and donned her snuff-coloured Sun- 
 day gown, and her black bonnet with the 
 white roses, so that when the swain reached 
 the house she was quite ready to start. They 
 walked leisurely up the rough road, as far 
 apart as possible according to their wont; 
 when they reached the hill-top, she fell behind 
 105
 
 NO IMAGINATION 
 
 and gazed curiously at her lover's back. He 
 was a year younger than she; yet she noted 
 that his shoulders were bowed, and that a 
 bald spot showed beyond the rim of his rusty 
 felt hat. 
 
 " Dear Lord ! " she exclaimed, with a greater 
 irritation than she had ever displayed in his 
 presence. " Dear Lord ! yo're beginning to 
 look like a gran'f eyther ! " 
 
 He turned slowly, a mild wonder in his pale 
 blue eyes. 
 
 " That is so, loove," he replied. " Yo' an' me 
 gets owder every day." 
 
 Then they walked on again ; Maria said no 
 more ; but her sharp chin quivered, and one or 
 two tears dried on her cheeks. At the fore- 
 court of the inn they met a cluster of ac- 
 quaintances, and after passing compliments, 
 made their way to the bar-parlour, where 
 Tom drank a pint of home-brewed, and Maria 
 very genteelly sipped a glass of sherry wine. 
 
 The music had already begun in the " daunc- 
 in' chamber " the music of a concertina and 
 a fiddle, struggling valorously in a waltz which 
 Maria remembered as having been played on 
 that remote occasion when Tom had been her 
 partner for the first time. She set down the 
 glass and wiped her lips. 
 
 "If we've gotten to go we may as well go 
 now," she said, dully. "I'ld as lief none; but 
 Moother Id ne'er be content." 
 
 He stared stupidly. " Whey, M'ria," he 
 106
 
 NO IMAGINATION 
 
 stammered, " I canna tell whatten's coome 
 ower yo' ! Yo' used for to be that glad at the 
 thought o' dauncin' " 
 
 " Ay, I used for to be, Tom," she interrupted ; 
 " but I'm getting 'owd, as yo' say, an' I havena 
 the sperrit as I had. Coome along, or all th' 
 seats'll be tuk." 
 
 So they went through the shippon and up 
 the ancient step-ladder. As Bill Mather jerked 
 Maria through the trap, his head fell back, 
 and he began to laugh very boisterously the 
 noise growing so loud that soon the dancers 
 fell apart and the musicians ceased to play. 
 
 " Lawk-a-mercy ! " he cried, as soon as he 
 recovered his breath. " Here's Mester Thomas 
 Turner an' Miss M'ria Patridge a couple as 
 owt to ha' been wed years an' years ago, but 
 for both o' em bein' so timid " 
 
 Maria laid a hand on his arm. " Hold yor 
 tongue, Bill," she said hoarsely. "Yo've no 
 right to say such things ! " 
 
 But Bill thrust her gently aside, so that she 
 stumbled against Tom, who stood so near to 
 a tin sconce that held a tallow candle that 
 his coat was all bespattered with grease. 
 
 " I've gotten no imagination," continued Bill, 
 "so yo' may know as 'tis gospel truth. . . . 
 Theere's times when he takes her on his 
 knee, just as if hoo weere a pratty young 
 lass hee-hee ! " 
 
 " 'Tis a domned lee ! " faltered Tom. " I ne'er 
 did such a thing i' my life." 
 107
 
 NO IMAGINATION 
 
 Mrs Mather, a wizened widow with a Derby- 
 shire neck, thereupon angrily declared that 
 whatever defects her son had, deceitfulness 
 was not amongst them. She had never heard 
 him say anything in all his life that was not 
 true. 
 
 " An' he busses her lawf u' case ! how he 
 does bu' buss her at the garden gate ! ' Gi'e us 
 anoother,' says he, an' 'Ay,' says hoo. Tis 
 like a story i' print ; bu' yo' may bet yor life 
 on't as they'll ne'er get wed!" 
 
 He paused and looked blankly at his 
 audience. Nobody was laughing ; the sight of 
 the lovers' distress being over-painful. 
 
 " 'Tis true," he stuttered ; " for yo' all know 
 as I've gotten no imagination no imagina- 
 tion no imagination ! " 
 
 Maria disappeared very quickly through the 
 trap ; Tom followed, overtaking her as she 
 passed through the gateway of the inn-yard. 
 They did not speak until they came in sight 
 of Broster fields ; when Tom, seeing that her 
 face was distorted with silent weeping, touched 
 her lightly on the sleeve. 
 
 "I'm sorry as the luny made such fools o' 
 us, M'ria," he said, in a broken voice ; " but 
 I know as I deserved it. We mun wed as 
 soon as e'er we can, to stop fowks' mouths." 
 
 "Ay,' - said Maria. "'Tis the only thing 
 as we can do. Onyway, Moother'll be set at 
 rest." 
 
 He came closer, and put his arm around her 
 108
 
 NO IMAGINATION 
 
 neck. " M'ria," he said, " yo' mun f orgi'e me 
 for hangin' on ; but I've no pluck." 
 
 She murmured something soft and unintel- 
 ligible. "M'ria," he said, "will yo' let me gi'e 
 you a kiss?" 
 
 Her lips were close to his ear. "I've nowt 
 again it," she whispered. 
 
 109
 
 LAVINIA'S LAST TESTAMENT 
 
 WHEN Lavinia Spurr died of a sudden heart 
 seizure, which came on a wash-day when she 
 was alone at Goatcliff Nook, it must be con- 
 fessed that Sarah Maltby felt a grief almost 
 as great as the husband's, for the two women 
 had been bosom-friends since early childhood. 
 Sarah's trouble, moreover, was tinged with 
 the dread of a disagreeable duty to be per- 
 formed the fulfilment of a promise exacted 
 on many occasions when the wife and the 
 spinster sat with uplifted skirts warming 
 their knees before the latter's fire. 
 
 "Tis a happy thowt to me, loove," said 
 Lavinia, on the very last evening, "as when 
 I be gone yo'll tend Melchisidec. I do b'lieve 
 as I should coome back if I thought as he 
 weere livin' loane an' neglected." 
 
 " Yo' do talk," interrupted Sarah, "yo'll out- 
 last me." 
 
 "I shanna, wench," replied Lavinia, very 
 solemnly. " My own mother deed at sixty-five 
 bein' took like to a flash o' lightnin', an' I've 
 always knowed as I shall go the same. Oh, 
 Sarah, when my time does coome, yo'll see as 
 110
 
 LAVINIA'S LAST TESTAMENT 
 
 everything's done i' order theere's a night- 
 gown i' the bottom drawer i' my chamber, an' 
 a knitted cap, an' a pair o' cotton socks as has 
 ne'er been worn. Yo'll bear i' mind as 'tis 
 usual i' my fam'ly to put a Bible onder the 
 ye'ad, an' a dish o' salt here?" 
 
 She laid a hand upon her chest, and sighed 
 very heavily. Sarah passed the back of her 
 hand over her eyes to wipe away two real 
 tears. 
 
 " Yo're low to-day, Liwy, that's whatten yo' 
 are," she said, brokenly. " Why, yo've gotten 
 a nice fresh colour i' yor cheeks " 
 
 " The beef mun be well-roasted, Sarah : at 
 Furness's buryin' the last as yo' an' me went 
 to 'tweere like to red-currant jelly. I couldna 
 fancy it if yo' rec'lect, I ate nowt but cake." 
 
 She returned soon to Goatcliff, leaving the 
 old maid filled with sombre and depressing 
 thoughts. Never before, although she had 
 often compelled her friend to promise to tend 
 Melchisidec's declining years, had Mrs Spurr 
 displayed such ominous forebodings. Sarah 
 slept very uneasily that night ; more than 
 once she rose under the impression that the 
 ivy tapping against her window was the sound 
 of someone urgently knocking at her door. 
 After dawn she dressed herself, and when she 
 had milked the three kine, and fed the poultry 
 of her little farm, she climbed several walls 
 and went to the summit of a knoll, whence 
 she could see the front of the Spurrs' house 
 111
 
 LAVINIA'S LAST TESTAMENT 
 
 which lay behind a slight ridge of the moor. 
 To her great relief, the clothes lines were 
 stretched across the forecourt, and a pair of 
 sheets fluttered bravely in the fresh western 
 wind. 
 
 Two hours later, as she stood at the bake- 
 stone in her little offshoot kitchen, busily 
 engaged in the manufacture of the week's 
 oat-cakes, her heart gave a great bound, then 
 almost stopped, for she heard the sound of 
 stumbling footsteps on the flagged garden 
 path, and looking through the open door- 
 way saw Melchisidec, very pale and ghastly, 
 coming to her house. 
 
 " Coome up to Goatcliff, at once," he gasped. 
 "Livvy's tuk I found her a-liggin' on the 
 steps. . . . An' the house full o' smoake 
 cloathes burned i' the set-pot!" 
 
 Then he turned and ran back home. When 
 Sarah entered, she found Lavinia lying on 
 the red-chintz-covered settle, with the old 
 man kneeling at her side and striving to 
 force brandy between her closed teeth. A 
 plump little hand, sodden with the washing, 
 strove automatically to brush him away, 
 and this was the only sign of life the poor 
 soul ever gave, although after they had 
 carried her upstairs and laid her in the four- 
 post bed, she lingered for a full week. 
 
 Sarah fulfilled her old friend's injunctions 
 to the letter, and the funeral was a notable 
 success, although Melchisidec was unable to 
 112
 
 LAVINIA'S LAST TESTAMENT 
 
 partake of the well -cooked tea when the 
 mourners returned from Milton church. He 
 shook his head soon after he sat to the table ; 
 then rose, and with averted face left the 
 parlour. 
 
 "Yo' mun excuse me none sittin' wi' yo', 
 friends," he said, in a choked voice; "but it 
 seems all so strange, us feedin' as if nowt 
 weere the matter, an' my poor Livvy laid 
 i' the graveyard. I wunna be a spoil-feast, 
 none I; yo' mun all enjoy yorsens wi'out 
 me." 
 
 Then he went upstairs to the chamber where 
 she had lain, and sat beside the bed, his face 
 hidden between arms out-thrust on the linen- 
 covered mattress. There Sarah found him 
 when she could spare a minute from her 
 duties as mistress of the ceremonies. She 
 laid a thin hand gently on his shoulder. 
 
 "I've coome up to say as yo're none the 
 only one as frets for Livvy," she said. "It 
 fair goes to my yeart as hoo isna here to 
 share this do, poor wench. But happen hoo 
 isna far off happen hoo sees all." 
 
 He began to weep so painfully that Sarah 
 was compelled to bite her own lips, lest she 
 should lose her own self-command. 
 
 "'Tweere a peaceful end, Melchisidec," she 
 said. " I dunna b'lieve as hoo suffered ony 
 pain. Eh, hoo weere a good creature God 
 ne'er made a better since the world began!" 
 
 Melchisidec lifted a blubbered face. "I 
 H 113
 
 LAVINIA'S LAST TESTAMENT 
 
 dunna know whatten I mun do," he sobbed. 
 " Hoo tended me just as if I'd been a babby ! " 
 
 Sarah laid her candle on the dressing- 
 chest. "Hoo always said to me as yo' mun 
 get another wife," she murmured, hesitat- 
 ingly; "tho' tisna a time to talk o' such 
 matters." 
 
 The old man lifted a corner of the sheet, 
 and mopped his eyes. "An' wheere can I 
 get one like to her ? " he cried. " Wheere 
 can I get one as knew so much as hoo did? 
 Livvies dunna grow on blagberry bushes ! " 
 
 Nevertheless, he was much consoled, and soon 
 before the meal was half-finished resumed 
 his place at table, with a countenance almost 
 cheerful, despite a melancholy foreboding of 
 his loneliness when all the guests were gone. 
 Sarah noted, with some consternation, that 
 he looked very earnestly more than once 
 upon Mrs Badger, a stout widow from Grass- 
 brook, who was near akin to the dead woman. 
 He poured rum into her teacup until she 
 playfully covered the top with her palm. 
 
