Windyridge

I had no time to feel depressed after Rose left on Sat.u.r.day, for the afternoon brought me more customers than I could well accommodate.

My reputation must have travelled as far as Broadbeck, for the greater number of my patrons are from that town. They consist for the most part of engaged couples, or couples that obviously intend to become engaged; and whether it is the excellence of my productions, or the low charges, or just the fun of being photographed by a woman in a hamlet like Windyridge that attracts them, I have not been able to determine, and it does not very much matter. Mother Hubbard, on the other hand, finds the explanation simple. I am the most talented of artists, with all the indifference of the genuine genius to adequate remuneration.

I was thoroughly tired when tea-time came and my day"s labours ended, and was quite ready to be petted and made a fuss of by my dear old lady. By the way, the summer has unfortunately not brought back her old vigour, and I cannot help worrying a little about her, though she is as bright and optimistic as ever.

I got a long letter from Rose on Monday morning. It had been written, of course, on the Sunday, whilst the scent of the moors was still in her nostrils; but though she feels the change pretty badly I am sure she is not so depressed as I am. It must have taken her a heap of time to fill so many sheets of notepaper with her small, business-like handwriting. There were a good many sparkling sentences in the letter, but I cannot say that I felt particularly cheerful when I had finished it.

It appears that the Cynic was travelling by the Midland express, and they were companions all the way from Airlee. He was already in the train, which starts from Broadbeck, and he caught sight of her on the platform. It seems strange that he should have gone round that way, for I remember he told us once that he always travelled by Great Northern, as it is the shorter route.

I fancy he was rather taken with Rose, and I know she liked him very much, for she said so quite openly. It would do the Cynic good to be married, especially as he seems to need comforting, and Rose is one of the dearest girls in existence, and would make him a good wife--at least, I hope she would. And although she has to earn her own living, she is really very well connected, and had a quite superior education.

It was simply her father"s recklessness that threw her on her own resources, and I should say that her origin is as good as the Cynic"s.

And yet I should hardly have thought that she was just his sort. He is a man who will make large demands upon his wife if she is to be a real helpmeet, and he needs to be understood. I am sure Rose did not understand him. But perhaps, after all, she would be very suitable in one way. She is ambitious, and would see that he did not hide his light under a bushel in social circles; though, to be sure, society might turn up its nose at _her_. It would worry me terribly if anything should come of this chance encounter under my chaperonage, and either party should be unhappy. It may be undue sensitiveness on my part, but I feel rather oppressed with a sense of responsibility.

Of course, looking at the matter quite calmly, it seems ridiculous to be building air-castles like this, but I am _very fond_ of Rose and I would not for worlds have her marry unsuitably; and I cannot help respecting the Cynic after what he said the other night. It would be just terrible if they were to make a mess of their lives. Marriage is such a very serious undertaking, and lots of really sensible people appear to lose their heads altogether when they come to make the important choice. However, it is none of my business, and I won"t refer to it again.

Rose says he was very attentive to her during the journey, and handed her quite a number of ill.u.s.trated papers, including some ladies"

journals. If I were a barrister I should never dream of buying papers which make their appeal to the other s.e.x; but perhaps he finds it necessary to the study of human nature. A man in his profession must have to be as many-sided as a poet.

I conclude that she did not read the magazines, for she says so much about their conversation that it is evident there was little opportunity, and besides, they lunched together in the diner, and that must have taken up a lot of time. She admits that she teased him, and that he seemed to like it, but she does not say what about. He said the other day that she was dangerous. I wonder if he really thought so, and is on his guard against the danger, for Rose has always been somewhat of a flirt, and it would hurt a man like him deeply if he really cared and found she was only playing with him. He is the sort that---- But I said I would not refer to it, and here I am doing so.

He told her he hoped to see something of her occasionally, and she was unconventional enough to hope the same. They are sure to make opportunities easily enough when they are both in London. I feel glad for Rose, for he is the kind of man who will steady her a bit, but I hope she---- Oh, bother it!

