Chapter V: Part 5

NO pleasanter place than Mrs. Meatyard’s dairy was to be found at any hour of the summer’s day; but it was a busy place too. At early dawn the clatter of bright cans and the lowing of cows in the adjacent yard announced milking time, and men came staggering in with great foaming pails of milk and poured it, sweet and warm, into the shallow tins prepared for it. A little later mistress and maid alike were busy skimming the thick folds of last night’s cream. On churning days the regular _splash_, _splash_ in the outer milk-house was the forerunner of the pleasant labour of butter-making. On cheese days the huge vat had to be filled with gallons and gallons of milk, and then the rennet carefully measured out, and then Mrs. Meatyard and Rebecca took it in turns to “work” the curds; and what with this working, and putting the curds into presses, and running off the whey, and cleaning up afterwards, a body, as Rebecca frequently said, would be better off with four pair of hands nor with one.

Nevertheless there was something cheerful and delightful even to the workers about the bustle and stir—the sight of the rich milk, the faintly sour smell of the curds, the pure, sweet air that circled round hot faces through the wide open door, the little shifting lights and shades that played about shining tins and whitewashed walls as the branches of the trees that surrounded the house were set dancing in the wind. Yes, Thorncombe Dairy was a pleasant place, and never more so than on this particular June afternoon, when the roses outside the milk-house door were in full bloom, and the sweet odours of the old-fashioned flowers in the borders beneath the windows came floating in to mingle with the homelier scents within.

Mrs. Meatyard had duly “cleaned herself” and changed her dress, and now, with the cuffs of her stuff gown turned up, was delicately enswathing roll after roll of golden butter in small squares of gauze, and packing them, when thus protected, in baskets ready for to-morrow’s market. Old Rebecca was busy at the other end with scrubbing-brush and pail, “swilling down” the shelves. Her spare form was encased in a somewhat faded cotton garment, the sleeves of which were rolled up high; the sparse wisps of her grey hair were ruffled and untidy, but her ruddy, wrinkled old face was cheery and good-tempered, and she crooned a song to herself as she scrubbed the boards.

In the outer milk-house one of the labourers was also at work cleaning up, hissing as he used the broom as though he were rubbing down a horse, and every now and then making a great clatter with the piled-up cans.

Through the open door the imposing form of the “master” could be seen leaning over the gate which opened into the farmyard, contemplating the operations of two of the farm hands who were engaged in cleaning an outhouse. On the cobble-stones near his feet pigeons were strutting up and down, bowing and cooing; a little group of calves lay sunning themselves in a corner of the yard, flapping their ears and waving their tails as the flies teased them. Cocks and hens were crowing and clucking, pigs were grunting, sheep and lambs in the pasture behind the house were bleating, bees in the lime-blossom were humming, and throughout all the din of outdoor life Rebecca’s quavering, voice could be plainly heard:—

For Do’set dear
Then gi’e woone cheer;
D’ye hear? Woone cheer.

But louder even than her ditty sounded all at once a shrill, tuneful whistle, and the head of a young man came presently in sight, moving rapidly along the irregular line of hedge that divided the farm premises from the lane; and presently the owner of the head rounded the corner and entered the yard.

“’Tis you, Charl’?” observed Farmer Meatyard, without removing his pipe from his mouth. “You be come in nice time to fetch cows up.”

“Jist what I was a-thinkin’,” said Charl’. “I was kept a bit longer in town nor I looked for, but I did hear sich a funny bit o’ noos.”

“Did ’ee now?” inquired his father, much interested.

“’Ees, I do ’low I did. That there new show as they be all a-talkin’ about—the Agricultural Show they calls it—ye wouldn’t never think what they be goin’ to give a prize for.”

“Why, I did hear, all sarts,” returned the father a trifle impatiently. “Harses and cattle and pigs, and cheese and butter—all they kind o’ things. There bain’t nothin’ so very wonderful i’ that. ’Tis much same as other shows—voolish work, I reckon it. Ye mid have the best harse, or the best milkin’ cow in the countryside, and yet they wouldn’t give en a prize. Nay, they’d sooner gi’e it to some strange beast from Bourne or Templecombe or some sich place.”

“Well, but ye haven’t heard my tale yet,” cried the son. “Jist you try to guess the last thing as I’ve heared they be a-goin’ to give a prize for. ’Tis somethin’ livin’—I’ll tell ’ee that much, and it isn’t neither a harse nor a cow, nor a pig, nor anything as ye’d think likely.”

“A bull?” suggested Farmer Meatyard, who was not an imaginative man.

“Nay now; when I said a cow I meant male or faymale. It bain’t nothin’ o’ that kind, nor yet cocks and hens. Ye’ll never guess—’tis the queerest thing! Call Mother, and let her see if she can have a shot at it.”

“Come here, Missus!” shouted the farmer excitedly. “Come here and give your opinion. Here’s Charl’ come back from town, and he do say they be a-goin’ to give a prize at this ’ere noo Show as is a-comin’ off next month for summat altogether out o’ the common. ’Tis alive, he says, but ’tis neither bird nor beast as I can hear of.”

“Wait a bit,” said Mrs. Meatyard, folding her hands at her waist, and looking out of the rose-framed milk-house door with placid interest. “Now—I have it! Bees!”

“No. Bless you, Mother, there bain’t nothin’ wonderful nor yet funny about bees.”

“Dear heart alive, what a tease the lad be! Is it a handsome thing, Charl’, or an oncommon thing?”

“’Tis neither one nor t’other,” replied Charl’, exploding with laughter. “There, I’d best tell you, for you’d never guess. ’Tis a wold ’ooman.”

“Ah, get away, do!” growled his father, much disgusted. “Don’t ’ee go for to tell I sich cock-and-bull stories. A wold ’ooman—who’d go for to give a prize for sich as that?”