 " Yo' munna gie me so much, Mester Spurr," 
 she said, chidingly, "or yo'll tak' away my 
 character. Tis good an' strengthenin,' tho' 
 well, just a drop, but no more ! " 
 
 Sarah's dismay increased during the even- 
 ing, when she heard him speak, in an under- 
 tone, of the division of Lavinia's apparel, 
 and Mrs Badger made pointed inquiries con- 
 cerning a jet -trimmed dolman which had 
 
 114
 
 LAVINIA'S LAST TESTAMENT 
 
 been purchased with an unexpected legacy. 
 Lavinia had often made the spinster don it, 
 and had even suggested the necessary altera- 
 tions for the frail little figure. It was with 
 considerable relief that she hailed the de- 
 parture of the company, and prepared, before 
 returning to her own home, to settle Mel- 
 chisidec comfortably for the night. 
 
 As she carefully raked the cinders over 
 the grate on the hearth, so that the ash 
 might fall into the "purgatory" below, 
 Melchisidec thanked her cordially for the 
 trouble she had taken. 
 
 "But 'twill none be for long," he said. 
 "Yo'll ne'er regret it, Sarah yo'll ne'er wish 
 yo' hadna doone it. I shanna trouble yo' long." 
 
 Sarah lifted her head and saw him gazing 
 with a bland smile at the ceiling. 
 
 "Dear Lord!" she exclaimed, "yo' arena 
 goin' to follow Livvy " 
 
 "I dunna mean that," he hastened to ex- 
 plain. "Yo' know whatten yo' said about 
 me gettin' a second as 'tweere the poor 
 wench's desire? I feel as if 'twould be a sin 
 if I disobeyed her. ..." 
 
 She waited for an explanation that never 
 came; in a few minutes she lighted her 
 lantern, and after a feeble good-night, pro- 
 longed half in expectancy that he would be 
 gallant enough to proffer to accompany her, 
 she made her way through the dark lanes 
 to her own house. 
 
 115
 
 "Well!" she said, after she had crept into 
 bed, where she lay very primly, with scarce 
 a crease in the counterpane. "Well! I do 
 b'lieve as that Mary Badger is a-settin' her 
 cap at him already! Oh dear, oh dear, 
 whatten mun I do, when I promised Livvy 
 time an' time again ? An' 'tis quite out o' 
 the question me askin' him no ooman wi' 
 ony decency about her e'er asks a man. An' 
 I dunna want him. Lord knows, I'ld far 
 liefer be as I am!" 
 
 On the morrow, when she was preparing 
 the butter for the huckster, Melchisidec 
 called at her house. He was very pale and 
 dishevelled, and his breath smelt strongly 
 of whisky. 
 
 "I've been scared o' stayin' all aloane," he 
 said. "I daredna go bedward, an' I sat up 
 all night aside the fire. ... I do b'lieve as 
 I've tuk a sup too much; but I couldna help 
 mysen. I would thou'dst go up an' set things 
 straight again, Sarah I'm none handy wi' owt. 
 Eh, poor Livvy! poor Livvy! thou mightest 
 ha' stayed so as I could go first ! " 
 
 "Happen hoo would if hoo could ha' done," 
 said Sarah, whose temper was not as good as 
 usual; "but 'tweere none i' her hands. Ay, 
 I'll go when the huckster's been. Art off 
 to Milton?" 
 
 " I thought as I'ld step down to Grassbrook, 
 an' see Missus Badger. Hoo weere vastly 
 coomfortin' last night. . . . Thank yo' very 
 116
 
 LAVINIA'S LAST TESTAMENT 
 
 kindly, Sarah Livvy'ld thank yo' too, if hoo 
 could." 
 
 Sarah went up to the house, and put every- 
 thing in order. A curious impulse made her 
 take out Lavinia's dolman, and try it on be- 
 fore the small mirror. 
 
 " Ten inches takin' in ower the bosom," she 
 said, " an' I'm afeard theere's mildew on the 
 sleeves. Onywise, Mary Badger shanna get 
 it." 
 
 Her gaze fell on a shell church in the 
 middle of the mantel-shelf; she opened this 
 and found that it contained some ancient 
 pink note-paper with scallopped edges. 
 
 " If I mun carry out her wishes, I mun," she 
 muttered, "tho' it doesna seem an upright 
 thing to do. But I'm none agoin' to ask him 
 mysen, so that's flat!" 
 
 Later in the day, Melchisidec came again, 
 trembling with excitement, to her house. He 
 carried a neatly folded paper in his hand. 
 
 " I've found Livvy's will," he said, " writ only 
 a week afore hoo deed. I just happed to be 
 lookin' amongst her things, wi' Mrs Badger 
 i' my mind, when this slipped out ! " 
 
 Sarah took the paper, and turning her back 
 to him went to the window and read : " This 
 is my last testament, as I do beg of Melchisidec 
 and dear Sarah Maltby to wed after I be gone, 
 since there's nobody as will make him a better 
 wife. Her to have my clothes. Your Loving 
 Wife, Lavinia Spurr." 
 
 117
 
 LAVINIA'S LAST TESTAMENT 
 
 " Hoo weere set on't, appariently," said the 
 widower, dubiously; "an' I'd begun to fancy 
 as Mis as I mun tak' another ooman. An' 
 now theere's nowt for't but for yo' to agree." 
 
 " I reckon theere isna," said Sarah, queru- 
 lously ; " but yo' may be sure as I didna want 
 yo'. I ne'er thought I'ld ha' to wed a widow 
 man." 
 
 118
 
 THE PAINTED CABINET 
 
 IF you go to the Callow Valley, entering by 
 the narrow ravine near the summit of the Sir 
 William hill, you can see the old Gotherage 
 corn-mill, resting beside the marshy bed of a 
 half -drained dam. The little octagonal mill- 
 house is used now for the storage of bracken 
 bedding, and the long lofty chamber where, 
 forty years ago, the stones groaned in their 
 beds, is quite roofless, its walls blackened with 
 fire and overgrown with rank weeds. Through 
 the open doorway you can distinguish, be- 
 neath the debris of plaster, and of grey slates 
 riven by heat, curious mounds of charred wood 
 and pieces of metal. 
 
 It was Sarah Gotherage who told me the 
 story, one day after she had chidden me 
 severely for climbing over her walls, and then 
 relented and asked me to sit and rest in the 
 house-place of her little farm, whilst a mid- 
 summer storm passed over the moors. A 
 sudden wind whipped the pools of the ruined 
 mill-dam, until the spray rose as high as the 
 tops of the alders on the banks, then hail- 
 stones fell in thick sheets. The hot earth 
 119
 
 THE PAINTED CABINET 
 
 seethed and steamed; from Sarah's window 
 it seemed as if a great fire with invisible 
 flames were burning over the remains of the 
 corn-mill. 
 
 " Dall it ! " said the old woman, as she stood 
 on tiptoe at my side. " It put's me i' mind 
 o' brother Yeb, an' o' whatten brought about 
 his death!" 
 
 The hail ceased quickly ; the sun shone 
 again, brighter than ever, upon the long wet 
 grass of the ravine. Sarah had drawn to the 
 hearth a tall, old-fashioned churn, made of 
 white oak, with copper bands that glittered 
 like gold. I noted with some amazement that 
 before taking the dasher between her palms, 
 she made the sign of the cross, and muttered : 
 " Marry coome up ! " 
 
 "Tis an owd custom," she explained. 
 "Parson, he says as Gotherages, when all 
 the township belonged to 'em, weere Popish. 
 He'ld ha' me gi'e it up ; but the butter ne'er 
 coomes so well. I tried once wi'out, an' kirned 
 for three hour wi'out bringin' it. An' when 
 it did coome, why, it tasted strong o' onyons ! 
 An' that's thirty year ago 'twas the first 
 kirnin' day after the mill weere burned, an' 
 my mind weere bothered." 
 
 The dasher passed less easily through the 
 cream ; Sarah's forehead glistened with per- 
 spiration, which ever and anon she wiped off 
 with a corner of her apron. And whilst she 
 washed the mass of butter time after time 
 120
 
 THE PAINTED CABINET 
 
 in clear spring water, and salted it, and 
 modelled it deftly into pats, she eased her 
 mind of painful memories. The sunshine that 
 had followed the storm lasted but for a short 
 space, and a soft rain fell continuously. 
 
 " Yo' see," she said, " my brother Y eb weere 
 born when poor mother's yead weere addled, 
 an' I bein' the elder weere stronger nor him 
 i' moore ways nor one, an' when mother deed 
 I had to tend him i' her place. A pratty lad 
 he weere wi' a thin face, an' sharp eyen, an' 
 hair red as gowd to look at him yo'ld ha' 
 sworn as he weere sharp-witted as ony. The 
 Lord had willed it otherwise, howe'er, an' poor 
 Yeb had his failin's. An' the worst weere as 
 he weere ne'er content save when he weere 
 hutchin' up owd rubbish. E'en when he wore 
 petticoats held gether rusty tins an' bruken 
 pots an' owd besom-stales, an' hide 'em away 
 i' an empty pig-cote. Mony's the time I've 
 cried to see feyther tannin' his little back wi' 
 an oaken staff till 'tweere piteous to look 
 upon. But strive as we would, Yeb'ld ne'er 
 change his ways, nay, none to the very 
 end. 
 
 " When feyther weere called the mill hadna 
 been used for years he passed away wi'out a 
 will, an' all went to Yeb, bein' freehold, as the 
 law bids it the lad grew worse an' worse. 
 He'd gotten a fancy o' makin' the baulks 
 that weere the top floor o' th' mill-room into 
 a reg'lar musyeum, an' every penny as came 
 
 121
 
 THE PAINTED CABINET 
 
 fro' the land went i' buyin' up bits o' oak an' 
 cracked pottery fro' every house on the 
 coontry-side. An' 'tweere me as had to work 
 the land, for he ne'er did a stroake ; but sat 
 among his idols like an owl i' a holly bush 
 fingerin' 'em an' dustin' 'em an' rubbin' the 
 oak wi' wax an' turps ontil yo' could see yor 
 face i' it. 
 
 " An' so it went on for ten year me drudg- 
 in' to mak' both ends meet, an' to find him a 
 bit for his hobby, though God knows livin' 
 weere plain enew. Th' lad'ld wear sackin' 
 rayther nor forgo ony piece o' lumber as he'd 
 set his yeart on, an' I weerena one to stand 
 i' his way; for tho' he naungered me some- 
 times ontil I weere well-nigh distrowt, he 
 weere the only kin I had, an' he'd a wheedlin' 
 way wi' him rubbin' his yead again mine, 
 an' mumblin' like a new-kindled tabby when 
 he wanted owt. 
 
 "Well, it might ha' gone on till now, if't 
 hadna been for a ooman ten year owder nor 
 me, who lived Grassbrook way, an' had a 
 grand cabinet, carved wi' scriptural scenes, 
 an' painted like a picture. It had been i' her 
 fam'ly for three hunnerd year, hoo said, an' 
 a gen'leman had told her as 'tweere worth 
 at least a hunnerd pound bein' Eyetalian 
 work. An' Yeb, who'd been to a sale nigh 
 wheere hoo lived, had seen it as he passed 
 her door. . . . The long an' the short o' 'tweere, 
 as my brother, who'd shown no sign o' bein' 
 
 122
 
 THE PAINTED CABINET 
 
 ooman-fond afore, went coortin' o' her, for 
 the sake o' the cabinet. 
 
 "I used for to hear him sighin' i' his bed 
 at night, an' soometimes held screet out wi' 
 the nightmare. The ooman, poor soul, weere 
 very foul a reg'lar Judy wi' a fat, white face, 
 an' curls grey as a badger. Hoo'd only lived 
 at Grassbrook three year fowk said as hoo 
 came fro' Staffordshire. Yeb, he thought hoo 
 weere a widow, an' so did everybody else ; but 
 the end proved as hoo weerena. 
 
