God's Good Man Part 11

"She was took away arter the old Squire was killed, worn't she?"

asked Bainton, who was drinking in all the information he could, in order to have something to talk about to his master, when the opportunity offered itself.

"Ay! ay! She was took away," replied Josey, his smile darkening into a shadow of weariness; "The Squire's neck was broke with Firefly-- every man, woman and child knows that about here--an' then 'is brother came along, 'im wot 'ad married a 'Merican wife wi'

millions, an' 'adn't got no children of their own. An' they took the gel away with 'em--a purty little slip of about fifteen then, with great big eyes and a lot of bright 'air;--don't none of ye remember 'er?"

Mr. Buggins shook his head.

"'Twas afore my time," he said. "I ain't had the 'Mother Huff'

more'n eight years."

"I seed 'er once," said Bainton--"but onny once--that was when I was workin' for the Squire as extra 'and. But I disremember 'er face.''

"Then ye never looked at it," said Josey, with a chuckle; "or bein'

made man ye wouldn't 'ave forgot it. Howsomever, it's 'ears ago an'

she's a woman growed--she ain't been near the place all this time, which shows as 'ow she don't care about it, bein' took up with 'er 'Merican aunt and the millions. An' she'd got a nice little penny of 'er own, too, for the old Squire left 'er all he 'ad, an' she was to come into it all when she was of age. An' now she's past bein' of age, a woman of six-an'-twenty,--an' 'er rich uncle's dead, they say, so I suppose she an' the 'Merican aunt can't work it out together. Eh, dear! Well, well! Changes there must be, and changes there will be, and if the Five Sisters is a-comin' down, then there's ill-luck brewin' for the village, an' for every man, woman and child in it! Mark my wurrd!"

And he resumed his hobbling trudge, shaking his head dolefully.

"Don't say that, Josey!" murmured one of the women with a little shudder; "You didn't ought to talk about ill-luck. Don't ye know it's onlucky to talk about ill-luck?"

"No, I don't know nothin' o' the sort," replied Josey, "Luck there is, and ill-luck,--an' ye can talk as ye like about one or t'other, it don't make no difference. An' there's some things as comes straight from the Lord, and there's others what comes straight from the devil, an' ye've got to take them as they comes. 'Tain't no use floppin' on yer knees an' cryin' on either the Lord or the devil,-- they's outside of ye an' jest amusin' theirselves as they likes.

Mussy on me! D'ye think I don't know when the Lord 'ides 'is face behind the clouds playin' peep-bo for a bit, and lets the devil 'ave it all 'is own way? An' don't I know 'ow, when old Nick is jes' in the thick o' the fun 'avin' a fine time with the poor silly souls o'

men, the Lord suddenly comes out o' the cloud and sez, sez He: 'Now 'nuff o' this 'ere; get thee behind me!' An' then--an' then--," here Josey paused and struck his staff violently into the earth,--"an'

then there's a noise as of a mighty wind rushin', an' the angels all falls to trumpetin' an' cries; 'Alleluia! Lift up your 'eads ye everlasting gates that the King of Glory may come in'!"

The various village loafers sauntering beside their venerable prophet, listened to this outburst with respectful awe.

"He's meanderin'," said Bainton in a low tone to the portly proprietor of the 'Mother Huff'; "It's wonderful wot poltry there is in 'im, when 'e gives way to it!"

'Poltry' was the general term among the frequenters of the 'Mother Huff' for 'poetry.'

"Ay, ay!" replied Buggins, somewhat condescendingly, as one who bore in mind that he was addressing a creditor; "I don't understan'

poltry myself, but Josey speaks fine when he has a mind to--there's no doubt of that. Look 'ee 'ere, now; there's Ipsie Frost runnin' to 'im!"

And they all turned their eyes on a flying bundle of curls, rosy cheeks, fat legs and clean pinafore, that came speeding towards old Josey, with another young feminine creature scampering after it crying:

"Ipsie! Hip-po-ly-ta! Baby! Come back to your dinner!"

But Hippolyta was a person evidently accustomed to have her own way, and she ran straight up to Josey Letherbarrow as though he were the one choice hero picked out of a world.

"Zozey!" she screamed, stretching out a pair of short, mottled arms; "My own bootiful Zozey-posey! Tum and pick fowers!"

With an ecstatic shriek at nothing in particular, she caught the edge of the old man's smock.

"My Zozey," she said purringly, "'Oo vezy old, but I loves 'oo!"

A smile and then a laugh went the round of the group. They were all accustomed to Ipsie's enthusiasms. Josey Letherbarrow paused a minute to allow his small admirer to take firm hold of his garments, and patted her little head with his brown wrinkled hand.

"We'se goin' sweetheartin', ain't we, Ipsie," he said gently, the beautiful smile that made his venerable face so fine and lovable, again lighting up his sunken eyes. "Come along, little la.s.s! Come along!"

"She ain't finished her dinner!" breathlessly proclaimed a long- legged girl of about ten, who had run after the child, being one of her numerous sisters; "Mother said she was to come back straight."

"I s'ant go back!" declared Ipsie defiantly; "Zozey and me's sweetheartin'!"

Old Josey chuckled.

"That's so! So we be!" he said tranquilly; "Come along little la.s.s!

Come along!" And to the panting sister of the tiny autocrat, he said: "You go on, my gel! I'll bring the baby, 'oldin' on jest as she is now to my smock. She won't stir more'n a fond bird wot's stickin' its little claws into ye for shelter. I'll bring 'er along 'ome, an' she'll finish 'er dinner fine, like a real good baby! Come along, little la.s.s! Come along!"