“’Tis true, though,” retorted Charl’, “’twas in every one’s mouth. A prize, they do say, will be given for the woldest faymale farm servant.”

“Well, to be sure,” ejaculated his mother, “I’ve heard o’ prizes bein’ give for the finest baby, and somebody did tell I once about a prize bein’ give for the beautifullest young girl, but I never did hear o’ givin’ prizes for wold folks.”

“’Tisn’t raysonable, I don’t think,” commented her lord. “Nay, it do seem a foolish kind o’ notion. Why, if they do go encouragin’ o’ the wold hags that way, they’ll live for ever!”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” cried Mrs. Meatyard, disregarding him, “if our Rebecca didn’t have so good a chance as any one. She’s a good age, Rebecca is. Ah, I shouldn’t wonder a bit if Rebecca was to get it. I think she is the woldest woman in these parts, without it’s Mr. Sharp’s Bithey.”

“Becky!” screamed Charl’ ecstatically. “Becky! Come here a minute. I’ve brought some good news for ’ee.”

Becky came to the door, wiping her soapy arms with her coarse apron, and smiling pleasantly if toothlessly at the young man, who was a favourite with her.

“Becky,” cried he, “how would ’ee like for to win a prize at the new Show what’s to be given in the Royal George’s grounds next month? There, Mother thinks you have got so good a chance as any one.”

“I did hear as they was a-goin’ to give a prize for butter,” said Rebecca; “but all as comes out of this ’ere house be Missus’s makin’. I wasn’t never no great hand at it. Nay, I can milk and skim and churn right enough; but I haven’t Missus’s hand on butter.”

“It bain’t the butter prize as I mean,” cried Charl’. “They be a-goin’ to give a prize for the woldest ’ooman-servant. I heared it wi’ my own ears, and the prize is to be a butter-dish, and you’ve just so good a right to it, Becky, as any other. Better! For I don’t believe there’s sich another old witch in the country.”

“Ye’re an impident chap, Charl’,” cried Rebecca, somewhat offended. “I don’t want to listen to sich a pack of rubbish! There, I’ve a-got summat else to do. Ye mid keep a civil tongue in yer head, I think. Witch, says he! Tell him to go and drive cows up, Master, else we shan’t get through with our work this day.”

“I’ll go and drive cows up right enough,” said the youth; “but ye needn’t be so highty-tighty, Beck! ’Tis truth as I be a-tellin’ ’ee. Every one be a-talkin’ of it in town.”

“Dear, to be sure!” ejaculated Rebecca, partially convinced, but looking to her mistress for confirmation of the strange statement.

“It do seem queer,” returned Mrs. Meatyard; “but it’s true, Becky; and as I was a-sayin’, I think you ought to try for it. You be turned seventy, bain’t you?”

“I reckon I must be,” said the old woman, ruminating. “My hair have been white this twenty year and more, d’ye see; and I haven’t a tooth in my head. I must be a tremenjious age, sure!”

“’Tis a bit hard to tell wi’ such as you, Beck,” remarked Farmer Meatyard, contemplating her thoughtfully. “You do seem to be sich a dried-up wold stick—ah, and have been so ever since I knowed ye. Ye’ve never looked a bit different since ye come to this ’ere village. How long ago was that, can you mind?”

“Well, now, ’tis a bit hard to reckon, Master—one year do seem so like another, and the days do follow each other so fast. I lived down at Childe-Okeford till I were thirty year of age, and then when mother died I went to service, and I were ten year or thereabouts at a farm Shillingstone way, and eight year at a public, and fifteen year at another farm a mile out of Sturminster—I think ’twas fifteen year, but it mid ha’ been eighteen—and then I’ve been here the rest of the time.”

“An’ that must be twelve year or more,” put in her mistress, “for I can call to mind as Charl’ there was only just breeched when you did come.”

“Why, woman, you must be comin’ on for eighty,” cried the farmer, half-admiringly, half-disapprovingly. “Bless me, ye haven’t no business to be alive at all!”

“He, he,” chuckled Becky. “Here I be, ye see, sir; and if there’s to be a prize for wold folks, I shouldn’t wonder if I did get it.”

“I can’t call to mind anybody else in these parts as can beat ye if your tale be true,” returned he, “unless it’s Mr. Sharp’s Bithey. She be a wonderful age, now—I shouldn’t wonder if she’s turned her four score.”

“Lard, no, sir!” cried Rebecca, with a sudden cessation of her laughter, while a flush began to mount in her shrivelled cheeks. “Bithey! Why, she’s no age at all to speak on. She’ve ha’ got very near all her teeth, and her hair—what there is of it, they do say is as black as can be under that wold woolly net as she do wear. She don’t come up to my age, Master!”

“She runs you very near though, Beck,” cried mischievous Charl’, beginning to caper with glee. “She’s oncommon hard o’ hearin’, and she do get the rheumatiz so bad in her j’ints. Ther’ be times, Mr. Sharp do say, as she can scarce walk.”

“Pooh,” cried Rebecca, with fine scorn, “what signifies that? A child mid get rheumatiz, and I’ve ha’ knowed folks so young as Missus be hard o’ hearin’. That don’t prove nothin’. There, I must give over talkin’ here, and get back to my work.”

She retired, muttering to herself and shaking her head, while Charl’, still chuckling, went off to fetch the cows.

He came back in a state of explosive excitement, and immediately called his parents out of hearing of Rebecca, who had stalked loftily past him, armed with stool and pail.

“You’ll never guess what I’ve been doin’,” he began. “Jist as I was crossin’ the lane down yonder, who should I see but wold Bithey toddlin’ along in front of me; so I hollers after her, and tells her all about the prize, and did advise her to go in for it, and the wold body is that set up about it ’tis as good as a play. She makes sure she is goin’ to win it, and thinks nothin’ at all o’ poor Beck’s chance. Lard, ’twill be rare sport to set the two wold folks one again t’other.”