 "A bit o' money hoo had happen ten 
 shillin' a week an' hoo reckoned hersen 
 among the better end o' fowk. I will say as 
 hoo weere genteel an' civil-spoken enew; in 
 fact, as far as hoo went, I've nowt again her, 
 save one thing, an' 'tweere that one thing as 
 wrought all the mischief. Yo' see, hoo weere 
 a wedded ooman a'ready when hoo went to 
 church wi' Yeb, an' 'tweere a great sin. . . . 
 But, as turned out afterwards, her man had 
 been i' Stafford County 'Sylum for moore 
 nor twenty year, tho' hoo'd lived respectable. 
 An' Yeb weere takin' i' his looks, tho' my own 
 brother he'd a face as blithe as a babby's, 
 but for the crinkles. An' so 'tweere as the 
 ooman came wi' her painted cabinet, after 
 spurrin's an' all weere ower. 
 
 " The piece o' f urnityure weere far too high 
 
 to stand i' the parlour, wheere the ceiling 
 
 weere scarce man-height; so, tho' theere 
 
 weere talk o' breakin' a hole thro' the playster- 
 
 123
 
 THE PAINTED CABINET 
 
 work, for the time 'tweere necessary to set it 
 on the baulks amongst t'other lumber. An' 
 theere Yeb used for to go, day after day, an' 
 sit afront it till his eyen weere fair dazed i' 
 his yead. Th' ooman an' me got on well 
 better nor most oomen would, for hoo weere 
 a peaceful soul, an' hoo did whatten hoo weere 
 towd to do wi'out grum'lin' ! I spoke o' movin' 
 here on the weddin' day this place weere a 
 rabbit-warren then but hoo begged an' 
 prayed me none to leave her. A bit scared 
 o' house-woork hoo weere, maybe ; but a 
 kind-yearted ooman, wi'out doubt. We'd ne'er 
 a word across. 
 
 "Yeb's wedded life lasted little ower six 
 months ; 'tweere i' the har'st-time when the 
 end came. We'd gotten the last load o' 
 wheats (me an' the farm lads, for Yeb did 
 nowt), and that same night we all supped i' 
 the barn, i' the fashion feyther always held 
 to. An' as we sat together at the table, a man 
 came in wi' a rusty sickle i' his right hand. 
 . . . God ha' mercy, he weere th' awfullest- 
 lookin' fellow my eyen e'er dropped on his 
 canister weere like to a baboon's, an his eyen 
 weere red as hot cokes ! 
 
 "Lizbeth, that weere the ooman's name, 
 gave a great screet an' ducked onder the table. 
 Hoo weere quicker at that time nor I e'er saw 
 her before or after. Th' man he glared at us 
 all, an' then ran off, an' we saw him no moore. 
 No merry-makin' after that. It tuk three lads 
 124
 
 THE PAINTED CABINET 
 
 an' me to drag the ooman out an' into the 
 house, an' ere we put her to bed, hoo had 
 'sterics an' a fit o' peplexes. 
 
 "Yo' mun know as Yeb weere used to go 
 every night ere bedtime to the baulks wi' a 
 lantern, just for to see as all his treasures 
 weere safe ontil early morn. He weerena 
 much troubled about Lizbeth's state, that I 
 will say, an' he went then as usual. But the 
 poor lad ne'er came back o' hissen!" 
 
 Here Sarah Gotherage lifted her apron 
 again, this time to wipe the tears from her 
 cheeks. 
 
 "Yo' see, mester, his brains went, they did. 
 He couldna speak when we found him a-sittin' 
 on the dam-bank like to a figure o' stoane. 
 The luny had set fire to the baulks i' three 
 places, an' 'tweere burnin' like a box o' matches 
 painted cabinet an' all. Happen the wax an' 
 the turps Yeb had used made it worse ony- 
 how, in less nor hawf-an-hour the roof crashed 
 down, an' our own house caught fire, an' theere 
 weere soome ado to save the furniture. An' 
 Yeb, he ne'er spoke again ; but sat an' sat 
 an' giggled day in, day out. Lizbeth's man, 
 for 'tweere him, got out o' the 'Sylum, an' bent 
 on findin' her, weere caught next morn an' 
 ta'en back. Yeb weere hard-like on her, for 
 hoo nursed him well an' hoo tried to bring 
 back whatten senses he'd gotten by nayture ; 
 but he used for to look at her as if hoo 
 weere muck. 
 
 125
 
 THE PAINTED CABINET 
 
 " Ay, mester, Yeb deed, he did, a week after, 
 i' a kind o' stroake. Lizbeth, poor soul, bided 
 we me ten year ontil the dropsy tuk her. 
 We ne'er brangled about owt. Hoo left me 
 whatten money hoo'd gotten. Happen 'tweere 
 as well Yeb did dee; for if he'd ere coome 
 across another ooman wi' a painted cabinet, 
 theere's no knowing whatten he might ha' 
 doone." 
 
 126
 
 A SALE IN PEAKLAND 
 
 THREE days after Nathan Shift's funeral, the 
 Peakland village was placarded with an- 
 nouncements of the sale at Camsdale on the 
 following Monday. One cow, four heifers, 
 two sows, an aged pony, and twenty couples of 
 fowls comprised the farm-stock ; the house- 
 hold furniture, from the list given, was ap- 
 parently very scant ; the principal items being 
 a " long-sleeved " clock, a corner cupboard, a 
 writing-desk with drawers underneath, and 
 six rush-bottomed chairs. 
 
 At a quarter before one o'clock on the 
 appointed afternoon, a fat little spinster with 
 silver hair went down from Milton to the 
 house by the mill. She was neatly dressed in 
 black, with a heavy wool shawl and an anti- 
 quated bonnet. Her skin was very fair, but 
 blemished with red patches due to the hard 
 water of the hill-top. She carried a curious 
 parasol with a hinged stick, and a large reti- 
 cule of gaily-coloured needlework. 
 
 As yet few people were on their way to the 
 sale, for the auctioneer from the market-town 
 was notoriously unpunctual. Now and then a 
 
 127
 
 A SALE IN PEAKLAND 
 
 shabby broker's cart rattled past over the 
 loose stones ; sitting on the brambly banks 
 she perceived solitary men of unkempt aspect, 
 who meant to lounge about the farmyard and 
 earn a few pence by carrying home the pur- 
 chases of the respectable. 
 
 One or two villagers were sauntering to 
 and fro afront the gabled house, commenting 
 humorously on the display of pottery and 
 rusty tools arranged in lots. They greeted the 
 woman with surprise ; one well-to-do farmer, 
 of an age equal to her own, would not cease 
 wagging her hand. 
 
 " By'r Leddy, Miss Damm," he cried, " yo've 
 forgi'en the owd chap at last!" 
 
 " I forgave him years an' years gone by," she 
 replied faintly. " An' I'ld ha' gone to look to 
 him at the end, if't hadna been as he weere 
 took so sudden-like. Poor Nathan! poor lad! 
 Well, 'tis whatten we mun all coome to rich 
 an' poor alike ! " 
 
 " Ay, it be so," said the gaffer, whose mirth 
 was somewhat quenched by the sadness of 
 her tone. " ' The grave's the market-place 
 wheere all men meet.'" 
 
 " That's God's truth," she responded. " I've 
 heerd as he's willed to have a grand stoane 
 verse. It runs : 
 
 " The proud can have BO more nor this, 
 
 The wise, the rich, the brave 
 A mowdrin' stoane, an e-pitaph, 
 A green sod an' a grave." 
 128
 
 A SALE IN PEAKLAND 
 
 As she recited her voice grew querulous, and 
 the water came to her eyes. She turned away 
 abruptly, and passed through the low doorway 
 to the house-place. Two women, distant rela- 
 tives and co-heiresses of Nathan, sat on milk- 
 ing stools before the fire. They came from 
 a distant village, and knew none of the 
 villagers. Each had a flask in her skirt 
 pocket, from which she sipped furtively. Six 
 pairs of newly -blacked boots, abnormally 
 large, were ranged on the window sill. Above 
 the mantel hung a quaint, cottage - shaped 
 barometer, in whose open porch stood a card- 
 board man, with his wife in the background. 
 The tall clock in the corner was of curious 
 make ; above its dial one might read the date 
 and the waxing and waning of the moon. 
 This, according to a scrawled envelope trans- 
 fixed by the key, was not for sale. 
 
 Miss Damm curtsied to the women and made 
 her way up the stone staircase to the bache- 
 lor's bedroom, where there was no furniture 
 save a four-poster with a coved top. On the 
 chequered blue-and-white mattress she could 
 distinguish the sharp outlines of the coffin that 
 had lain there. The other chambers, all open- 
 ing from this, contained nought but cobwebs 
 and worn-out clothing and broken agricultural 
 implements. The light everywhere was dim 
 and greenish, the windows being heavily 
 framed with rank ivy. The desolate un- 
 tidiness of the place aroused an impatient 
 i 129
 
 A SALE IN PEAKLAND 
 
 anger; she retreated suddenly to the open 
 air. 
 
 The auctioneer arrived in a low phaeton, 
 drawn by a bay pony ; a buzz of greeting rose 
 from the waiting folk. Already a fairly large 
 crowd had assembled. Nichols that was the 
 man's name was middle-aged and red-haired, 
 very Jewish of profile, with prominent ill- 
 made teeth. He moved towards the forecourt 
 to which the house opened, casting super- 
 cilious glances on the poorer class of brokers. 
 His clerk followed, carrying a small packing- 
 case, which he inverted near the low wall, and 
 the auctioneer, mounting his makeshift plat- 
 form, opened the sale. 
 
 " The weather's threatening," he began, " and 
 since there's a lot of ladies here with fashion- 
 able bonnets, it will be best for me to put up 
 the household goods first. You see, Nathan 
 Shift was an old bachelor, and there's always 
 considerable sympathy about an old bachelor's 
 belongings. He had no wife to look after 
 him, poor soul, and he stored up things he 
 need not have stored." 
 
 His allusions to Nathan's solitary existence 
 touched the right key: peals of merry laughter 
 rose from his hearers. Not one face was un- 
 moved save that of Miss Damm, who stood, 
 stark and unsympathetic, in the open door- 
 way, watching the different lots of odd tea- 
 cups, saucers, and metal jugs pass to their 
 purchasers. She could not suppress a feeling 
 
 130
 
 A SALE IN PEAKLAND 
 
 of vexation at the sight ; in some odd way 
 she felt that she had a juster right to 
 Nathan's goods than had his own kinsfolk. 
 
 One of the women came out with a pair 
 of unused homespun sheets. " These," said 
 the auctioneer, "were spun for the wedding 
 that never came off. I've heard quite a 
 romantic story about Nathan. Why, he was 
 going to be married, and a week before the 
 day he quarrelled with his sweetheart and 
 slapped her face ! She was a proud lass, and 
 she broke off her engagement, and made a 
 vow never to speak to him again. A bit hard, 
 for he was only a lad of twenty at the time." 
 
 He was unaware that the heroine of this 
 tragi-comedy stood within arm's length. Pos- 
 sibly he thought that she had predeceased the 
 bachelor. Miss Damm gave a little inward 
 murmur, then piped out a bid for the bridal 
 sheets, and they fell to her for twelve shillings. 
 She folded them deliberately into the smallest 
 compass ; then, opening the clasp of her reti- 
 cule, laid them in its depths. The other 
 women appeared now with a bundle of 
 bandanna handkerchiefs; Miss Damm recog- 
 nised them as her own gifts to Nathan. They 
 had never been used, and the colours were still 
 fresh. Not bidding herself, she experienced 
 some slight pleasure in the fact that they sold 
 well, realising a figure little less than they 
 had cost. After that came blankets and old 
 carpets, and finally the two women brought 
 131
 
 A SALE IN PEAKLAND 
 
 a large bag of unbleached cotton, and before 
 untying its strings spoke some few words in 
 an undertone to Nichols. 
 