So murmuring, the old man and young child went on together, and the group of villagers dispersed. Roger Buggins, however, paused a moment before turning up the lane which led to the 'Mother Huff.'

"You tell Pa.s.son," he said addressing Bainton, "You tell him as 'ow the Five Sisters be chalked for layin' low on Wednesday marnin'!"

"Never fear!" responded Bainton; "I'll tell 'im. If 'tworn't Sunday, I'd tell 'im now, but it's onny fair he should 'ave a bit o' peace on the seventh day like the rest of us. He'll be fair mazed like when he knows it,--ay! and I shouldn't wonder if he gave Oliver Leach a bit of 'is mind. For all that he's so quiet, there's a real devil in 'im wot the sperrit o' G.o.d keeps down,--but it's there, lurkin' low in 'is mind, an' when 'is eyes flashes blue like lightnin' afore a storm, the devil looks straight out of 'im, it do reely now!"

"Well, well!" said Buggins, tolerantly, with the dignified air of one closing the discussion; "Devil or no devil, you tell 'im as 'ow the Five Sisters be chalked for layin' low on Wednesday marnin'.

Good day t'ye!"

"Good day!" responded Bainton, and the two worthies panted, each to go on their several ways, Buggins to the 'Mother Huff' from whose opened latticed windows the smell of roast beef and onions, which generally composed the Buggins' Sunday meal, came in odorous whiffs down the little lane, almost smothering the delicate perfume of the sprouting sweet-briar hedges on either side, and the nodding cowslips in the gra.s.s below; Bainton to his own cottage on the border of his master's grounds, a pretty little dwelling with a thatched roof almost overgrown with wistaria just breaking into flower.

Far away from St. Rest, the greater world swung on its way; the whirl of society, politics, fashion and frivolity revolved like the wheel in a squirrel's cage, round which the poor little imprisoned animal leaps and turns incessantly in a miserable make-believe of forest freedom,--but to the old gardener who lifted the latch of his gate and went in to the Sunday dinner prepared for him by his stout and energetic helpmate, who was one of the best dairy-women in the whole countryside, there was only one grave piece of news in the universe worth considering or discussing, and that was the 'layin'

low of the Five Sisters.'

"Never!" said Mrs. Bainton, as she set a steaming beef-steak pudding in its basin on the table and briskly untied the ends of the cloth in which it had been boiling. "Never, Tom! You don't tell me! The Five Sisters comin' down! Why, what is Oliver Leach thinking about?"

"Himself, I reckon!" responded her husband, "and his own partikler an' malicious art o' forestry. Which consists in barin' the land as if it was a judge's chin, to be clean-shaved every marnin'. My wurrd! Won't Pa.s.son Walden be just wild! M'appen he's heard of it already, for he seems main worrited about somethin' or other. I've allus thought 'im wise-like an' sensible for a man in the Church wot ain't got much chance of knowin' the wurrld, but he was jes'

meanderin' along to-day--meanderin' an' jabberin' about a meek an'

quiet sperrit, as if any of us wanted that kind o' thing 'ere! Why it's fightin' all the time! If 'tain't Sir Morton Pippitt, it's Leach, an' if 'tain't Leach it's Putty Leveson--an' if 'tain't Leveson, why it's Adam Frost an' his wife, an' if 'tain't Frost an'

his wife, why it's you an' me, old gel! We can get up a breeze as well as any couple wot was ever jined in the bonds of 'oly matterimony! Hor-hor-hor! 'Meek an' quiet sperrit,' sez he--'have all of ye meek an' quiet sperrits'! Why he ain't got one of 'is own!

Wait till he 'ears of the Five Sisters comin' down! See 'im then! Or wait till Miss Vancourt arrives an' begins to muddle round with the church!"

"Nonsense! She won't muddle round with the church," said Mrs.

Bainton cheerfully, sitting down to dinner opposite her husband, 'What nesh fools men are, to be sure! Every-one says she's a fine lady 'customed to all sorts of show and gaiety and the like--what will she want to do with the church? Ten to one she never goes inside it!"

"You shouldn't bet, old woman, 'tain't moral," said Bainton, with a chuckle; "You ain't got ten to bet agin one--we couldn't spare so much. If she doos nothing else, she'll dekrate the church at 'Arvest 'Ome an' Christmas--that's wot leddies allus fusses about-- dekratin'. Lord, Lord! The mess they makes when they starts on it, an' the mischief they works! Tearin' down the ivy, scrattin' up the moss, pullin' an' grabbin' at the flowers wot's taken months to grow,--for all the wurrld as if they was cats out for a 'oliday. I tell ye it's been a speshel providence for us 'ere, that Pa.s.son Walden ain't got no wife,--if he 'ad, she'd a been at the dekratin'

game long afore now. Our church would be jes' spoilt with a lot o'

trails o' weed round it--but you mark my wurrd!--Miss Vancourt will be dekratin' the Saint in the coffin at 'Arvest 'Ome wi' corn and pertaters an' vegetable marrers, all a-growin' and a-blowin' afore we knows it. There ain't no sense o' fitness in the feminine natur!"

Mrs. Bainton laughed good-naturedly.

"That's quite true!" she agreed; "If there were, I shouldn't have made Sunday pudding for a man who talks too much to eat it while it's hot. Keep your tongue in your mouth, Tom!--use it for tastin'

jes' now an' agin!"

Bainton took the hint and subsided into silent enjoyment of his food. Only once again he spoke in the course of the meal, and that was during the impressive pause between pudding and cheese.

"When he knows as 'ow the Five Sisters be chalked, Pa.s.son Walden's sure to do somethin'," he said.

"Ay!" responded his wife thoughtfully; "he's sure to do something."