The father laughed jovially, but the mother inquired in an aggrieved tone why he had interfered and lessened poor Rebecca’s chance.

“There, she’ve a-been that excited all the evenin’ thinkin’ about it—she’ll be awful disappointed if she don’t get the prize. Besides, I can’t but think ’twould ha’ been a kind o’ honour for we if she was to win it.”

“Maybe she will, all the same,” said Charl’. “I don’t believe Bithey’s half so old myself.”

And he went away to do his share of the milking.

The news soon spread all over the village that both Rebecca and Bithey intended to compete for the strange new-fangled prize that was to be given at the forthcoming show. Opinions were pretty evenly divided as to the respective merits of the two aspirants, but much amusement was caused by the seriousness and pertinacity with which each old lady advanced her claims.

On the Sunday following Charl’ mischievously brought the rivals into contact by calling back Rebecca just as she had haughtily walked past Bithey on leaving church.

“Come here, Beck, for one minute. Here’s Bithey won’t believe you are any older nor her.”

Rebecca turned, eyeing Tabitha up and down somewhat disdainfully.

“Ye may believe it or not, as ye please,” she said, “but you was a little maid goin’ to school when I was out in service.”

“What does she say?” inquired Tabitha, turning to one of the bystanders—for quite a little crowd had gathered around the two.

“She says you are no age at all worth countin’,” bawled Charl’. “She ’lows you be quite a little maid still.”

“Little maid, indeed!” retorted Bithey. “I know I must be seventy if I’m a day, and I’m a’most sure I’m a good bit more nor that. Why, I be getting that weak in the limbs I can scarce get about.”

“Anybody mid get weak in the limbs!” cried Rebecca wrathfully. “’Tisn’t no sign of age, that isn’t. When I did come to live at Thorncombe Farm, twelve or fifteen years ago, I was a staid body, as anybody mid see; but you—you was quite fresh and well-lookin’. I can mind it well. You did come up to our place for a bit o’ lard soon arter I did get there, and you was as straight and as active and as smooth and chuffy in the face—”

“Dear, dear! however can ye go for to tell sich tales, Rebecca?” groaned Bithey, much scandalised. “I can mind that day so well as you, and I can mind as you did offer to carry the lard for me as far as the gate, for, says you, ‘You do look mortal tired for sure,’ says you; ‘and ’tis a long way to carry it and you not bein’ so young as you was’.”

“Oh, faith, Becky, the case is goin’ again’ you!” shouted Charl’. “If ye said that, it shows plain as you was treatin’ Bithey respectful like, you bein’ the youngest.”

“God forgive you, Bithey!” ejaculated the dairywoman. “Have you no conscience at all? _I_ say sich a thing! I offer to carry lard for you! ’Twas never my way to go in for payin’ compliments to folks, and I’d always plenty to do wi’out makin’ out more work for myself.”

“Come, come,” cried a fat, good-natured man who had drawn near, “don’t be fallin’ out on a Sunday! There must be some way of knowin’ your ages. Let’s see how far back you can remember, and maybe that’ll tell us summat. Can ye mind when Rectory chimbley was blowed down? I were a little chap myself then, but I can remember it.”

“Nay, that was afore my day,” said Becky, much crestfallen. “I’ve only been here a matter of twelve or fifteen year.”

“I can mind it,” cried Bithey eagerly. “I can mind it so well as if it were yesterday. I had my sampler in my hand, and when my mother did call out I run the needle very nigh an inch into my finger.”

“Then you was a little gurl, for sure!” exclaimed Rebecca triumphantly. “Ye must ha’ been quite a young maid, else ye wouldn’t ha’ been workin’ on a sampler. What year was that, Mr. Joyce?”

“Let’s see,” said Mr. Joyce meditatively. “’Twas in the year ’48, I think—’ees, I’m very near sure ’twas ’48.”

“An’ say you was ten year old then, Bithey,” went on the other claimant, with increasing animation, “say you was ten or twelve—you couldn’t ha’ been much more, else you’d ha’ had more sense nor to be working samplers—well, ’tis but a little over fifty year ago—that ’ud leave ye not much more nor sixty. Ye haven’t wore so very well, I d’ ’low; but there, ’tis plain sixty’s your age.”

“I feel sure I’m a deal more nor sixty,” protested Bithey, almost in tears. “Now I think on’t, ’twasn’t when Rectory chimbley was blowed down as I did run needle into my finger; ’twas when Mr. Sharp’s roof took fire. Can you mind when Mr. Sharp’s thatch took fire, Mr. Joyce?”

“Nay, nay, ’twas long afore my time.”

“An’ _you_ must be comin’ on about sixty, Mr. Joyce?”

“Ah, I fancy that’s about my age.”

Tabitha cast a look of triumph towards Rebecca, who feigned unconsciousness.

“I can mind the time o’ the Crimee War,” she announced deliberately.

There was a chorus of derisive comment.

“The Crimean War! Why, that’s scarce any time ago,” said Mr. Joyce. “’Twas in the fifties, I think; ’ees, I can remember the time very well myself. That don’t go for to prove nothin’, Rebecca.”

“Well, there’s one comfort,” returned she, undaunted, “us’ll be judged by folks as don’t know us one from t’other, and they’ll be like to judge us fair. There be things for and against both on us. Bithey’s hard o’ hearin’ and wonderful stiff in her j’ints, and all that’ll be in her favour; but if they do go for to judge us wold women same way as they do judge harses, I reckon I’ve a-got the best chance.”

“How’s that?” cried Charl’.

“Why, if they go for to examine our teeth, to be sure; they’d see as I hadn’t got none.”

And further demonstrating the fact by a wide smile, Rebecca walked away, followed by a burst of mirthful applause.