 He nodded, and slowly unfolded a marvel- 
 lous counterpane of rich silk patchwork. A 
 few moths fluttered unseen over the interested 
 crowd as the breeze spread it to its full length. 
 
 " This quilt," he said, " was made by Nathan's 
 aunt for a wedding-gift. She had good taste, 
 as you see ; old ladies don't work such things 
 nowadays. Her husband was a gamekeeper 
 under the Duke, and she had been lady's-maid 
 to the Duchess. Some of these silks were 
 worn at Court balls ! " 
 
 Miss Damm opened her mouth to make an 
 offer, but Mrs Fearnehough, of "The Bold 
 Cloudesley," cried out an extravagant sum. 
 The spinster's hand fumbled despairingly in 
 her pocket, and found the purchase quite out 
 of the question. She remembered the delight 
 she had felt at her first examination of this 
 magnificent needlework. The sight of the 
 ravages wrought by moths in the nearest 
 corner brought some gratification ; she averted 
 her face and smiled to the blank wall. The 
 women-folk with husbands to work for them 
 were eager for the purchase; finally the 
 masterpiece was sold for two guineas to a 
 young wife, who wept when she discovered its 
 condition. Next, a wall-paper-covered trunk 
 was brought to light and its lid raised. At 
 the top, swathed in dusty muslin, lay a beaver 
 
 132
 
 A SALE IN PEAKLAND 
 
 hat, very flat-rimmed and tall. Then a suit 
 chocolate coat, flowered kerseymere vest, and 
 nankeen breeches was exhibited to the crowd. 
 Here the moths were unmistakable a thick 
 cluster fluttered blindly in the sunlight, and 
 the buyers drew back with affected cries of 
 alarm. 
 
 "They be only fit for guisers at Kirsmas 
 time!" cried Mrs Fearnehough. "Lawk-a- 
 mercy, what guys lads used for to be !" 
 
 Nichols dangled the garments one by one 
 from the end of his malacca cane. 
 
 " These," he said, " must have been made for 
 the happy day that never came. Very likely 
 he showed them to his young lady maybe 
 she went with him to the tailor's ! Now, 
 good friends, what offer for these a buck's 
 suit of fifty years ago, worth putting into a 
 museum ? " 
 
 A wag bade sixpence, then silence followed ; 
 as the hammer was about to fall, Miss Damm 
 whispered shrilly, "One shilling," and as no- 
 body else had competed, the moth - eaten 
 clothes and the box fell to her share. She 
 repacked everything quickly, and waited for 
 the next article. From a papier-mach4 tray 
 covered with odds and ends Nichols selected 
 a leather daguerrotype case and pressed the 
 spring. 
 
 "Why, here he is, and here's the wife who 
 never was his wife!" he exclaimed. "Dear 
 me, they make a loving couple ! Standing side 
 133
 
 A SALE IN PEAKLAND 
 
 by side, and she's got a crinoline on, and big 
 leg-o'-mutton sleeves ! A pretty face like a 
 rosebud not a face to be slapped, that's 
 certain. And look at his black stock and 
 smooth, well-oiled hair!" 
 
 Miss Damm had flushed until all the blotches 
 of her skin were invisible. The auctioneer's 
 speech seemed a profanation; she lost com- 
 mand of herself, and stepping forward laid 
 trembling hands on the portrait-case. It was 
 damp, and rotten with age ; the two sheets of 
 glass left their embossed gilt frames and fell, 
 breaking into fragments on the wall-coping. 
 
 "I couldna help it, mester," she gasped, as 
 she realised the enormity of her offence. "I 
 weere the wench whose face Nathan slapt ! " 
 
 The man was not without feeling ; he shook 
 his head and passed to the next lot, making no 
 further allusion to the bachelor's only court- 
 ship. Miss Damm wound her handkerchief 
 about the handle of the box and dragged it 
 slowly from the yard. Her cheeks were 
 blubbered now, and nobody cared to jest. 
 
 " The linen I'll be laid out in," she muttered, 
 as she crawled up the hill, "an' I'll burn t' 
 oother things wi' my weddin'-gown. Poor lad, 
 Nathan! Eigh me, they shanna laugh when 
 my things be sowd!" 
 
 134
 
 FOR OWD TIMES' SAKE 
 
 THE chamber where old Peter Brock lay was 
 large and low-ceiled, with indigo-blue-washed 
 walls. A fourpost bedstead, with an arched 
 top, hung with stiffly starched dimity of rose- 
 bud-and-robin pattern, stood near the door. 
 The gaffer lay very quietly on the flock mat- 
 tress; his head, turned face upwards, scarce 
 made a dint in the pillow. The counterpane 
 was unruffled, and doubled over where it 
 touched his beard. He had been helpless for 
 some months, and Hannah's continual smooth- 
 ing of the creases whenever he had turned had 
 at last so wrought upon his conscience that he 
 no longer stirred save when bidden. Even 
 now, when the end was so near, he dared not 
 disturb the rigid lines that she had marked 
 with her thumbnail. He was a man of many 
 friends, and since his paralytic seizure the 
 sick-room had set an example of neatness to 
 every Milton housekeeper. 
 
 He was scarce able to eat; but one kindly 
 sympathiser had presented a basket of cun- 
 ningly wrought samples of soap, designed to 
 tempt the eye. It lay, a gorgeous vision of 
 
 135
 
 FOR OWD TIMES' SAKE 
 
 grapes and peaches and nectarines, on a wool 
 mat in the centre of a polished round table, 
 surrounded by two score of empty medicine 
 bottles. He had ever been proud of his capa- 
 city for doctor's stuff, and his daughter had 
 yielded to his entreaties that these trophies 
 might not be removed. Moreover, said 
 Hannah, cheerfully, if need be, their sav- 
 ing might prevent any dispute about the 
 bill. 
 
 On the evening of his death, Mrs Barton 
 came down from Mooredge with a little 
 hamper of dainty food. Emma, his younger 
 daughter, who was herself in her fortieth 
 year, conducted her to the parlour that 
 opened to the house-place. The spinster's 
 face, blubbered with natural tears, told the 
 old woman that Peter's time was come, and 
 her own comfortable chin began to show signs 
 of weakness. Peter and she had been school- 
 mates, and their friendship had held good for 
 more than half-a-century. 
 
 "Is he worsened?" she said, with a little 
 gasp. 
 
 "Ay," replied Emma. "Doctor Hattersley 
 says as belike the end'll coome at midnight. 
 He's sufferin', poor soul sufferin' so much as 
 I canna bear to see him." 
 
 Mrs Barton opened her hamper and lifted 
 out some jars. 
 
 " Theere's cawf s-foot jelly an' beef -tea," she 
 said. " Dear Lord ! to think as 'tis the last I'll 
 136
 
 e'er make for him ! If yo' dunna mind, wench, 
 I 'Id like to go upstairs." 
 
 "Tis o' no use," said Emma, "he'll none 
 know yo', I fear; but still, if yo' want, 
 it canna do him ony harm. Coome this 
 way." 
 
 She preceded the visitor up the wide stair- 
 case and led the way to Peter's chamber. 
 Hannah, who was sitting by the bed, raised a 
 lean forefinger to her lips. 
 
 "He's a bit easier now," she whispered; 
 "dunna make a noise." 
 
 The sibilation wakened the old man; his 
 eyes turned slowly towards the door. " Is it 
 yo', M'ria ? " he stammered. 
 
 The widow tiptoed forward and bent over 
 the pillow. " Ay, Pete," she said, gently ; " 'tis 
 me, an' sorry to the yeart to see yo' i' such a 
 bad way." 
 
 A yellow hand crept over the counterpane. 
 "Yo've been good to me, M'ria very good 
 but I canna dee wi'out " 
 
 She bent lower. " Hush, lad," she murmured, 
 "worry about nowt. I know whatten yo' 
 mean ; now for God's sake dunna fret ! " 
 
 He quietened wonderfully as her palm, light 
 as a leaf, moved to and fro on his forehead ; 
 his eyes closed, his breath came with less 
 rebellion. Hannah spoke peremptorily in a 
 glance, and Mrs Barton moved to the door. 
 As she lingered on the threshold, the gaffer 
 spoke again: 
 
 137
 
 FOR OWD TIMES' SAKE 
 
 "Tisna fair, M'ria 'tis bad as stealin' if 
 'tisna paid ! " 
 
 Mrs Barton retired with her handkerchief 
 to her eyes; Peter spoke no more for a full 
 hour. At nine o'clock Emma stole up to the 
 chamber. 
 
 " Theere's 'Lizbeth Drabble downstairs," she 
 said. "Hoo thought hoo'd best coome up, so 
 as to be on the spot. I set her agate o' 
 warmin' a cup o' beer for hersen." 
 
 Hannah went silently to a chest of drawers 
 and took out a pair of linen sheets, and a 
 white shirt and cotton stockings. 
 
 " They may as well be airin'," she remarked. 
 "Give 'em to 'Lizbeth, an' yo' come back, for 
 it looks as if poor feyther weere passing 
 now." 
 
 Emma went away, to return presently 
 with considerable reluctance for she was 
 of a timorous nature, and disposed to shun 
 the serious things of life. Each woman had 
 loved the gaffer in her own way, and the last 
 hours were filled with melancholy reflections. 
 Ever and anon Hannah leaned forward and 
 moistened his lips with a feather dipped in 
 brandy. It seemed as if he were about to 
 depart without another word ; but just before 
 the end Hannah begged him to say some- 
 thing for them to remember him by, and the 
 twitching lips grew firm for a few moments. 
 
 "Fifty pound," gasped Peter, "borrowed 
 two year agone. . . . M'ria 't weere ... I 
 138
 
 FOR OWD TIMES' SAKE 
 
 ne'er said nowt to anyone. . . . Yo' mun tell 
 her I've told yo' it mun be paid." 
 
 Shortly afterwards, when all was over, 
 and 'Lizbeth Drabble had been admitted to 
 perform the offices by which she earned a 
 scanty living, the two daughters retired to 
 the parlour, mended the fire, and sat down 
 for a hearty cry. When the first paroxysm 
 was over, Hannah said that she was faint 
 for want of food, having partaken of nothing 
 since tea-time. 
 
 "Theere's Mrs Barton's jelly," faltered 
 Emma. "Poor feyther'll ne'er eat it ony 
 more." 
 
 "I canna chew jelly," said Hannah, tear- 
 fully. "Yo' can ha' it, if yo' want, but I be 
 for bread an' cheese. I'll go to the pantry 
 mysen." 
 
 From the floor above came the slow clatter- 
 ing of the old woman's shoes, as she moved 
 from side to side of the bed. The sisters, 
 as they ate and drank together, mentally 
 followed their father's final toilet. After 
 the meal, in which tears gave a salty flavour 
 to their victuals, their spirits grew less 
 burdensome, and they drew nearer the grate 
 and lifted their petticoats so that their knees 
 might warm, and talked of the funeral and 
 the guests who must be invited. Brocks 
 had always been buried festively, and the 
 old man was vastly respected. When the 
 day had been chosen, and the list of " bearers " 
 130
 
 FOR OWD TIMES' SAKE 
 
 settled, Hannah saw for the first time Mrs 
 Barton's jar of beef-tea. She opened the 
 casement and flung the concoction into the 
 garden. 
 
 "I dunna think we ought to mention it 
 yet," she said, "seein' as he's but scarce 
 cold; still I do think M'ria Barton's behaved 
 traitrous." 
 
 " I couldna make it out," responded the less 
 guileful Emma. "Poor feyther weere wor- 
 rittin' about " 
 
 " Well ! " exclaimed Hannah, " why, 'tis clear 
 as the day. He lent her fifty pound, two 
 year agone, an' I doubt he 's gotten no receipt. 
 An' yo' heerd him say as it mun be paid ? " 
 
 " I did," said Emma, " an' I saw how bothered 
 hoo looked! An' her a-coomin' wi' her jellies 
 an' stuffs, just for to make him so as held 
 forgie the debt. I e'er thought her deep 
 hoo'ld ha' wedded him when mother deed, 
 but for yo' stoppin' it." 
 
