THE END
Some things--such as gossip--gain in the telling, but there are others before which words fail, though each heart knows its own power of sympathy. And such was the joy of the little ladies and of Thomasina at John Broom"s return.
The sheep dog had had his satisfaction out long ago, and had kept it to himself, but how Pretty c.o.c.ky crowed, and chuckled, and danced, and bowed his crest, and covered his face with his amber wings, and kicked his seed-pot over, and spilled his water-pot on to the Derbyshire marble chess-table, and screamed till the room rang again, and went on screaming, with Miss Kitty"s pocket-handkerchief over his head to keep him quiet, my poor pen can but imperfectly describe.
The desire to atone for the past which had led John Broom to act the part of one of those Good-Fellows who have, we must fear, finally deserted us, will be easily understood. And to a nature of his type, the earning of some self-respect, and of a character before others, was perhaps a necessary prelude to future well-doing.
He did do well. He became a good scholar, as farmers were then. He spent as much of his pa.s.sionate energies on the farm as the farm would absorb, and he restrained the rest. It is not c.o.c.katoos only who have sometimes to live and be happy in this unfinished life with one wing clipped.
In fine weather, when the perch was put into the garden, Miss Betty was sometimes startled by stumbling on John Broom in the dusk, sitting on his heels, the unfastened chain in his hand, with his black head lovingly laid against c.o.c.k"s white and yellow poll, talking in a low voice, and apparently with the sympathy of his companion; and as Miss Betty justly feared, of that "other side of the world," which they both knew, and which both at times had cravings to revisit.
Even after the sobering influences of middle age had touched him, and a wife and children bound him with the quiet ties of home, he had (at long intervals) his "restless times," when his good "misses" would bring out a little store laid by in one of the children"s socks, and would bid him. "Be off, and get a breath of the sea-air," but on condition that the sock went with him as his purse. John Broom always looked ashamed to go, but he came back the better, and his wife was quite easy in his absence with that confidence in her knowledge of the "master," which is so mysterious to the unmarried, and which Miss Betty looked upon as "want of feeling" to the end. She always dreaded that he would not return, and a little ruse which she adopted of giving him money to make bargains for foreign articles of _vertu_ with sailors, is responsible for many of the choicest ornaments in the Lingborough parlour.
"The sock"ll bring him home," said Mrs. Broom, and home he came, and never could say what he had been doing. Nor was the account given by Thomasina"s cousin, who was a tide-waiter down yonder, particularly satisfying to the women"s curiosity. He said that John Broom was always about; that he went aboard of all the craft in the bay, and asked whence they came and whither they were bound. That being once taunted to do it, he went up the rigging of a big vessel like a cat, and came down it looking like a fool. That as a rule, he gossipped and shared his tobacco with sailors and fishermen, and brought out the sock much oftener than was prudent for the benefit of the ragged boys who haunt the quay.
He had two other weaknesses, which a faithful biographer must chronicle.
A regiment on the march would draw him from the plough-tail itself, and "With daddy to see the pretty soldiers" was held to excuse any of Mrs.
Broom"s children from household duties.
The other shall be described in the graphic language of that acute observer the farm-bailiff.
"If there cam" an Irish beggar, wi" a stripy cloot him and a bellows under "s arm, and ca"d himsel" a Hielander, the lad wad gi"e him his silly head off his shoulders."
As to the farm-bailiff, perhaps no one felt more or said less than he did on John Broom"s return. But the tones of his voice had tender a.s.sociations for the boy"s ears as he took off his speckled hat, and after contemplating the inside for some moments, put it on again, and said,--
"Aweel, lad, sae ye"ve cam" hame?"
But he listened with quivering face when John Broom told the story of M"Alister, and when it was ended he rose and went out, and "took the pledge" against drink, and--kept it.
Moved by similar enthusiasm, the cowherd took the pledge also, and if he didn"t keep it, he certainly drank less, chiefly owing to the vigilant oversight of the farm-bailiff, who now exercised his natural severity almost exclusively in the denunciation of all liquors whatsoever, from the cowherd"s whiskey to Thomasina"s elder-flower wine.
The plain cousin left his money to the little old ladies, and Lingborough continued to flourish.