Madam Rusty received my kind messages, it appears, with apparent indifference, so Rose waxed eloquent over the Sunday dinner table, and painted a picture of my surroundings in the most brilliant colours from the palette of her imagination. She stimulated the curiosity of the boarders, who showed a great interest in me and my adventures, and were eager to know what kind of fare was provided in the wilderness, and what was the character of the heathen in whose midst I dwelt; to all of which she replied in a strain of subdued enthusiasm which she a.s.sured me carried conviction. I was regarded, she informed them, with the same respect as was naturally accorded to the squire of the place, with whom I was on terms of extreme intimacy. Good air and really good food (Rose emphasised this for madam"s benefit) had brought to my cheeks the glow of health; and my abilities had secured for me a clientele which would make a West End photographer think sad thoughts. This, goodness knows, was true enough.

She went into ecstasies over Mother Hubbard"s cooking, and caused the company to believe that the fatted calf, and all other makes of fatted beasts and birds of the primest and tenderest quality, appeared upon my table regularly during her visit. When I remember the "pot-luck" we had so often laughed over at dinner-time, my admiration for Rose"s imaginative faculties a.s.sumed huge proportions.

The heathen amongst whom I dwelt were, it appears, Nature"s gentlefolk, hating unreality and humbug as they hated the devil. I think this was really rather clever of Rose, for it hits off some of my neighbours exactly, though the devil with whom they are on speaking terms might possibly seem a mild and blunt-horned personage to some of my London acquaintances.

There was a good deal more to the same effect, and having driven the Rusty one to the verge of apoplexy, Rose retired to her own room and penned her epistle. Seclusion evidently induced reaction, and she confessed to the depression I have hinted at. I don"t wonder, poor girl. I should hate to be going to work in the crowded city after having tasted the freedom of the moors. All the same, there are compensations if you look for them. If you have friends who are congenial you have more opportunities of seeing them in a place like London. Everybody goes to London. Perhaps the Cynic will take her to see the new play at the St. James"s Theatre. I shall be very glad, I am sure, if they become firm friends. My only doubt is of Rose. She is so thoughtless and flighty, and might do harm without meaning it....

Oh, bother it again! I"m going to bed.

CHAPTER XVIII

CARRIER TED RECEIVES NOTICE TO QUIT

I have not been sleeping very well lately, and my dreams have given me the creeps and left me so irritable that if I had only a considerate and philanthropic employer like the one Rose patronises I am sure I should have been sent away somewhere for a change. Being my own employer, I stay on and make Mother Hubbard look worried. And the worst of it is she does not discuss my state of health as a sensible woman should, but just pets me and tells me it "will all come right in the end." When I ask her what it is that is to come right she smiles and relapses into silence. If she were not so gentle and loving and altogether sweet I should feel inclined to shake her.

Did I not say that the devil had his intimates in Windyridge? I nod to him myself just now, but Simon Barjona Higgins has gone into business with him on quite a large scale, and my friend Maria must surely be casting longing backward glances in the direction of widowhood. It makes one feel that matrimony is a snare which women are fools to enter with their eyes open; though I suppose all men are not given up to Satan.

Fancy Rose saying there were no humbugs about here, when such a man as Barjona flourishes unabashed! But when I come to think of it, she didn"t quite say that: she simply said that my neighbours hated humbug as they hate the devil, and Barjona loves them both. The thought of him makes me sick, and when I found out what an old Shylock the man is I went into the studio with a hammer and smashed his negatives into a hundred pieces, with as much zest as if I had been a militant suffragette breaking windows in Regent Street under the eyes of a scandalised policeman.

If nature had been clothed in drab on Wednesday afternoon when the report of unusual occurrences in the village drew me to the little group of excited people who were discussing them it would have been appropriate to the occasion. But she wasn"t--she was dressed in her gayest and most captivating summer clothing.