On the eventful morning of the Show all the inhabitants of Thorncombe Farm assembled to see Rebecca start. Charl’ was to drive her to the town, for, as he explained, it would never do for her to let on she was hearty enough to walk such a distance.

“If I was you, Beck,” he added, “I’d make out to have a bit of a limp. ’Twould go far to make ye evener like wi’ Bithey.”

“Nay,” returned Rebecca stoutly, “I was never one for makin’ out what wasn’t true.”

“Smooth down your hair a bit under your bonnet,” advised Mrs. Meatyard anxiously. “It mid be any colour tucked away like that.”

As this injunction could be obeyed without detriment to her principles, the old woman pushed back her bonnet and pulled into greater prominence her scanty snowy side-locks. Then she climbed into the cart, with a palpitating heart, and sat clutching at her umbrella while they jogged out of the yard, and down the green lane, and out on the dusty high road.

Mr. and Mrs. Meatyard did not make their appearance at the Show till the afternoon, when most of the judging was over, and only that important part of the programme which related to various feats of horsemanship remained to be carried out.

“Let’s hunt up Becky afore we go to look at the jumpin’,” said the farmer to his wife, as they passed through the turnstile and threaded their way amid the various stalls and pens containing exhibits from all parts of the neighbourhood. Here a beautiful little red Devon cow thrust a moist protesting nose through the railings; there a sturdy black-faced ram made abortive butts with his curled horns at the passers-by; yonder a pen of cackling geese flapped distracted wings and extended yards of snowy neck with prodigious outcry; and now there was a stampede among the ever-increasing crowd, as a great cart-colt was led past floundering and kicking.

The Meatyards stared about them, and wondered and commented, and had almost forgotten Becky in their interest and excitement, when they suddenly came upon her, walking arm-in-arm with no other person than her rival Bithey.

“Why bless me, Rebecca, so here ye be!” cried the farmer. “And Bithey, too. What! Han’t ye been judged yet? An’ who’s the winner?”

“What does he say?” asked Tabitha plaintively of the other competitor, and the Meatyards noticed with surprise that her tone was meek, and indeed confiding.

“Master do want to know if we’ve a’ been judged yet, my dear,” returned Becky soothingly. “I reckon he’ll be surprised when he do hear how we’ve a-been used.”

“’Ees indeed,” sighed Bithey, and she wiped her eyes with a corner of her shawl.

“There, don’t take ’ee on, my dear,” said Rebecca, patting her hand affectionately. “The poor soul,” she explained, turning to the farmer and his wife, who were gazing at the pair open-mouthed, “the poor soul do seem to be quite undone. I d’ ’low ’twas a shame to go and disapp’int her so. ’Twill ha’ gied her quite a turn—at her age an’ all.”

“’Tis no worse for me nor ’tis for you, my dear,” put in Bithey with a groan of sympathy. “You had farther to come nor me, an’ you must be half shook to pieces a-ridin’ in that wold cart.”

“In the name o’ fortun’,” cried the exasperated Mr. Meatyard, “which on you did get the prize? There you do go chatterin’ an’ jabberin’ and neither of you will tell us which be the winner.”

“You’d never think—” began Bithey.

“’Tis the most unfairest thing you ever did hear on!” exclaimed Becky. “There was the two of us—the woldest women for miles round, I’ll go bail. I’m sure ye did only need to look at Bithey here to see it.”

“And I’m sure,” wailed Tabitha, “the very sight o’ your grey hair did ought to ha’ shamed them, Becky.”

Here the impatient farmer made a sudden lunge at them, almost after the fashion of the curly-horned prize ram, and the two old women simultaneously announced in an agitated whimper:—

“There, they didn’t give the prize to neither of us!”

“Dear heart alive! you don’t say so?” said Mrs. Meatyard, after a pause of blank amazement, while her husband uttered a shrill whistle. “Didn’t ’ee get no prize at all then?”

“Wasn’t ’ee so much as ‘’Ighly Commended,’ Beck?” cried her master, recovering from his stupor, and uttering a roar of laughter.

“No, sir,” returned Rebecca mournfully, “I didn’t get nothin’ at all—nor Bithey neither. They never took a bit of notice after they’d axed how long we’d been in our present sitooations. They went and give the butter-dish to quite a young ’ooman. I don’t think she can ha’ been more nor fifty-five. ’Ees, sir, if ye’ll believe me, a big strapping woman as stout as me and Bithey put together, and so firm on her legs as anything.”

“Whew!” whistled the farmer again, “you don’t say so! Well, I never did—there must ha’ been some reason as you didn’t know on.”

“Maybe she was blind,” suggested Mrs. Meatyard. “That ’ud be a p’int in her favour.”

“No more blind nor yourself, ma’am,” returned Becky almost triumphantly. “She’d a-been thirty year in the one place—that was all as I could hear as she could say for herself, and they went and give her the butter-dish wi’out no more talk than that. So, when I did see how upset poor Bithey was—an’ she so troubled with the rheumatiz, poor wold body—I jist says to her, says I, ‘You take my arm, my dear,’ says I; ‘you jist come along of I.’ And she were glad enough to do it.”

“I d’ ’low I was,” agreed her whilom rival. “I reckon I thought it oncommon kind. ’Ees,’ says I, ‘Becky love,’ says I, ‘I take it oncommon kind o’ you to help me same as you’re a-doin’ of, for ye bain’t so young yourself,’ says I.”

Mr. Meatyard slapped his thigh and shouted with laughter.

“You’ve changed your note, I see—both on you,” he exclaimed as soon as he could speak. “Well, and where are you bound for now?”

“Why, d’ye see, sir,” said Becky, “her an’ me is both tired o’ this—we are—jist about! And so she says to me, says she, ‘Let’s go over to one o’ them little booths over there and set down for a bit, and rest us.’ Didn’t ye, Bithey?”