 Hannah nodded. " Do yo' rec'lect two years 
 agone him bein' queer i' his mind just afore 
 Bakewell Fair? 'Tweere then as hoo had 
 it, I dare sweer. . . . He always weere vexed 
 to part wi' money." 
 
 " But if theere's no paper, when we look i' 
 his dask, how wilt go then?" 
 
 "Hoo shall pay every penny o't," said 
 Hannah, "if we ha' to go to law wi' her. 
 Here's 'Lizbeth, eh dear ! eh dear ! eh, dear ! 
 Coome upstairs, Em. Poor, poor feyther!" 
 
 140
 
 FOR OWD TIMES' SAKE 
 
 Four full days passed before Peter was 
 borne shoulder-high along the Dale, beneath 
 a pomp of black pall with heavy white 
 fringe, to the grave beside the lich-gate. 
 Mrs Barton was, of course, present amongst 
 the guests ; but, to her amazement and dis- 
 tress, neither Hannah nor Emma deigned to 
 notice her peculiar sorrow for the loss of her 
 old friend. Since she had resolutely shunned 
 any mention of the loan, her sympathetic 
 advances were altogether slighted, and as 
 they sat down to the burial tea, after the 
 walk from the church, Hannah flouted her 
 in the presence of all the company. Still she 
 did not desist from her kindly attempts. 
 
 "I ne'er thought," said the dame, "as I'ld 
 be sittin' here on such a melinky occasion. 
 Peter, God rest him! an' me is or rather 
 was of an age ; both bein' born on the night 
 o' Pack-Rag Feast, sixty-eight years agone. 
 ... A bit onlucky wi' bad harvests, but he 
 strove an' strove bravely." 
 
 " I reckoned," remarked Emma, ignoring 
 the last words, " as yo' weere a lot owder nor 
 him. Poor feyther boo-hoo he didna look 
 more nor his years till he weere struck wi' 
 the palsy." 
 
 One of the women tittered hysterically. 
 Mrs Barton's colour rose, and she said nothing 
 more. But Hannah, whose ire had been 
 roused beyond endurance by the allusion 
 to her father's unsuccessful farming, rose 
 
 141
 
 FOR OWD TIMES' SAKE 
 
 and glared with venomous eyes across the 
 table. 
 
 " Feyther weere a good man, Missus Barton," 
 she said, " a good, kind-yearted man. E'er wi' 
 his hand i' his pocket, ready to lend fowk as 
 wanted it as much as fifty pound!" 
 
 Mrs Barton's colour faded again. "I'm 
 sayin' nowt about money," she protested. 
 "Theere weere nob'dy as respected him more 
 nor I did. I'm sure I've felt his goin' as if 
 he'd been one o' my own kin. . . . Ne'er a 
 day but I came down to see him." 
 
 "Yo' did so," said Hannah, "but let's say 
 no more about that. Only there were fowk 
 as pettled about him at the last for motives 
 o' theer own a-tryin' to deedle him so as 
 he'ld forget to speak o' money lent. Oh yes, 
 I'm mentionin' no names ; but I can see thro' 
 a stoane wall as well as ony other ooman ! " 
 
 The widow had pushed her chair aside ; 
 her lean, hard-worked hands were busy with 
 her bonnet-strings. " 'Twould be better for 
 yo', Hannah Brock," she said, "if yo'ld hold 
 your tongue. Theere's limits to my patience. 
 Peter weere a dear friend o' mine, an' 'tis 
 onseemly to insult fowk at a meal gi'en to 
 honour him. If theere be onybody at this 
 table as owed Peter money, why, then, God 
 help 'em ! for they'll ha' a wench hard as 
 nails to deal wi'!" 
 
 Hannah realised at last that her anger had 
 carried her too far; she rose and attempted 
 142
 
 FOR OWD TIMES' SAKE 
 
 to intercept Mrs Barton on her way to the 
 door. 
 
 "I dunna want a scandal," she muttered, 
 clutching a corner of the black cashmere 
 shawl. " Prythee, sit yo' down, Mrs Barton, 
 an' I'll hold my tongue for the present. We'll 
 settle about the reckonin' afterwards." 
 
 " Take your great hands away ! " cried Mrs 
 Barton, in a choked voice. " I canna bear yo' 
 touchin' me. I hadna meant for theere to be 
 a reckonin' ; but since yo' mun ha' it, yo' shall. 
 I'ld ha' been silent for Peter's sake ; but human 
 natyure canna bear such usage. An' I'll ne'er 
 darken yor door again." 
 
 Although Hannah stood blocking the way, 
 the widow thrust her aside with an angry 
 movement of the arm, and went resolutely 
 from the house. The guests at the table 
 showed faces of great disapprobation, and 
 being desirous of justifying herself, Hannah 
 began hurriedly to explain. 
 
 " I'm none one as shoots wi'out bullets," she 
 said. " Two year agone, f eyther lent her fifty 
 pound ; an' e'er since he's been a bed-lier, hoo's 
 coome wi' her jellies an' what not, hopin' 
 to wheedle him into forgi'in the debt. An' his 
 last words to her weere as it mun be paid, or 
 'twould be downright robbery. Hoo hushed 
 him, for to stop him mentionin' it. Hoo knew 
 how close poor feyther weere about tellin' us 
 his business." 
 
 An elderly farmer rose and thrust back his 
 143
 
 FOR OWD TIMES' SAKE 
 
 chair as abruptly as Mrs Barton had done. 
 " I've always held as Missus Barton weere 
 a honest an' God-fearin' ooman," he said 
 gravely, "an' I dunna like fool's-talk at such 
 a time. I reckon yo'll be 'shamed o' yorsen 
 to-morrow, or I'ld tell yo' a bit o' my mind. 
 M'ria weere ne'er one to take advantage, 
 by'r Leddy ! 'tweere usually t'other way 
 about." 
 
 He took his hat from the side -table. "I 
 consider yo've used her cruel," he added, "an' 
 theere's none at the table as'll quarrel wi' 
 me for tellin' yo' so. I wish yo' an' yor fifty 
 pound luck, an' I think yo've fouled Peter's 
 memory." 
 
 Then he tramped away, and the other 
 guests, vastly uncomfortable, gulped down 
 the remainder of the food in silence, and 
 returned to their homes. The sisters sat 
 weeping for some time after the last was 
 gone ; then Hannah brought forth several 
 strenuous reasons for her candour. She 
 knew, however, that the plain-speaking had 
 prejudiced her with her neighbours, and her 
 righteous indignation against the widow only 
 increased. 
 
 " Tell yo' whatten, Em," she said at last, 
 " I'll go an' look thro 1 poor f eyther's papers 
 now, tho' I doubt theere'll be no mention o' 
 the debt. Ne'ertheless, he said it, an' it mun 
 be gathered in. Yo' may as well set to 
 washin' up the pots, wench ; if yo' havena 
 
 144
 
 FOR OWD TIMES' SAKE 
 
 finished when I coonie down, I'll help 
 
 yov 
 
 She took a candle and went up to the 
 chamber; a few more tears flowed when 
 she beheld the oblong outline in the 
 middle of the bed. She unlocked the desk 
 where Peter had kept his private papers, 
 and began to search for the bond. As she 
 had feared, she found nothing relating to 
 monetary transactions with Mrs Barton ; but 
 her amazement was great to come across a 
 yellow bundle of love-letters, written in an 
 uncouth hand, and dated almost fifty years 
 before, and signed "Maria." 
 
 " Generous he weere ! " she sighed. " Kind- 
 yearted as a babby ! I used for to ha' my 
 thoughts as they coorted i' youth, for moother 
 could ne'er abide her. . . . An' 'cause they 
 weere owd sweetyearts he lent her the 
 money wi'out a scrap o' receipt." 
 
 She read the letters one by one, her narrow 
 mouth pouting derisively. " Deary me ! " she 
 said, when she had torn the last two pieces, 
 " hoo weere warm i' her feelin's ! I s'pose 
 feyther weere forced to refuse her. An' 
 for her, after callin' him loove an' darlin', to 
 coome a-borrowin' money i' his owd age!" 
 
 She went downstairs, after she had made 
 sure that Emma had finished her task. They 
 began to talk of the future : their father's 
 will, made many years ago, gave them equal 
 shares in the little farm. 
 K 145
 
 FOR OWD TIMES' SAKE 
 
 "We'll just go on as afore," said Hannah, 
 "but only we shall be a bit better-to-do. 
 Feyther had his failin's, theere'll be no yale- 
 house work to pay for. The club -money 
 covers the burial expenses, an' the forty-five 
 pound insurance mun stop i' the bank for 
 a nest-egg. Why, bless me, wi' Mrs Barton's 
 fifty, theere'll be well-nigh a hunnerd ! I 
 declare, if we sell the owd mare, theere'll be 
 five pound for her." 
 
 " Ay," interrupted Emma, " but had we 
 better ? Feyther said as hoo shouldna be 
 sowd whilst he lived." 
 
 "He didna say owt about after," said 
 Hannah. "Hoo's twenty-six year, an' no use 
 for leadin'. We mun ha' a new tit ; Missus 
 Barton's money'll buy that, an' a new cart, 
 an' a heifer or two." 
 
 Ere they retired they had made up their 
 minds to visit Mooredge on the following 
 afternoon and formally request an early 
 settlement. So at the appointed time they 
 climbed the hillside and reached the small 
 house where the widow lived. She had seen 
 them approach, and she was waiting at the 
 door. 
 
 " I reckon yo've coome to excuse yorsen, 
 Hannah Brock," she said, very coldly. " I 
 weere ne'er so bedone i' my life. But for 
 decency's sake yo'ld ha' heerd some truths 
 yesterday." 
 
 " We've coome to settle about that money," 
 146
 
 FOR OWD TIMES' SAKE 
 
 replied Hannah. "We want no more to do 
 wi' yo'!" 
 
 Mrs Barton's face grew somewhat kinder. 
 " I s'pose yo've found a paper or summat," she 
 said. " Theere's no call to worry ; I didna 
 mean to bother wi' it. Yor feyther an' me 
 weere lad an' lass together." 
 
 " Yo' weere," said Hannah. " I've been 
 readin' yor letters to him, writ when yo' 
 weere livin' wi' yor nuncle at Derby nay, 
 such soft stuff ! Lucky for him as he didna 
 wed yo' ! " 
 
 The widow led the way into her parlour, 
 and with a gesture bade the two black- 
 garbed spinsters sit on the most uncomfort- 
 able chairs. 
 
 "Yo're a bit loose i' the tongue, Hannah 
 Brock," she said, quietly. " Peter'ld ha' 
 married me twenty times ower but for 
 mischief as weere bred betwixt us by yor 
 moother. Hoo looved him, too, so I canna 
 blame her." 
 
 Hannah's cheeks turned pale green. "Yo' 
 let my moother be ! " she snarled, striking the 
 polished card -table fiercely with her fist. 
 "Let's settle I wunna stay i' yor house 
 one- 
 
 " Yo'll none wish, I fancy," said Mrs Barton. 
 " Ay, I'll settle." 
 
 She unlocked a drawer of her secretary 
 and took out a scrap of paper. " Here's the 
 note," she explained. " He'd to find fifty 
 
 147
 
 FOR OWD TIMES' SAKE 
 
 pound for the sheep breakin' into the Duke's 
 plantin', an' destroyin' young firs. If he 
 hadna borrowed it o' me, held ha' had to 
 raise it on the land." 
 
 Peter's daughters curved their bodies and 
 out-thrust their peaked chins. 
 
 " Whatten ? " they shrieked. 
 
 " Fifty pound as I lent him for owd times' 
 sake. I meant ne'er to ask for it ; if yo' 
 hadna been such brutes I'ld ha' burned the 
 writin'. An' now, since Peter said it mun be 
 paid, I mean to call it in wi'in a week. Yo'll 
 hear fro' Lawyer Watkins about it I'm goin' 
 to see him to-morrow." 
 