I think that in itself is vexing. Why should nature look so pleased and happy when people are miserable, and so emphasise the contrast? If I am grumpy to begin with it makes me feel ever so much worse to know that nature is laughing at me, and is just as bright and optimistic as I am wretched. And, contrariwise, if I do wake up one morning determined to "bid dull care begone"--who was it used that expression recently?--and be merry and cheerful, the skies are sure to be like lead, and the ram is certain to drip, drip, in that sullen, persistent fashion that would drive Mark Tapley himself to pessimism. There is a law of cussedness, I am convinced, and I believe I have discovered it.

Mother Hubbard says it is my liver, and prescribes pills!

When I joined the group there were so many eager to tell me the story that it was some time before I could make out its purport. By the way, I ought to point out that I am _not_ becoming a gossip, but I am interested in the news of the village. We have no _Daily Mail_ to chronicle our doings, and our methods are therefore necessarily primitive. Besides, to hold aloof from one"s neighbours is a sign of what Rose calls "snorkiness."

One of the dearest little cottages in the village is inhabited by a man called Carrier Ted. I had never been inside it, but its picturesqueness appeals to me every time I pa.s.s it, and you may often see visitors leaning over the low wall of the garden and enthusing about it. It is just a little one-storeyed, two-roomed cot, not nearly so big as some gentlemen"s motor garages, but large enough for one occupant, or even for two if their tastes are simple.

The ground rises steeply behind it, and tall trees cover the hill from base to summit, so that the little white house is quite overshadowed by them. I call it a white house, but the walls are almost concealed by green and yellow and crimson, where the canary creeper and climbing roses stretch forth their slender arms to embrace the brown, thatched roof.

The garden is evenly divided into two parts by the flagged footpath which leads straight to the door, and it is always ablaze with colour in the summer time; but the arrangement is more orderly than in some of our Windyridge gardens, for Carrier Ted, albeit old-fashioned in his tastes, is an epicure in horticulture. Only a few days ago Rose and I had stopped to admire his bloom, and especially the wonderful moss roses which were his especial pride, and to have a word with the old man whose skill and industry had aroused my friend"s enthusiasm.

When I first came to the village I took him to be of weak intellect, princ.i.p.ally, I believe, because he always wore a tall silk hat of antiquated pattern. It was a very rough silk of uncertain colour, and gave one the impression that it was constantly brushed the wrong way; but whether working in the garden or walking along the road, Carrier Ted might always be recognised by his peculiar headgear.

But there is no daftness about him really. He is just a quiet, even taciturn old man, who is alone in the world and has saved sufficient money to enable him to spend the evening of life in comfort, and who finds in his home and garden both business, recreation and religion.

He is a little, bent man, round-faced and ruddy in spite of his eighty odd years, with thick grey eyebrows, and a half-circle of beard stretching from ear to ear beneath his chin. When you praise his flowers he pauses for a moment, draws his sleeve across his brow in a confused sort of way, as if to remove perspiration, and smiles. The smile and the action always remind me of a bashful child who would like to be friendly but dare not all at once. The smile lights up his face and reveals the angel within him; but he answers only in monosyllables, and seems relieved when you pa.s.s on your way. It was this man and his cottage who were the subject of excited conversation.

"It"s a burnin" shame, Miss "Olden, that"s what it is!" exclaimed Widow Smithies, "an" if I"d my way I"d wring that old heathen of a Barjona his neck for "im, that I would; the good-for-nowt, graspin" old money-lender "at he is."

"He wants hoss-whippin"," said Sar"-Ann"s mother, "an" if I were a man I"d do it! But our men fowk are no more use nor two penn"orth o" cowd gin, an" I"ll be bound ther" isn"t one on "em "at"ll lift a little finger agen "im."