“I did,” said Bithey, “and I says, ‘Becky,’ says I, ‘arter all this standin’, an’ all this talkin’, and all the dust and sawdust flyin’ about, I’m awful dry,’ I says; ‘what would you say,’ says I, ‘to a bottle of Pop?’”

The farmer laughed again, but his wife strongly advised the old couple to have recourse to that restorative, and they therefore toddled away together to drown the memory of their differences and, if possible, of their disappointment in a sparkling and innocuous glass.

THE LOVER’S WRAITH.

“WELL, I don’t believe in no such nonsense. Folks do get a-talkin’ and a-carryin’ tales fro’ one to the other, but I never met anybody yet as see a ghost, and I don’t believe nobody ever did!”

“You are wrong for once then,” cried Martha; and she pulled away her arm, the elbow of which had till then been linked in Sam Bundy’s—for the two were “walking” in orthodox fashion—and turned round to face him, an angry flush mounting in her cheeks.

Martha Dale was a very pretty girl, and never more so than in her working dress, which, being of pink cotton, intensified the glow on her cheeks and threw into yet stronger relief the darkness of eyes and hair. A little fitful evening breeze was now playing with the dusky tendrils about her brow, setting one tiny curl dancing, indeed, after a fashion which Sam would have found tantalising at any other time; but now he was too much in earnest.

“It do seem sich a pity for a sensible maid same as you to be took in by sich rubbish.”

“Thank ’ee,” rejoined Martha. “I s’pose my own grandma is a liar then, for ’twas she as told me the tale, and she did say as she saw it wi’ her own eyes.”

“What, a ghost?”

“No, it couldn’t ha’ been a ghost for ’twas the sperret of a man as was alive. ’Twas the custom, she says, for all the young folks to wait outside church-porch at midnight on Midsummer Eve, and if they was to get married during the year they’d see the sperrets of them they was to get married with go into the church and come out again. And they’d see the sperret, or the shape, or whatever ye mid call it, of them as was to die during the year too—only that kind didn’t never come out o’ the church again; they did jist walk in wi’ grave sorrowful faces, and did seem to bide there. But my grandma she telled me often how plain she saw granfer a-comin’ out of church—there, he did pass so close to her she could very nigh ha’ touched him, only she was afeared. And sure enough he axed her two months arter to the very day.”

Sam walked along in silence, chewing a blade of grass which he had plucked from beneath the hedge; his broad chip hat was set somewhat at the back of his head, and his open sunburnt face, thus fully exposed to view, wore an expression of incredulity and dissatisfaction.

“Ye don’t believe me, I see,” said Martha quickly.

“Oh, I don’t say that. I b’lieve ye think you are speakin’ the truth—’tis as true as you heared it—’tisn’t as if you was tryin’ to make me believe as you’d seen the thing yourself.”

“Well, then,” said Martha, with a flash in her black eyes, “I’ll be tellin’ you that, come next Midsummer Eve. I’ll go myself, and stand in church-porch, and maybe I’ll see Bob Ellery a-comin’ out.”

“Bob Ellery!” ejaculated Sam, stopping short again, and throwing away his blade of grass. “Is it _him_ ye’re thinkin’ of lookin’ for?”

“Why not?” said Martha, slightly raising her voice; “as well him as another.”

“Well,” said Sam, striking the nailed heel of his heavy boot into the ground, “he’s just the one to be up to sich foolishness—the biggest sammy between this and Dorchester.”

“I wouldn’t be makin’ free wi’ your own name,” retorted the girl sarcastically. “I know one sammy as ain’t so far off. But ye needn’t be turnin’ up your nose at Bob Ellery, Mr. Sam Bundy—him and me’s very thick, and I don’t like to hear my friends abused.”

“Now look ye here, Martha,” said Sam, controlling his rising anger. “This here be real foolish talk between you and I, as has been a-walkin’ ever since Christmas. If you was to look for anybody a-comin’ out o’ church, it should be me!”

“Oh, but you are much too grand to think o’ lettin’ your sperret do any sich thing. Bob bain’t so stuck up—he don’t set up for being no wiser than the rest of us. But as for you—if we was to spill the salt between us I don’t suppose you’d ever think o’ throwin’ a pinch over your shoulder.”

“I don’t suppose I should,” he replied, bluntly.

“You was brought up wi’ such notions!” she continued. “Your mother didn’t ever set ye on a donkey’s back wi’ your face to the tail, did she?”

“I can’t call to mind as she did,” returned he, staring.

“Then, ’tain’t her fault, nor yours neither, if ye didn’t die o’ the whooping cough,” cried Martha triumphantly. “’Twas the first thing as ever my mother did do wi’ the lot of us, except my little brother Walter, and he was the only one as ever took that complaint, and never looked up after—just withered away, one mid say, and died.”

“Because he didn’t sit with his face to the ass’s tail,” said Sam, relaxing into a broad grin.

“Ye did ought to be ashamed o’ yourself, Sam, to go a-sneerin’ like that—there be a cross on the donkey’s back.”

Sam thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his corduroys, and paced beside her without speaking for a moment or two; then he turned to her with a good-humoured laugh:—

“Believe what you like, my maid, only don’t ask me to say I do do it!”

“I’m not axin’ you nothin’ at all, I’m sure,” returned Martha indifferently, though again the tell-tale colour swept over cheek and brow. She stooped presently, and plucked an ox-eye daisy from beneath the hedge.

“This year; next year; some time; never! This year—next year—some time—never—This year—next year—some time—never! _This_ year!—I wonder if ’tis to be wi’ Bob Ellery. Come, I’ll try his fortune.”

She possessed herself of another daisy, and was about to resume her performance when Sam, laying his hand on hers, firmly imprisoned both the busy fingers and the blossom.