 She held open the parlour door. " I'm 
 sorry," she said ; " but 'tis yor own doin'. 
 Now yo' may go." 
 
 148
 
 A VAIN SELF-SACRIFICE 
 
 BEYOND the church, near where the road 
 widens before a little court of eighteenth- 
 century cottages, one may see a long shop- 
 window, mullioned and lozenged, behind 
 which, in a dim greenish light, stand several 
 shelves of cheap hardware and gaudy pottery. 
 In the very middle, a clay pipe is propped 
 against a sour, wrinkled orange, and a box 
 of penny cigars depends from two loops of 
 red tape that are hooked to the ceiling. The 
 inscription on the lintel says : Reuben Lowe, 
 Licensed to deal in Tobacco and Snuff, and 
 throughout the daytime anyone who passes 
 may catch a glimpse of the proprietor, through 
 the open hatchway, busily dusting his wares, 
 or attending officiously to customers. 
 
 A shrewd old man is Reuben, clean-shaved, 
 grey-skinned, stunted, and club-footed. He is 
 not a native of Milton, but of the Brig, a 
 small village on the west bank of the Darrand. 
 Brig folk are accounted the most grasping of 
 the Peaklanders ; there is a saying that when 
 they sleep the fingers of either hand open and 
 twitch together as if they continually clutched 
 
 149
 
 A VAIN SELF-SACRIFICE 
 
 something tangible and valuable. It was a 
 Brig innkeeper who won local fame by 
 converting cheese-rind into Welsh - rabbit. 
 Despite their greediness, however, Brig-folk 
 are supremely honest, and not ungenerous 
 when uncostly help is in question. 
 
 This afternoon the man was in some dis- 
 tress of mind, because his old friend and best 
 customer, Mrs Furness of the Clough had 
 not made her appearance to purchase her 
 weekly pound of tea. To ease his impatience, 
 he took from the shelf a dog's-eared account 
 book, and turned to the pages that bore her 
 name. Since he had become agent for the 
 Golden Present Tea Company, a benevolent 
 firm that gave with every packet a coupon for 
 some article of household plenishing, Sarah 
 had patronised him more than any other 
 woman in the neighbourhood. Her husband 
 was a well-to-do farmer in a small way ; but he 
 had been born at the Brig, and of all its sons 
 he was the most parsimonious, and the good 
 woman had delighted in acquiring plates and 
 glasses and cups and saucers without calling 
 upon him for the money. 
 
 It is true that the tea was not of the 
 quality to which she had been accustomed 
 before Reuben became servant of the Com- 
 pany. The decoction was bitter ; after it had 
 stood for a short while on the hob, it grew 
 thick, and almost black of hue. But she 
 trained herself to swallow it; and now, in 
 
 150
 
 A VAIN SELF-SACRIFICE 
 
 the third year, she herself consumed a full 
 pound every week, instead of the four ounces 
 which had sufficed before the benevolence 
 of the Company had been lavished upon 
 Milton. 
 
 "Tis meat an' drink to me," she would say 
 to her spouse. " I want nowt fro' day to 
 night but bread an' butter an' the brown-pot. 
 An' if they be fools enew to gie me handsome 
 dishes an' things, why, let 'em, that's whatten 
 I say." 
 
 Furness never drank tea: he had been 
 reared on beef and small beer, and to-day 
 beef and small beer were still his principal 
 food. He was a lusty old fellow, red-visaged 
 and stalwart. Sarah, until she had fallen 
 into the tea-habit, had been equally hearty, 
 but now she was thin and yellow and sickly, 
 and her mind was given to melancholy 
 humours. Still, she was vastly proud, for 
 was not her house -place full of beautiful 
 things? The shelves of her dresser bore 
 plates of exotic pattern ; the dresser itself 
 was embellished with round sheepskin mats, 
 tinged from pink to crimson ; an alarum-clock 
 of brilliant nickel-plate stood on the mantel- 
 shelf. Her parlour, too, contained oleographs 
 on the blue-washed walls oleographs of rare 
 colouring, framed in ornate gilt; a metal 
 paraffin stove nestled inside the lacquered 
 fender; a white glass lamp surmounted the 
 Bible on the centre table. 
 151
 
 A VAIN SELF-SACRIFICE 
 
 The shopkeeper climbed the hill sometimes 
 in response to her request that he should 
 see how magnificent everything looked. He 
 admired to her heart's content, for she had 
 set an excellent example to the villagers ; 
 nevertheless, he always took leave when she 
 spoke of " setting on " the kettle, and prepar- 
 ing for him a cup of her favourite beverage. 
 
 It was four o'clock and she had not arrived ; 
 never before had he known her to be so late. 
 And only yesterday an important package 
 had arrived, and he was childishly desirous 
 of hearing her outspoken pleasure at the 
 sight of her latest acquisition. He licked 
 his thumb and turned the pages of his book, 
 counting the entries made in his straggling 
 handwriting. During the last quarter she 
 had excelled herself; coupons of seventeen 
 pounds stood to her credit; one more pound, 
 and the handsomest prize he had ever ar- 
 ranged for would be delivered at her house. 
 
 "The owd ooman's cert'nly badly," he 
 muttered, "for I know hoo weere as anxious 
 as hoo could be. . . . Eh dear! speak o' 
 angels theere hoo is i' the muck-cart wi' 
 Job Slack a-drivin' her. My word, but hoo 
 does look bad!" 
 
 A hairy -legged horse halted afront the 
 door-hatch, and a red-haired lad clumsily 
 assisted the woman to alight. She came 
 tottering into the shop, for all the world 
 like a sackful of living bones. 
 
 152
 
 A VAIN SELF-SACRIFICE 
 
 "We'll go to the back-room, Reuben," she 
 said feebly. " I'm none at all well, an' I want 
 a bit o' private talk wi' yo ! " 
 
 She reeled slightly ; he put his hands under 
 her arms and pushed her forward through 
 the inner doorway to a big chair that stood 
 beside the hearth. She moved her head from 
 side to side, as if to make sure that nobody 
 else was present. 
 
 "Reuben," she said at last, drawing from 
 her pocket a piece of folded newspaper, 
 which being opened disclosed a half-crown, 
 "Reuben, I've coome to say as yo're goin' 
 to lose yor best customer. . . . This is the 
 last pound o' tea I shall buy i' the world!" 
 
 "Lord!" exclaimed the man, "yo're none 
 so bad as that! Theere's many a long year 
 afore yo' yet!" 
 
 She closed her eyes very wearily, and 
 dropped the money in her lap. "'Tis no use 
 saying ootherwise, Reuben," she said, bravely, 
 "for I know as 'tis God's truth. Tisna wi' 
 so much tea-drinkin', Reuben, mind that 
 'tis summat else as has done it. ... The 
 doctor says as 'tis tea-drinkin', but I know 
 he's wrong. . . . Ha' yo' gotten the dinner- 
 set for me?" 
 
 "Ay," he said, moving with alacrity to the 
 shop, for the dame's demeanour was very 
 discomposing. " I havena opened the hamper, 
 but I can do so i' a minute. Carrier Cowper 
 brought it fro' the station this very morn." 
 
 153
 
 A VAIN SELF-SACRIFICE 
 
 He untied the strings of the wicker lid, 
 and after carefully removing the straw, 
 brought to light one by one the various 
 pieces of a stoneware dinner service. Mrs 
 Furness watched him arranging them upon 
 the round table ; occasionally she bent for- 
 ward and pursing her lips examined very 
 carefully any flaws upon the enamel, or beat 
 with her knuckles such articles as she feared 
 might be cracked. When all were in sight, 
 she sank back in her chair and eyed the 
 display very curiously. 
 
 "Tis a pratty pattron," she observed. 
 "Them birds swallows they be, fro' theer 
 shape a-peckin' butterflies is very true, to 
 my thinkin'. An' theere isna owt i' the way 
 o' dinner dishes up a' whoame, save such as 
 Mester Furness heired fro' his mother. Those 
 be cracked, an' bodged wi' tape an' white 
 lead. ... Reuben, if all had gone on well, 
 these'ld ha' been used at my f un'ral ! " 
 
 " Why," he exclaimed, " yo're none dead yet, 
 nor like to be, I do trust ! " 
 
 "'Tis what ten I want to be, onyhow," she 
 sighed. "Reuben, I do b'lieve as my yeart's 
 bruk' clean i' two!" 
 
 Then she lifted a corner of her shawl to 
 her eyes and began to whimper. 
 
 Reuben moved to and fro in bewilderment ; 
 
 for, being a bachelor, he had little knowledge 
 
 of how to treat an ailing, troubled woman. 
 
 Suddenly he remembered having read that the 
 
 154
 
 A VAIN SELF-SACRIFICE 
 
 sex regarded a cup of tea as a panacea for 
 depression ; lie stirred his fire and set the 
 copper kettle on the flame, regardless of its 
 brightness disappearing behind a cloak of 
 soot. But Mrs Furness, after making a chok- 
 ing sound in her throat, rose and laid a de- 
 laying hand on his arm. 
 
 "No more o' that tea!" she cried hoarsely. 
 " I couldna sup anoother drop to save my 
 lif e ! " 
 
 " I weerena goin' to gie yo' that as yo' buy," 
 he stammered. " I've ne'er been i' the way o' 
 takin' it, bein' used to green, as 'tweere, so to 
 speak." 
 
 " Happen I can manage a cup, then," she 
 said ; " but I b'lieve if I weere to savour that 
 as I bought, I'ld dee the next minute ! Yo' see 
 I've been such a great tea-drinker an' all on 
 account o' th' prizes as I got. 'Tweerena as I 
 looved it : but it got hold o' me, an' made me 
 a slave to the pot." 
 
 For a brief while she was silent ; but when 
 he had poured out a cupful and she had 
 gulped down a great draught, the floodgate 
 of her confidence was opened, and she began 
 to tell her woes in a high, shrill voice. The 
 hectic colour deepened on her face ; drops of 
 perspiration oozed from her forehead. 
 
 "I dunna care who knows, Reuben," she 
 said, "an' I mean to tell yo' all. Mester 
 Furness has been a miser e'er since I wedded 
 him, an' afoore that, I make no doubt. An' 
 
 155
 
 A VAIN SELF-SACRIFICE 
 
 I've been his wife for forty year now, an' ne'er 
 i' all that time has he spent a penny i' buyin' 
 things for the house, tho' I used for to beg an' 
 pray. ... I wore his mother's owd cloathes, 
 an' her mother's too, an' I've ne'er had owt 
 to spend private on mysen. So, Reuben, lad, 
 yo' may judge how glad I weere when them 
 good fowk began a-givin' the presents. An' 
 after the first jug I'd gotten i' that fashion, it 
 took possession o' me as I mun get all I 
 wanted wi' the tea. So I drank more an' 
 more, an' tho' Mester Furness grum'led, he 
 couldna well say me nay. 
 
 " Yo' see, Reuben, I've been breakin' up for 
 some months (tea-drinkin' may ha' weakened 
 me a bit), an' last Saturday I weere that queer 
 as I had to stop i' bed, an' Mester Furness 
 brought Liz Barker from Grassbrook to look 
 to the house for a day or two. I ne'er liked 
 the hussy I've more nor once jealoused as 
 he fancied her. . . . An' that night I woke at 
 twelve o'clock, an' wi' him none bein' aside o' 
 me i' the bed, an' voices soundin' downsteers, 
 I gets up, dons my shawl, an' creeps o' tiptoe 
 to wheere they weere. ... I' the parlour, if 
 yo'll b'lieve me, an' he weere showing her all 
 the things I'd gathered ! 
 
 " 'Ay, the owd lass canna last long,' says my 
 mester, ' an' all these grand articles '11 be yors, 
 for I shanna wait three month afore yo' an' 
 me be man an' wife ! ' Liz, hoo giggles. ' 'Tis 
 a lovely spot,' hoo says. 'I'll be proud o' 
 
 156
 
 A VAIN SELF-SACRIFICE 
 
 whatten hoo's chose. I ne'er thought I'ld 
 be so grateful.' 
 
