LITMIR.BIZ

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by the comb-bearer’s seeing her cat, scratching in the Annable garden, unearth the white and brown doe-skin, after which the trouble had begun.

      The squint-eyed woman was not so hard to manage. I talked to her as if she were some male friend of mine, only appealing to her womanliness with all the soft sadness I could press into the tones of my voice. In the end she was mollified, and even tender and motherly in her feelings towards the unfortunate family. I left on her dresser the half-crown I shrank from offering her, and, having reduced the comb-wearer also, I marched off, carrying the stewpot and the fragments of the ill-fated doe to the cottage of the widow, where George and the girls awaited me.

      The house was in a woeful state. In the rocking-chair, beside the high guard that surrounded the hearth, sat the mother, rocking, looking sadly shaken now her excitement was over. Lettie was nursing the little baby, and Emily the next child. George was smoking his pipe and trying to look natural. The little kitchen was crowded — there was no room — there was not even a place on the table for the stew-jar, so I gathered together cups and mugs containing tea sops, and set down the vessel of ignominy on the much-slopped tea-cloth. The four little children were striped and patched with tears — at my entrance one under the table recommenced to weep, so I gave him my pencil which pushed in and out, but which pushes in and out no more.

      The sight of the stewpot affected the mother afresh. She wept again, crying:

      “An’ I niver thought as ‘ow it were aught but a snared ’un; as if I should set ’im on ter thieve their old doe; an’ tough it was an’ all; an’ ’im a thief, an’ me called all the names they could lay their tongues to; an’ then in my bit of a pantry, takin’ the very pots out; that stewpot as I brought all the way from Nottingham, an’ I’ve ‘ad it afore our Minnie wor born —”

      The baby, the little baby, then began to cry. The mother got up suddenly, and took it.

      “Oh, come then, come then, my pet. Why, why cos they shanna, no they shanna. Yes, he’s his mother’s least little lad, he is, a little ’un. Hush then, there, there — what’s a matter, my little?”

      She hushed the baby, and herself. At length she asked: “‘As th’ p’liceman gone as well?”

      “Yes — it’s all right,” I said.

      She sighed deeply, and her look of weariness was painful to see.

      “How old is your eldest?” I asked.

      “Fanny — she’s fourteen. She’s out service at Websters. Then Jim, as is thirteen next month — let’s see, yes, it is next month — he’s gone to Flints — farming. They can’t do much — an’ I shan’t let ’em go into th’ pit, if I can help it. My husband always used to say they should never go in th’ pit.”

      “They can’t do much for you.”

      “They dun what they can. But it’s a hard job, it is, ter keep ’em all goin’. Wi’ weshin’, an’ th’ parish pay, an’ five shillin’ from th’ squire — it’s ‘ard. It was diff’rent when my husband was alive. It ought ter ‘a been me as should ‘a died — I don’t seem as if I can manage ’em-they get beyond me. I wish I was dead this minnit, an’ ’im ’ere. I can’t understand it: ’im as wor so capable, to be took, an’ me left. ‘E wor a man in a thousand, ‘e wor — full o’ management like a gentleman. I wisht it was me as ‘ad a been took. ‘An ‘e’s restless, ‘cos ‘e knows I find it ‘ard. I stood at th’ door last night, when they was all asleep, looking out over th’ pit pond — an’ I saw a light, an’ I knowed it was ’im-cos it wor our weddin’ day yesterday — by the day an’ th’ date. An’ I said to ’im, ‘Frank, is it thee, Frank? I’m all right, I’m gettin’ on all right’— an’ then ‘e went; seemed to go ower the whimsey an’ back towards th’ wood. I know it wor ’im, an’ ‘e couldna rest, thinkin’ I couldna manage —”

      After a while we left, promising to go again, and to see after the safety of Sam.

      It was quite dark, and the lamps were lighted in the houses. We could hear the throb of the fan-house engines, and the soft whirr of the fan.

      “Isn’t it cruel?” said Emily plaintively.

      “Wasn’t the man a wretch to marry the woman like that,” added Lettie with decision.

      “Speak of Lady Chrystabel,” said I, and then there was silence. “I suppose he did not know what he was doing, any more than the rest of us.”

      “I thought you were going to your aunt’s — to the Ram Inn,” said Lettie to George when they came to the cross-roads.

      “Not now — it’s too late,” he answered quietly. “You will come round our way, won’t you?”

      “Yes,” she said.

      We were eating bread and milk at the farm, and the father was talking with vague sadness and reminiscence, lingering over the thought of their departure from the old house. He was a pure romanticist, forever seeking the colour of the past in the present’s monotony. He seemed settling down to an easy contented middle age, when the unrest on the farm and development of his children quickened him with fresh activity. He read books on the land question and modern novels. In the end he became an advanced radical, almost a socialist. Occasionally his letters appeared in the newspapers. He had taken a new hold on life.

      Over supper he became enthusiastic about Canada, and to watch him, his ruddy face lighted up, his burly form straight and nerved with excitement, was to admire him; to hear him, his words of thoughtful common sense all warm with a young man’s hopes, was to love him. At forty-five he was more spontaneous and enthusiastic than George, and far more happy and hopeful.

      Emily would not agree to go away with them — what should she do in Canada, she said — and she did not want the little ones “to be drudges on a farm — in the end to be nothing but cattle”.

      “Nay,” said her father gently, “Mollie shall learn the dairying, and David will just be right to take to the place when I give up. It’ll perhaps be a bit rough and hard at first, but when we’ve got over it we shall think it was one of the best times — like you do.”

      “And you, George?” asked Lettie.

      “I’m not going. What should I go for? There’s nothing at the end of it only a long life. It’s like a day here in June — a long work day, pleasant enough, and when it’s done you sleep well — but it’s work and sleep and comfort — half a life. It’s not enough. What’s the odds? — I might as well be Flower, the mare.”

      His father looked at him gravely and thoughtfully.

      “Now it seems to me so different,” he said sadly, “it seems to me you can live your own life, and be independent, and think as you like without being choked with harassments. I feel as if I could keep on — like that —”

      “I’m going to get more out of my life, I hope,” laughed George. “No. Do you know?” and here he turned straight to Lettie. “Do you know, I’m going to get pretty rich, so that I can do what I want for a bit. I want to see what it’s like, to taste all sides — to taste the towns. I want to know what I’ve got in me. I’ll get rich — or at least I’ll have a good try.”

      “And pray how will you manage it?” asked Emily.

      “I’ll begin by marrying — and then you’ll see.”

      Emily laughed with scorn —“Let us see you begin.”

      “Ah, you’re not wise!” said the father sadly — then, laughing, he said to Lettie in coaxing, confidential tones, “But he’ll come out there to me in a year or two — you see if he doesn’t.”

      “I wish I could come now,” said I.

      “If you would,” said George, “I’d go with you. But not by myself, to become a fat stupid fool, like my own cattle.”

      While

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