“Martha,” he said, “there be some things a man can stand, and there be some things he can’t. Now I can’t stand hearing you carry on this ’ere kind o’ nonsense about Bob Ellery. It’s got to be one way or t’other—him or me. If it’s me jist gi’e me your word as ye’ll drop this ’ere talk o’ tryin’ your fortun’ wi’ him. If it’s him in earnest—I’ll bid you good evenin’.”

Martha was proud as well as pretty, and resented the peremptory tone; she jerked away her hands, and tossed her head.

“P’r’aps I won’t wait for you to say it, Mr. Bundy—p’r’aps I can say ‘Good evenin’’ jist so plain as ye can yourself. _Good evenin’_, Mr. Samuel Bundy. I wish ye a pleasant walk home, and hope ye may soon find a sweetheart clever enough to suit ye. Ye’d best ax schoolmissus—she bain’t much more nor fifty-four, and I reckon she’s not one to go a-waitin’ in church-porch to look for sperrets—I’ll tell ye later on who _I_ see on Midsummer Eve; but—I—think—I—know.”

She had been dropping little ironical curtsies to him throughout this speech, and now walked away, plucking the leaves from her crushed daisy, and singing “I—think—I—know” until she had turned the corner of the lane.

Sam stood looking after her until she was out of sight, and then, drawing a deep breath, began to move slowly homewards.

“So that is the end!” he said to himself. “And I thought she was terrible fond of me. These maids—there bain’t no knowin’ where to have ’em!”

* * * * *

On the following Sunday the once tender lovers walked apart, and Sam invented no more pretexts for passing Martha’s home of a weekday evening as he had been wont to do, just for a glimpse of her in the doorway or at the window, or, as had not infrequently happened, standing accidentally by the gate. On these occasions he had been used to invite her to walk with him “just so far as the top of the lane;” it was, indeed, during the course of one of these little strolls that the quarrel had taken place. But now, though oddly enough just about that time of evening Martha was to be seen pretty often looking out of the window, or leaning against the doorpost, or even gazing absently up and down the lane from the garden gate, Sam Bundy passed that way no more.

When Sunday came again Bob Ellery chanced to overtake Martha as she was returning home from church, a fact which Sam Bundy, who had passed the girl a moment before with an immovable face, carefully noted; and when Bob, with an agreeable smile, inquired if Martha was likely to be walking out that afternoon, he was answered with such flattering civility that he took courage to propose to be her companion.

But Martha’s family noticed that she came in from the expedition in a very bad humour. Bob was a thick-headed young man, and he had not much to say for himself; and he had brought his pipe with him and puffed the smoke in Martha’s face and laughed at her for minding it; and, moreover, he had wanted to kiss her on parting, which she had thought very presumptuous on so short an acquaintance—Sam had walked with her for at least three Sundays before he had made any such attempt—altogether she was ruffled.

“I reckon ye did like Sam best,” remarked her sister, as Martha tossed her hat on to the bed.

The other started and answered angrily: “I may have liked him to begin wi’, but I fair hate him now.”

“Well, Bob Ellery bain’t so bad,” returned the sister soothingly. “His nose do seem to turn up a good bit, and he’ve got an awful big head, but I’ve seen many as was worse looking.”

“There’s other chaps besides Sam and Bob,” retorted Martha.

“Who?” enquired the other eagerly, thinking her sister had made a new conquest.

“Oh, I don’t know—there’s lots of ’em about. Do ye mind Granny’s silly old tale about goin’ to the church-porch on Midsummer Eve?”

“Of course I do. Are ye thinkin’ o’ tryin’ it?”

Martha nodded.

“I’d like to find out summat for certain,” she said.

“Lard, I should be frightened to death to try it. Ugh! Fancy standin’ there among the graves all alone in the dark a-waitin’ for a sperret! Maybe ye mightn’t like him when he did come.”

“That’s just what I be a-thinkin’,” said Martha, with a sigh. “But I’d like to find out—it ’ud be a kind o’ satisfaction to know for sure, and not to keep on wonderin’ if it’s to be this one or that one.”

“Well, I wouldn’t do it if I was you,” said the sister.

But Martha was obdurate.

Shortly after the clock struck eleven on the fateful night she crept softly out of the house, and sped noiselessly through the village, and up the lane until she came to the church.

It was a warm, still night, with a large, sultry moon swimming overhead, and outlining with silver the grey walls of the sacred building and the many tombstones which studded the green enclosure round it.

Martha stood still, catching her breath, then tremulously unlatched the gate and went up the flagged path. She paused midway, raising her hand to her head:—

“Did Grandma say ‘_In_ church-porch’ or ‘Nigh to church-porch’? I can’t mind which. The porch do seem to be awful dark—and ’twould be oncommon close inside. There do seem to be scarce room for the sperrets to get past if you was to stand there, without they went through you.”

She shivered: the porch did certainly look uninviting, swathed as it was in awful shadow, and festooned with ivy, tendrils of which stirred every now and then, uncannily as it seemed, for there was no breeze, and the motion was probably caused by some of the many birds that had made homes for themselves in its green fastnesses.

“I reckon it will do just as well if I stop here under tree,” said Martha decisively. “I can see everything what goes in or out, and ’twouldn’t be so far to run if—” she glanced apprehensively at the porch again, measured the distance between it and the gate, and finally, moving swiftly towards the latter, propped it carefully open with a large stone.

“The road do run all downhill too,” she said to herself, feeling somewhat reassured as she glanced down the lane; she possessed a light pair of heels—even if a spirit were to pursue her she fancied she could distance it.

Under the big cypress tree she now took up her stand, drawing her dark skirts closely about her, and only peering out occasionally behind the trunk. The moments passed very slowly, as it seemed to her; now and then the squeak of a bat broke the stillness, at other times a rustle in the long grass betokened the passage of some nocturnal wanderer—a stoat possibly, or a rat. On these occasions Martha would hitch up her skirts a little and look fearfully round—she was almost as much afraid of rats as of ghosts. Once she thought she heard a kind of stealthy movement in the grass just behind her, and almost uttered a shriek of terror as the possibility occurred to her that it might be a snake. After looking over her shoulder in the endeavour to ascertain the cause of this mysterious sound she turned round again suddenly.