"An" I"m sure anyone "at can find it in their "eart to do ought wrong to poor old Ted isn"t fit to bide in t" village," said Martha Treffit; "an" one "ud ha" thought wi" "avin" been in t" same trade, like, Barjona "ud never ha" tried to "urt Ted."

"They may have been in t" same trade, Martha," interposed Susannah, "but Ted comes off a better pastur" nor ivver Barjona wa" raised on.

"E"s as keen as mustard, is Barjona, an" "ud mor"gage his soul for owt he took a fancy tul."

"He"s as "ard as iron in his "eart," snapped Mrs. Smithies, "but as soft as a boiled turnup in his "ead. I"d like to put "im through t"

wringin" machine, an" squeeze "im for once, as is so ready to squeeze other fowk. "Ere comes Reuben. What"ll Reuben "ave to say about it, I wonder?"

Reuben shook his head. "It"s a sad job, neighbours, but law"s law, an"

we shall have to make t" best on "t."

"Hark to him!" said Sar"-Ann"s mother; "didn"t I tell you there isn"t a man in t" village wi" as mich sperrit as a kitlin"? If Reuben won"t do nowt ye can go bail "at t" rest "ll noan stir."

"Right"s right, an" law"s law, all the world over," said Reuben, shaking his head; "an" it"ll be no manner o" use tryin" to persuade Barjona ought different. I could easy throw him on t" midden, but that wouldn"t mend matters. "Ye can take t" horse to t" water, but ye can"t make "im drink," as t" Owd Book says. It"ll be a trial to t" owd man, but Ted "ll have to make up "is mind to flit."

Reuben walked home with me and gave me a connected account of what had happened. "You see, Ted"s lived i" yon cottage ever sin" I can remember, Miss "Olden. I mind him bringin" his wife to it, maybe forty year sin", though I were just a lad at t" time, an" it"ll be "appen five year sin" she died. They were neither on "em chickens when they were wed, an" they never "ad any childer; but they allus seemed to get on right enough, an" I don"t know "at I ever "eard tell of "em "aving a wrong word wi" one another, or wi" anyone else, for that matter. They lived peaceable wi" all men, as t" Owd Book puts it, an" kept theirselves to theirselves. But they never really made any friends, as you may say. If you looked in you were welcome, but you were never asked to stop, an" they never called in to see t" neighbours. His missis wasn"t one o" t" gossipin" sort, an" "e were away a good deal wi" his cart; an" so we got into t" "abit o" leavin" "em alone.

"She must have been seventy--ay, more than seventy--when she died (I believe it tells on t" stone, but I never took that much notice), an"

one or two o" t" neighbours did look in during t" time "at she were ill, an" did what they could for "em both, and he were very grateful.

But he made no fuss, an" when they put her away "e just wiped "is sleeve across "is face, an" walked back an" started diggin" a trench in t" garden.

"Well, it come out this mornin" "at Barjona"s bought t" cottage, an" it appears he gave Ted notice to quit last week-end, an" his time "s up on Sat.u.r.da". They say he"s goin" to live there himself, an" I daresay it"s likely enough. It belonged to a young chap down i" Fawkshill, an"

Barjona has a "old on him somehow, an" he"s forced "im to sell. I"ve been to see t" chap just now, but Barjona has got it right enough, deeds an" everything, an" law"s law all the world over. Ted"s fair rooted in t" soil o" that land, but he"ll "ave to shift, an" quick too.

"E"s as hard as nails, is Barjona, an" Ted "ll have to clear out on Sat.u.r.da"."

"But what a shame!" I remarked; "could not someone be induced to buy it from Barjona? Perhaps he would sell at a profit."

"I"m goin" to see him in t" mornin"," replied Reuben, "but I durst bet a five-pun note to a toothpick "at he won"t sell at any figure. I know Barjona. There"s good wheat i" all men, but it"s so lost among t"

chaff i" Barjona"s case "at only t" Day o" Judgment "ll find it."

Reuben called the next day to report the fruitlessness of his mission.