 " They moved to the door, an' I crawled back 
 to bed, an' when Mester Furness did coome, I 
 said nowt, but pretended to be fast asleep. 
 But 'tis God's truth as my yeart's smashed 
 clean i' two." 
 
 She rose from her chair. " Job'll be tired o' 
 waitin'," she said, " so I mun go. Reuben, yo'll 
 put the dinner-set at the back o' the cart. 
 Good-bye, lad, if I dunna see yo' again, yo'll 
 none forget whatten I've towd." 
 
 After he had replaced the pots and lifted 
 the hamper into the vehicle, she caught his 
 sleeve and drew him back into the shop. 
 
 " I've made up my mind to do summat," she 
 said, vindictively. " As soon as I get whoame 
 an' he goes out to see his Liz, I'll take a 
 hammer an' smash every prize I've gotten. 
 Yon wratch shall ne'er ha' owt I've addled ! " 
 
 167
 
 THE LOST PRIZES 
 
 JABEZ REDFERN had courted Mrs Bowers ever 
 since her husband had died of a chill, caught 
 at the rejoicing of the late Queen's first 
 Jubilee. Ephraim had assisted at the lighting 
 of the beacon on Milton Edge, and, overcome 
 with heavy draughts of home-brewed, had 
 spent the night amongst the heather. One 
 day he was a lusty middle-aged man, the next, 
 a rheum atical, sneezing dotterel. The duties 
 of parish clerk and sexton devolved for a 
 while upon his wife unaided she dug three 
 graves in the churchyard ; then, as his illness 
 became serious, a successor filled the posts. 
 Ephraim Bowers lingered for only three 
 weeks. 
 
 Milton folk are great exhibitors at Darrand 
 Show, and for many years the sexton had 
 always won the first prize for potatoes. His 
 garden was sandy; and he had the secret of 
 a marvellous top-dressing, which, according 
 to his enemies, was made of ground human 
 bones. This secret in his last hours he re- 
 vealed to his wife, who received it under a 
 promise to tell nobody else ; and that same 
 
 158
 
 THE LOST PRIZES 
 
 year she strove against the grief of her loneli- 
 ness and achieved as great a success as he had 
 ever known. After that, every summer, more 
 magnificent potatoes lay in honour on a side- 
 table of the vegetable-marquee, and the widow 
 became famous as a specialist in their culture. 
 She was exceedingly proud of her success ; as 
 proud, indeed, as her neighbour, Jabez Red- 
 fern, was of his delicate strain of Sebright ban- 
 tams, which had been so carefully inbred that 
 at the last only a young cockerel and a pullet 
 survived chickenhood. This race of bantams 
 (inherited by Jabez from his father) had al- 
 ways won an excellent award at Darrand Show. 
 They were dainty little red -spotted birds, 
 with haughtily-carried heads, and tails perked 
 upward till they almost touched the combs. 
 They never reached any great age, but invari- 
 ably wasted away and died in their second 
 year not, however, before the retired 
 cobbler had cultivated their instincts so 
 that they obeyed his every gesture. It was 
 pretty to watch them, summoned by his 
 faint whistle, flutter up to his shoulders 
 and roost there, one on either side, whilst he 
 smoked and read his daily newspaper in the 
 garden or by the house-place fire. 
 
 Mrs Bowers affected contempt the ban- 
 tams' eggs (when there were any) were no 
 bigger than marbles, and incalculable mischief 
 was wrought by their scratching amongst the 
 gaffer's vegetables. It was because of his 
 158
 
 dread lest they might uproot something in 
 her garden that he fixed wire-netting around 
 his own ; and the good \voman, in her more 
 kindly moments, poked dainties, such as dead 
 beetles and crickets, through the mesh. 
 
 Every evening he spent an hour in her 
 company, talking of old and recent times. 
 Each had a little property in the Nether End 
 of the village, and their chief stories con- 
 cerned the tenants past and present. Jabez 
 attended in person to the repairs, accepting 
 no return from Mrs Bowers save her heartily 
 expressed thanks, and since her husband's 
 death she had not expended one penny on 
 labour. She used to go down sometimes to 
 watch him mending the roofs or painting 
 the windows and doors ; when the job was 
 done, she would share with him a quart of 
 small beer, and with his feet resting on her 
 fender he would quaver old songs about love 
 in spring-time. 
 
 He was timorous by nature year by year 
 he deferred putting the momentous question. 
 She used many womanly arts to stimulate 
 him, and sometimes, after he had retired, 
 she would weep bitter tears because of her 
 failure. At last, however, she determined to 
 arouse his jealousy, and began to decoy to 
 her house a younger man, Elias Wilks, of the 
 "Newburgh Arms," upon whom her blandish- 
 ments had a very successful effect. After 
 the first meeting of the rivals, in her house- 
 
 160
 
 THE LOST PRIZES 
 
 place, the widow grew sprucer in her attire, 
 and took to wearing in the evenings an old 
 lavender silk gown and a lace cap. As time 
 passed, Elias visited her as frequently as 
 Jabez, and the two men smoked in silence, 
 whilst she, dismissing all mention of her 
 property, told them of the love-successes of 
 her girlhood. 
 
 And so it went on till a short time before 
 this year's Darrand Show, for which Mrs 
 Bowers, excelling all her past successes, grew 
 a red potato as large as a middle-sized vege- 
 table marrow, and Jabez reared the daintiest 
 pair of bantams that he had ever seen. 
 Certain signs of late had shown him that 
 the widow was turning towards Elias ; and 
 at last, in the exultation aroused by the 
 knowledge that they were to win a great 
 triumph, he made up his mind to relinquish 
 his bachelorhood. So one evening he donned 
 his Sunday clothes, and stuck a pink aster 
 in his button - hole, before paying his cus- 
 tomary visit. Somewhat to his chagrin, Elias 
 had arrived first, and the widow was giggling 
 very merrily as he entered. 
 
 "Coome an' sit yo' down, Jabez," she said. 
 "Mester Wilks has just been praisin' the 
 'tater. See, 'tis here on the table i' all my 
 life I ne'er dreamed o' such a one ! An' wi' 
 a skin red an' soft as a new-born babby's, 
 hee-hee ! " 
 
 He examined the wonderful tuber. " Seems 
 L 161
 
 THE LOST PRIZES 
 
 to me as the prize should be doubled," he said. 
 " Lord ! Sarah, 'tis grand to look upon ! " 
 
 She eyed him rather wistfully. "An' yor 
 banties are just loovely," she said. "Nay, 
 yo've gotten 'em to perfection this year! 
 They're so vally'ble (bein' the last o' the kind 
 i' the coontry), as I'm surprised yo'll let 'em 
 go to the Show." 
 
 "Ay," he replied, "I'm a bit nervous the 
 breed's dyin' out at last; but the ruby spots 
 ha' coome as true as guineas i' this pair. 
 They've been a lot o' trouble ; but I dunna 
 begrudge it. None as the prize is worth 
 much 'tis the honour o' ha'in' the only 
 Sebrights o' the kind i' all the land." 
 
 Mrs Bowers nodded absently, and resumed 
 her conversation concerning the prize vege- 
 table with Elias. Jabez sat glowering; but 
 did not speak until the clock struck ten and 
 the landlord rose to depart. 
 
 " Good - night to both o' yo'," said Mrs 
 Bowers. "I reckon we'll all meet again 
 to-morrow ? " 
 
 Jabez did not move from his chair. "I've 
 gotten a question to ask yo', when yo're 
 aloane," he said bravely. "It concerns us an' 
 nob'dy else, so I'll wait till Mester Wilks 
 takes his leave." 
 
 The widow accompanied Elias to the 
 garden; Jabez coloured as he heard their 
 muffled laughter. When she returned, she 
 carried the potato into the pantry, where 
 
 162
 
 THE LOST PRIZES 
 
 she placed it very carefully in a blue willow- 
 pattern bowl on the window-sill. The old 
 man watched her through the open doorway. 
 She tripped back to the house-place, and going 
 on her knees before the fire, began to stir 
 the cinders from the grate. 
 
 "I said as I'd gotten summat to ask yo', 
 Sarah," he said; "but yo've a way o' coolin' 
 me off." 
 
 Mrs Bowers yawned ostentatiously. " Well," 
 she said, " I've a notion whatten 'tis ; but I 
 may as well stop yo' makin' a fool o' yorsen. 
 Yo' should ha' asked that question years an' 
 years agone, 'stead o' lettin' anoother chap 
 do it. Mester Wilks, he put it to me, an' 
 we're to be wedded i' a month. The 'New- 
 burgh Arms' wants a ooman, and a ooman 
 wants to be at the 'Newburgh Arms'!" 
 
 Jabez rose from his chair and stood trem- 
 bling in the midst of the hearth-rug. "Then 
 yo' mean to tell me, when I've coorted yo' for 
 so long, as I'm to be chucked ower ? " he cried. 
 "Chucked ower for that filthy owd spindle- 
 legs ! " 
 
 "No names!" she exclaimed angrily. "No 
 names! I'll put up wi' no nonsense. I ne'er 
 promised yo'. Mester Wilks's a comelier man 
 nor yo' \veere i' yor prime ! Be off an' leave 
 me aloane I've gotten nowt to say to yo'!" 
 
 He marched to the door; but turned there 
 with clenched fists. " 'Tis a dirty trick, Sarah," 
 he said sullenly. "A dirty trick; but mind 
 
 163
 
 THE LOST PRIZES 
 
 yo' arena paid out. Spit i' the air, said my 
 feyther, an' 'twill fall on yor own yead!" 
 
 Mrs Bowers muttered a sour retort, which 
 he did not wait to acknowledge ; but left the 
 house very hastily, and soon was seated be- 
 fore his own fire, hatching a suitable penalty 
 for her offence. He did not go to rest that 
 night, and before dawn crept out across his 
 garden and took his bantams from their 
 coop. Then he passed in silence to the 
 window of Mrs Bowers' pantry, and opening 
 it placed the birds gently on the inner sill. 
 In another minute both were pecking lustily 
 at the prize potato, marring its comeliness 
 and scattering fragments all over the stone. 
 
 All would have gone well had not the cock 
 crowed joyously at the sight of the damage 
 they had done. And Jabez whistled for them 
 to return ; but before they had time to obey 
 the summons, a stout, night-capped and grey- 
 gowned figure appeared at the door, and a 
 wild cry resounded through the morning air, 
 then a strong hand forced down the zinc 
 window, and Jabez saw no more, but, terror- 
 stricken, flew back to his own home. 
 
 It was the most miserable day of his life. 
 Not until night-time dared he venture again 
 out of doors. He had sat through the long 
 hours beside the dead fire, his face covered 
 with his hands. At last, at his usual hour of 
 visiting Mrs Bowers, he summoned up his 
 courage and tottered to her cottage. 
 
 164
 
 THE LOST PRIZES 
 
 She met him at the door ; there was no re- 
 sentment in her countenance nought but a 
 comfortable satisfaction. He caught sight of 
 the landlord, smoking a meerschaum pipe that 
 had belonged to the sexton ; but even this did 
 not excite him to anger. 
 
 " Sarah," he groaned, " I beg yo' to f orgie me 
 I weere mad I acted like a fool! Let me 
 ha' my poor ban ties again?" 
 
 "Ay," she replied, calmly, "I've no objec- 
 tions. I got 'em ready just a while back. 
 Good banties, yors." 
 
 She went to the mantelpiece. A deadly 
 fear woke in his heart. She came back and 
 dropped two tiny merry-thoughts into his 
 outstretched hand, and then shut the door in 
 his face. 
 