Lo! advancing with swift and noiseless tread up the flagged path was a figure, the outlines of which were strangely familiar to her. As it approached nearer to her place of ambush the moonlight distinctly revealed a countenance which seemed to be that of Samuel Bundy. _Seemed_ to be I say, for it wore an expression strangely unlike that which Martha had been accustomed to see on the blunt and honest face of her former lover: an expression of stern gravity; the eyes were fixed, the mouth resolutely set, the face, moreover, was deadly pale in the moonlight, and what alarmed Martha more than anything else was the fact that the figure moved onward without making a sound. Into the church-porch it passed, and was there engulfed by the darkness.

Martha’s heart was thumping like a sledgehammer; it was Sam sure enough—or rather Sam’s wraith, for surely no living thing could look or move in that ghostly fashion.

[Picture: “So it’s to be him after all!”]

“So it’s to be him after all!” gasped Martha, with an odd little choked spasm of laughter. “Dear, to be sure! I wonder if he d’ know as his sperret have a-come here to-night. He must be dreamin’ o’ me—I reckon he’ll have to believe now when I d’ tell him. . . . Well, I’d liefer ’twas him nor Bob, anyhow. He’ll own he be wrong arter this, an’ then all ’ull be pleasant again between us.”

She leaned her head against the spice-scented cypress bark, and smiled to herself, though she still trembled, partly with awe, partly with pleasurable anticipation. When the church clock chimed midnight, then might she confidently expect the wraith of her future husband to come gliding forth from the church into which it had so silently passed, and might gaze with certainty on the likeness of the man decreed to be the partner of her lot. It was a solemn thought, but a joyful one; any contact with the supernatural must be awe-inspiring, but Martha was a bold girl, and eminently practical, and she passed the moments which must intervene before the reappearance of the vision in choosing the colour of her wedding gown.

Clang! boomed out the clock in the church tower presently, and as the reverberating strokes fell upon the air, Martha, philosophical though she was, was conscious of a recurrence of the choking sensation of a little while before. The last vibrating echo died away, and she craned forward her head, fearful and yet eager. All was silent as the graves in the midst of which she stood; she strained her eyes towards the porch, but no white impalpable shape came forth from its blackness.

All at once Martha’s heart ceased its violent beating, and appeared to stand still: a new and awful thought had come to her. Had not her grandmother told her the dread fate which awaited the originals of those whose semblance passed into the church without again reappearing? Her own words to Sam recurred to her: “Them as is to die within the year do seem to go into the church and _don’t never come out again_.” Could it be possible that the apparition which had filled her with so much satisfaction a few moments before was the portent of poor Sam’s early death?

Unnerved by this terrible idea she rent the stillness with a series of muffled shrieks and sobs:—

“Oh, Sam, Sam! Oh, dear Sam! Oh, Sam, come out, come out! Whatever shall I do? Sam, come out!”

Her tears were flowing so fast that she was obliged to have recourse to her apron, and, enveloped in its folds and overcome by increasing grief, failed to hear the series of heavy thuds which denoted the rapid approach of the figure which had suddenly emerged from the church-porch.

Could any spirit be endowed with such a pair of sturdy arms as those which were now thrown about her, or be capable of bestowing such resounding and fervent salutes as those which were presently rained on brow and cheeks? Martha uttered one blood-curdling yell, and then stood still.

“Why, my pretty,” cried Sam’s voice, which sounded very real and comfortable, “what be all this shindy? Have anybody been a-frightenin’ of ye? Have that rascal Bob been up to any games?”

Still clutching her in a tight embrace, he looked fiercely round.

“Bob!” ejaculated Martha. “Bob! Why what should he—” She broke off suddenly, adding with a wail of recurrent anguish: “Oh, Sam—oh, Sam, ye don’t know what I’ve a-seen this night! There, my heart be fair broke. I can never tell ’ee, but if ye knowed!”

“Nonsense, my maid,” cried Sam with a reassuring squeeze. “Ye haven’t seen nothing at all. I’ve been a-sittin’ in church-porch all the time an’ nothin’ have come nigh the place.”

“What!” gasped Martha, “’twas yourself—your own self as comed here—I—did think ’twas your sperret. Why whatever made ye walk so queer?”

With a chuckle Sam uplifted a large broad foot protected only by a stocking.

“I thought, ye see,” he explained, “as that there silly Bob ’ud very like be up to some tricks—makin’ believe to appear to ye, or some such thing—so, thinks I to myself, I’ll just bide handy in porch and if he do try it on I’ll pounce out on him.”

“Oh,” said Martha, “why I don’t suppose he knows naught about nothing of the kind.”

“Ye didn’t tell him your grandma’s tale, then?” said Sam, with a note of incredulous delight in his voice.

“N—no,” said Martha—“I didn’t reckon ’twould interes’ him, d’ye see. ’Twas different wi’ you.”

And then Sam laughed long and loud.

“Martha,” he said at last, “I take back all as I said agen this here old custom—I can see as there be sense in it. Ah, a deal o’ sense in it. My sperret, d’ye see, was very anxious to come to ’ee, Martha—that anxious that it did take the rest o’ me along wi’ it. I shouldn’t wonder if the rest of the tale was to come true too—about gettin’ married soon arter, ye know.”

“P’r’aps I’ll have summat to say about that,” tittered Martha coyly.

“Ye can’t say nothin’ but the one thing,” returned Sam triumphantly. “’Twouldn’t be lucky!”

JOHNNY AT SHROTON FAIR.

Oh, dear, what can the matter be?
Johnny’s so long at the Fair!