Partly perhaps because of this, it is doubtful if John Broom was ever looked upon by the rustics as quite "like other folk."
The favourite version of his history is that he was Lob under the guise of a child; that he was driven away by new clothes; that he returned from unwillingness to see an old family go to ruin "which he had served for hundreds of years;" that the parson preached his last Sunday"s sermon at him; and that, having stood that test, he took his place among Christian people.
Whether a name invented off-hand, however plain and sensible, does not stick to a man as his father"s does, is a question. But John Broom was not often called by his.
With Scotch caution, the farm-bailiff seldom exceeded the safe t.i.tle of "Man!" and the parson was apt to address him as "My dear boy" when he had certainly outgrown the designation.
Miss Betty called him John Broom, but the people called him by the name he had earned.
And long after his black hair lay white and thick on his head, like snow on the old barn roof, and when his dark eyes were dim in an honoured old age, the village children would point him out to each other, crying, "There goes Lob Lie-by-the-fire, the Luck of Lingborough!"
[Ill.u.s.tration]
WILD JACK.
CHAPTER I.
A series of accidents had overtaken the Newbury mail from the hour that it started in the fine dewy morning, till the sun went down; and as the twilight deepened over the landscape it was still many miles from its destination.
The troubles began early in the day. One of the leaders cast a shoe, and had to be shod at the first village through which they pa.s.sed. Farther on something went wrong with the harness, and later still a much more serious impediment to their progress arose--some accident happened to a wheel, so that the coach must needs go half-pace, in spite of the oaths of old Joe, the driver, whose boast it was that he had never reached Wancote later than midnight.
But this evening old Joe"s boasts were doomed to fall to the ground, for the coach could only crawl along, and the night was closing in fast.
The guard was engaged in a somewhat mysterious occupation, an occupation which, though only partially visible from the interior of the coach, caused a faint shriek to issue therefrom.
"What is he doing? What is it?" cried a woman"s voice.
"Nothing, madam; be easy, I entreat," was the answer from within. "There is nothing to alarm, but rather to rea.s.sure, in his actions--he prepares his pistols and looks to their priming. Zounds! one must be ready for all contingencies with ten miles of unfrequented road ahead of us."
The mail continued on its way, becoming slower and slower, as an ominous creaking of the injured wheel gave token that the pace must be reduced to a walk.
The curtain before the window was held back, and a gentleman from within addressed the guard.
"Will the wheel hold out, think you?" he said.
"It is impossible to a.s.sure your reverence that it will, and the night will be dark."
The gentleman drew in his head with a little "Tut-tut" of consternation.
There were four occupants of the coach--two ladies and two gentlemen. Of the ladies one was young, perhaps nineteen, and one close upon forty.
The younger was the parson"s daughter Elizabeth, otherwise Betty Ives.
Her father, Mr. Ives, was bringing her home from Newbury, where she had spent the last six months with her aunt, Mrs. Primrose, seeing something of the gay world in the county town.
The father and daughter, who sat opposite to each other, bore a strong resemblance to each other. In the girl"s face the dark brows were more arched, the large blue eyes more tender, the firm mouth more sweet, and all tinted with the lilies and roses of a fresh country life, so beautifully blended on the peach-like cheeks that, even without her rare perfection of feature, the colouring alone would have made Betty beautiful.
Parson Ives had been very handsome in his youth, and though worn by years (he was forty years older than his child), and by the grief of bereavement, he was yet famous for his good looks.
Betty wore a short dark green riding-habit and a broad felt hat. She was as much at home on horseback as on foot, and seldom in the mornings wore a less business-like costume.
The other two occupants of the coach were to ordinary eyes less interesting. Mistress Mary Jones was a faded woman, who had once been pretty, a spinster, a great friend of Betty"s, and one of her father"s parishioners. She was an excellent woman in her way, albeit somewhat given to terrors both real and fanciful.
Her opposite neighbor was a man past the prime of life, owner and breeder of large herds of cattle near Wancote, a man who, after attending the Newbury markets, often returned home by this very coach, and was believed to carry large sums of money in the flap-pockets of his many-caped riding-coat.