 165
 
 MISTAKEN VOWS 
 
 AFTER supper, Mrs Wheat opened her tortoise- 
 shell snuff-box and took a large pinch. Then, 
 lifting from her lap a folded handkerchief 
 with a mourning border, she dusted her upper 
 lip very carefully, and leaned back against the 
 plump cushions of her green baize - covered 
 arm-chair. She was a stout, well-favoured 
 woman of forty-five, fair-skinned, with two 
 rows of nut-brown ringlets, and little almond- 
 shaped clear blue eyes. Her black mantle and 
 bonnet had been carefully laid on the settle ; 
 on the table near the window lay a prayer- 
 book and a neatly-folded umbrella. It was 
 evident that she had been to church ; she had 
 not even troubled to change her new gown 
 of dove-coloured silk. During the walk home- 
 ward along the limestone road that divides 
 the Kettle woods, she had spoken with some 
 acrimony to her companion concerning the 
 parson's text, and now that they sat (the 
 twilight deepening) in her best parlour, she 
 reverted to the subject. 
 
 "Nay, Marcus," she said, "I canna think he 
 weere justified. If a wise ooman he hath 
 
 166
 
 MISTAKEN VOWS 
 
 none seen, why then, 'tis callin' hissen fool 
 or summat worse ! Parson's been wed thrice, 
 an' theere's talk o' him choosin' another, so 
 if he hasna seen one o' my sect wi' wisdom 
 but I've no patience ! Well, so be it happen 
 no wise ooman'ld look at him." 
 
 Marcus Blackwall giggled shrewdly. He 
 was a slender bachelor of the widow's own 
 age, of a lesser stature, and endowed with 
 the aspect of a kindly weasel. Bristling red 
 whiskers sprang from either cheek, but his 
 chin and throat were cleanly-shaven. A long 
 gold chain hung around his neck, in the old 
 fashion; attached to its clasp was an often- 
 displayed pinchbeck watch in a shagreen case. 
 As they had passed through the garden he 
 had furtively plucked a spray of lad's-love 
 just now he was twiddling it in his fingers. 
 
 " Heaven be thanked ! " he said, when his 
 giggle was finally suppressed. "He mun ha' 
 been blind when yo' passed that way, Ruth." 
 
 She smiled delightedly at the compliment. 
 " What a tongue yo've gotten, Marcus ! " she 
 cried. " Yo' know the words as'll set a ooman 
 satisfied wi' hersen ! Theere weere ne'er such 
 a lad for flatt'ry! Now, take t'oother easy- 
 chair that poor Yeb used an' make yorsen 
 coomfortable." 
 
 Marcus obeyed with alacrity, for the old 
 spinning-stool which he had chosen was peril- 
 ously weak in the legs. He sat for a while 
 in silence, looking around on the handsome 
 
 167
 
 MISTAKEN VOWS 
 
 furniture and the coloured engravings of 
 farm-house life. He was wondering if the 
 widow could tear herself from her luxurious 
 environment to live in one equally luxurious 
 at his home in North Staffordshire, thirty 
 miles away. They had been great friends in 
 early life, and since Mr Wheat's death he 
 had realised that, as his old mother was 
 paralysed, no housekeeper would suit him so 
 well as Ruth. For a reasonable excuse to 
 visit her, some months ago he had bought 
 the Grassbrook corn-mill, and had discovered 
 frequent occasion to drive over with instruc- 
 tions to the man whom he had installed there. 
 As he wondered, he drew from his pocket 
 a moleskin tobacco-pouch and a well-coloured 
 meerschaum with an amber mouthpiece. Mrs 
 Wheat's gaze was downcast ; she did not look 
 up until a slight cloud floated before her face. 
 He had twisted a piece of paper, had held it 
 between the bars and lighted the bowl in 
 silence. Her colour rose and her narrow eyes 
 sparkled with vexation. She had always been 
 a hater of tobacco ; never before in her recol- 
 lection had the baneful odour tainted her best 
 parlour. Yeb had often declaimed against the 
 vile habit (like herself he was a confirmed 
 snuff-taker), and powerful advice had been 
 given by each to young folk against the per- 
 nicious results of smoking. Strange to say, 
 until this moment she had been unaware of 
 Marcus's subjection to the weed ; for never 
 168
 
 MISTAKEN VOWS 
 
 before had he felt so certain of her good 
 graces as to set himself entirely at ease. 
 
 She began to cough very violently, as if 
 she were choking; a less enamoured man 
 might have fancied that the paroxysm was 
 feigned. He rose hastily, laid down his pipe, 
 and began to pat her between the shoulders. 
 But she coughed on until her throat was sore 
 and the tears ran down her cheek. 
 
 " Tis the bacca as did it," she gasped, at last. 
 " Nay, please dunna stop smoakin' : I'll happen 
 get the better o't. But hieu-hieu it tickles 
 my throat so as I can scarce breathe ! " 
 
 She did not recover until, instructed by her 
 broken words, he opened the door of a highly- 
 polished corner -cupboard, and took out a 
 green flask half filled with elderberry syrup. 
 When she had sipped a wineglassful, she again 
 plaintively desired Marcus to resume his 
 smoking, and he was unwise enough to take 
 her at her word; but this time sat closer to 
 the mantelpiece, and sent the fumes up the 
 chimney. 
 
 " I'm goin' back to Dove Dale i' the morn," 
 he said, hesitatingly ; " an' I thought I'ld like 
 to ha' a few particular words wi' yo' to-night. 
 Yo' see, Ruth, my owd mother is oneasy i' 
 her mind hoo holds that no house is kep' i' 
 proper order wheere theere isna a missus to 
 look after it." 
 
 "Ay," said Mrs Wheat, "that's truth. The 
 long an' the short o't is, Marcus yo' mun set 
 
 169
 
 MISTAKEN VOWS 
 
 about lookin' for a wife. Yo've lived single 
 long enew." 
 
 She clicked the lid of her snuff-box sharply 
 and took another pinch; in her excitement 
 she forgot to remove the dust from her 
 upper lip, so that it seemed as if an auburn 
 moustache budded there. In spite of his 
 sincere affection, the sight of her altered ap- 
 pearance gave him a certain revulsion. He 
 averted his face as he replied, and looked into 
 the heart of the fire. 
 
 " I weere wonderin' if yo' could be persuaded 
 to be that missus," he said ; " theere's none 
 I fancy as I fancy yo', an' I make no doubt 
 as I can warrant yor happiness. I'm a warm 
 man my money grows every year yo' needna 
 fear to lose owt i' that way. I shanna want 
 a penny o' yor'n. Yo'll keep it as now, i' yor 
 own possession." 
 
 He groped for her hand ; the widow's chin 
 was trembling as it was wont to tremble 
 under great emotion. The last time it had 
 been affected in that way was when Yeb 
 Wheat lay dying. Marcus did not, however, 
 remove his gaze from the grate. 
 
 "Yo've done me a great honour, lad," she 
 murmured, " an' I thank yo' kindly. I thought 
 yo'ld ask me, an' I made up my mind to say 
 'Yes.' But I didna know as yo 1 weere such 
 a slave to smoakin', Marcus, an' 'tis a heavy 
 hour for me when I find that out." 
 
 " Well, well," cried Marcus, " theere's surely 
 170
 
 MISTAKEN VOWS 
 
 no sin i' that! I'm none gi'en to it save at 
 nights after supper, when I'm i' good 
 coomp'ny." 
 
 "Is't a habit yo' can break off?" she asked 
 eagerly. "Yeb, he ne'er practised it he 
 taught me as 'tweere the filthiest trick under 
 creation. If yo' canna gie ower " 
 
 "We've both gotten filthy tricks, then!" ex- 
 claimed Marcus, warmly. " To my thinkin', 
 snuff-takin's far worse nor smoakin'. Oh, ay, 
 I can gie ower, if yo' can do the same wi' 
 snuff." 
 
 "Snuff?" she cried. "Why, Marcus, no 
 reasonable man can ha' the least objection 
 to snuff ! It has run i' our family for more 
 nor a hunnerd year ; men an' oomen alike ha' 
 taken it. Snuff clears the brain an' the eye- 
 sight my feyther used for to say as 'tweere 
 takin' snuff as helped him to make his for- 
 tune. Sithee, on the lid o' the box is writ 
 my great-gran'mother's name an' the date 
 o' her weddin' ! " 
 
 She passed the box with trembling fingers ; 
 he handled it very gingerly, and instead 
 of returning it to her keeping, laid it heed- 
 lessly on the shining seat of the spinning- 
 stool. 
 
 " I dunna say as I couldna be happy wi' yo', 
 lad," she continued ; " for I've growed fond 
 o' yo', an' we weere lad an lass together afore 
 I made up wi' Yeb. But this I do sweer if 
 yo've gotten i' the bacca habit so as yo' canna 
 
 171
 
 MISTAKEN VOWS 
 
 stop, why then, yo' an' me can ne'er be house- 
 mates." 
 
 " I'm willin'," said Marcus, shortly, " I'm 
 willin' to gie up mine if yo'll gie up yor'n. 
 That's all I've gotten to say, an' it strikes me 
 as 'tis a fair bargain. Now I mun be off ; I'll 
 coome ower next Sunday, an' we'll settle 
 matters then." 
 
 He was so disturbed that he took leave 
 without shaking hands, and in place of his 
 pipe and tobacco-pouch slipped into his pocket 
 her heirloom snuff-box. When he was gone, 
 the widow drew up her skirts so that her 
 knees might be thoroughly warmed before 
 going bedward, and then she began to cry 
 gently. Never until now had she realised how 
 attached she had grown to her suitor ; indeed, 
 the feeling he had aroused was as powerful 
 as that she had experienced for Yeb him- 
 self in the heyday of courtship. When the 
 fountain of her tears was exhausted, she rose 
 to refresh herself with the maligned snuff, 
 and found to her intense mortification that 
 the box had disappeared. Unfortunately, 
 moreover, she had no other snuff in the house, 
 and as it was Sunday night it would be useless 
 to send one of the farm lads to the village 
 store. She retired to bed, and missed pain- 
 fully the last pinch she was accustomed to 
 take after her devotions. Sleep would not 
 be wooed the god resolutely ignored her 
 advances and after hearing the sheep's-head 
 172
 
 MISTAKEN VOWS 
 
 clock strike three, she went down again to 
 the parlour, in the vain hope of finding the 
 box somewhere on the floor. The fire was 
 not yet burned out ; she poked it into a blaze, 
 and, holding the candle in one hand, groped 
 all over the carpet. The excitement of the 
 last few hours had sharpened her faculties 
 in an odd fashion. She began gradually to 
 understand that Marcus's love of tobacco 
 might be as important as her love of snuff. 
 She sat once more in the green arm-chair 
 (this time attired in nightgown, scarlet shawl 
 and felt slippers), and wondered wondered. 
 Finally she rose guiltily, and took Marcus's 
 pipe and filled it with tobacco, which she 
 lighted with a red-hot cinder. She suppressed 
 a few natural qualms, and soon was puffing 
 as lustily as any gaffer. 
 
 Much to her consternation, Marcus did not 
 attend church on the following Sunday even- 
 ing. When she returned home, however, she 
 found him waiting in the best parlour. He 
 greeted her cordially, reading a hearty wel- 
 come in her reception. Before he would sit 
 down again, she went to her corner cupboard 
 and took out his meerschaum pipe and tobacco- 
 pouch. 
 
 "I've to ask yor pardon," she said, humbly. 
 "Smoake as much as yo' like I'm more nor 
 willin'." 
 
 "Dear Lord!" he ejaculated. "I made a 
 173
 
 MISTAKEN VOWS 
 
 solemn vow ne'er to smoake again took my 
 Bible oath i' earnest. Yo' proved to me as 
 snuff-takin' weere better, an' I've fallen to 
 that wi' all my yeart." 
 
 The poor widow's head had fallen back ; her 
 hands were uplifted; she had grown dizzy 
 and faint of a sudden. 
 
 " Mercy upo' us all ! " she said, in a husky 
 voice. "I did the same about snuff, an', to 
 please yo', chose tobacco in its place ! " 
 
 A long silence followed; then Marcus, with 
 a heavy sigh, put his arm around her waist. 
 
 "Whatten mun be, mun be," he said, not 
 without bitterness. " I reckon I'd liefer things 
 had been left as they weere!" 
 
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