JOHNNY’S father was busily chopping wood in the little shed at the back of the cottage, and Johnny himself sat on an upturned block with one chubby leg crossed over the other—a feat of some difficulty when one’s legs are short and one’s seat unsteady—superintending the parental labours, and revolving a certain project in his mind. John the elder was a red-bearded giant of a man, with strongly marked features and great, sinewy, hairy arms, which were now fully revealed under his rolled up shirt-sleeves. Johnny the younger, like his namesake of poetic fame, had a golden head “like a yellow mop in blow,” a cherub-face, big solemn blue eyes—very serious and thoughtful just now—and every other good point which may reasonably be looked for in a healthy little peasant four-year-old.

[Picture: “You do seem to be choppin’ a lot this evenin’, Dada”]

He had not long been promoted to the dignity of knickerbockers, and was the proud possessor of pockets which still retained all the charm of novelty. Into one of these pockets he now dived from time to time, extracting from its depths (which were not very profound) a small round wooden box, the lid of which he proceeded to unscrew; a painful squeaking accompanying the process. This, on being removed, displayed a bright, threepenny-bit; and Johnny, taking it out, contemplated it for a moment in the broad palm of his grimy little hand, turned it over, polished it on the knee of his little breeches, replaced it in its receptacle, screwed on the lid again with laborious grinding, and finally restored the whole to his pocket.

Observing, after these operations had been gone through some half-dozen times, that his father allowed them to pass unnoticed, Johnny heaved a deep sigh and made a remark on his own account.

“You do seem to be choppin’ a lot this evenin’, Dada.”

“’Ees, Johnny, I be”—and here John Reed senior laid down his hatchet, straightened himself, and wiped his brow. “I have to chop so much as your mother will want to-morrow and next day too, d’ ye see? I’m goin’ to Shroton to-morrow wi’ Maggie and Rosie. If you be a good little chap I’ll bring ’ee a cake, maybe.”

Johnny uncrossed his legs and sat rigid on the block, his eyes apparently ready to jump out of his head. The father nodded good-naturedly, and took up his axe again. The son threw out his hand after the manner employed by scholars desirous of attracting the teacher’s attention.

“Bide a bit!”—with a quaint assumption of authority—“I’ve got summat to show ’ee here.”

The chubby hand sought the pocket once more, the box was produced, and its contents displayed. “I’ve got fruppence,” announced Johnny triumphantly.

“Have ’ee, now?” returned Reed kindly but dispassionately. “Well done! Where did ’ee get that?”

“Gran’ma gived it me. Dada!”—here Johnny got off the block—“Dada, do ’ee take me to the fair to-morrow, and let me ’pend it.”

“Why, I never!” cried the father, half puzzled and half admiring. “You be too little, Johnny—you’d be tired out afore the day was half done.”

“Nay, nay” and the little head was shaken until the golden mop was in full display. “Nay, I’d not be tired. I can walk so far as Rosie, an’ I do want to go in the roundabouts.”

“Want to go in the roundabouts, do ’ee? That’s a tale.” Here John Reed laughed, scratched his head, and contemplated his small sturdy son. “I d’ ’low you’d enjoy the roundabouts, and the shows and that—jist about. But we shan’t be home till late. And whatever ’ud Mother say? Ye’d best stop an’ take care of Mother, I reckon, Sonny.”

“Nay,” said Johnny junior. “I be goin’ with ’ee; Mammy have got Puss!”

And thereupon the red-haired giant laughed long and loud, and the imp beside him knew the victory was his.

The sun was sinking when they came indoors, both looking extremely important, albeit somewhat sheepish, as became a pair of conspirators.

Mrs. Reed stood by the window mending the coat which her master was to wear on the morrow; Maggie, a tall, shapely girl of seventeen, was ironing a starched white petticoat; while Rosie, the younger daughter, busily stitched a lace frill on the neck of her Sunday dress. An air of joyful bustle and excitement pervaded the place, for, although Mrs. Reed herself had ceased to join in the annual outing, she was good-natured enough to share the others’ pleasure at the prospect.

“There, Missus, I’ve cut ye enough wood to do ye for a week,” announced John, “an’ me and the little chap ’ull feed chicken jist now.”

“It’s time for Johnny to go to bed,” remarked the mother, gazing at him fondly, however. “He’s best out of the way to-night—there do always seem to be sich a lot to be done afore Shroton.”

“Well,” agreed John falteringly, “p’r’aps he would be best abed, more particular as he has a mind to come wi’ us to-morrow.”

There was a chorus of surprise and disapproval, in the midst of which Johnny stood silent, gazing from one to the other with a solemn, resolute little face. It was not until “Dada” himself had begun to show signs of wavering that the little fellow suddenly sat down on the ground and began to cry.

Now Johnny occupied a somewhat unique position in the family, which may thus be accounted for: Rosie and Maggie had come tumbling into the world hard on each other’s heels; and then five little graves, side by side under the churchyard yew, marked the advent and departure of five little boys, not one of whom had lived more than a few years; and then, after a long interval, when the cradle had been put away and the baby-clothes laid by on the top shelf of the cupboard, Johnny had made his appearance; and Johnny had from the first evinced a determination to live, and from the moment he could walk had become the recognised ruler of the entire household.

Therefore, when Johnny lifted up his voice in protest, general consternation ensued. Dada, taking him in his arms, upbraided the women-folk, and remarked indignantly that the child was not so big yet but what he could carry him if he was tired: and Maggie with a blush reminded her mother that Jim Fry was going to give them a lift to Shroton and back, and therefore there would be no need for Johnny to walk except just at the Fair itself; and Rosie observed that he didn’t seem to be one for catching cold, and, moreover, opined that he would look beautiful in his new suit, and that it did seem a pity that he couldn’t wear it where it could be seen. This last suggestion turned the scale, and Johnny dried his eyes and was carried off to bed in triumph.