Julia And Her Romeo: A Chronicle Of Castle Barfield Part 6

'You're back early, Sam,' said the former, rising to draw an additional chair to the table. 'Wilt have some tay, or shall Liza draw you a jug o'

beer?'

Samson returned no answer, either to this or to Mrs. Rusker's greeting.

'Lawk a mussy, what ails the man? 'asked Mrs. Mountain, as Samson stood looking round the room. She had never seen such an expression on her husband's face before. The skin was livid under its rude bronze, and his lips twitched strangely.

'Wheer's that wench of ourn?' he asked, after a second glance round the room, Mrs. Busker's heart jumped, and she held on tight to the arm-pieces of her chair.

'Julia?' said Mrs. Mountain. 'Her's about the house, I reckon.'

'Call her here,' said Samson; and his wife wondering, but not daring to question, went to the door of the sitting-room and screamed 'Julia!'

A servant girl came running downstairs at the call, and said that Miss Julia did not feel well, and had gone to bed.

'Fatch her down,' said Samson from the sitting-room, and the girl, on receipt of a confirmatory nod from Mrs. Mountain, went upstairs again.

Samson took a chair and sat with his head bent forward and his arms folded, staring at the paper ornaments in the grate.

'Samson!' said his wife appealingly, 'don't skeer a body i' thisnin.

Whativer _is_ the matter?'

'Hold thy chat,' said Samson. 'Thee'st know soon enough,' and the trio sat in silence until Julia entered the room. She was pale, and there were traces of tears on her cheeks, and Samson, as he glanced at her askance from under his heavy eyebrows before he rose, saw that she was struggling to repress some strong emotion. She advanced to kiss him, but he repelled her--not roughly--with his heavy hand upon her shoulder.

'You wanted to see me, father,' she asked, trembling.

'I sent for you.'

Mrs. Rusker was in a state of pitiable excitement, if anybody had had the leisure to notice her.

'Theer's some'at happened to-day as it's fit an' right as yo' should know. I met ode Raybould today i' th' Exchange, an' he tode me some'at as I'd long suspected, about his son Tom. I reckon you know what it was.'

Julia knew well enough. Tom Raybould was a young farmer, a year or two older than herself. She had known him all her life, and he had been a schoolfellow and chosen chum of her brother's. He had shown unmistakable signs of affection for her, but had never spoken. He was a good fellow, according to common report, and she had a good deal of liking and respect for him, and a little pity, being a good girl, and no coquette.

'I see thee understandest,' said Samson. 'I told th' ode man as he might look on it as settled, an' Tom 'll be here to-morrow. He's a likely lad, an' he'll have all the Bush Farm when his father goes, as must be afore long, i' the course o' nature. The two farms 'll goo very well in a ring fence. Theer's no partic'lar hurry, as I know on, an' we'll ha' the weddin' next wik, or the wik after.'

The girl's breast was labouring cruelly, in spite of the hand that strove to still it.

'Father!' she said. 'You don't mean it!'

'Eh?' said Samson. 'I ginerally mean what I say, my wench. I should ha'

thout as yo'd ha' known that by this time.'

He stopped there, for Julia, but for her mother's arm, would have fallen.

'You great oaf!' cried Mrs. Mountain, irritated for once into open rebellion. 'Oh, it's like a man, the stupid hulkin' creeturs as they are, to come an' frighten the life out of a poor maid i' that style.'

'Theer, theer!' said Samson, with the same heavy and threatening tranquillity he had borne throughout the interview. 'Tek her upstairs.'

He sat down again, and without another word filled and lit his churchwarden, and stared through the smoke-wreaths at the grate.

V

Mrs. Jenny Rusker, who was half dead with fear of an _expose_ of her part in this unlucky love-affair, was additionally prostrated by the dire reversal of all her hopes by Samson Mountain's ultimatum. Mrs.

Mountain, with the aid of a female servant, supported Julia upstairs, and Samson smoked on stolidly, taking no note whatever of the visitor's presence. Still in doubt of what Samson might or might not know, and fearing almost to breathe, lest any reminder of her presence should call down his wrath upon her, she listened to the tramping and the m.u.f.fled noises overhead until they ceased, and then, gathering courage from his continued apathy, slipped from the room and left the house.

She got home and went to bed and pa.s.sed an interminable night in tossing to and fro, and bewailing the untoward fate of the two children. Dawn came at last, though it had seemed as if it never would break again, and, for the first time for many a year, the first gleam of sunlight saw her dressed and downstairs. She felt feverous and ill, and having brewed for herself a huge jorum of tansy tea, sat down over this inspiring beverage, and tried to pull her scattered wits together and think out some way of untangling the skein of difficulty with which she had to deal. The danger was pressing, and if she had been herself the poor lovesick girl who lay a mile away, stifling her sobs lest they should reach her father's ears, and vainly calling on her lover's name, she would scarcely have been more miserable.

One thing was clear. d.i.c.k must be warned, and his journey to London postponed by some device. He might lie hidden for a day or two in Birmingham, and Julia be smuggled there and secretly married. It was no time for half measures, and whatever was done should be done quickly and decisively. At this idea, at once romantic and practical, Mrs. Jenny's spirits revived.

'Samson 'll disown Julia, I know. Her 'll never see a penny o' his money. An' I doubt as Abel Reddy 'll do the same wi' d.i.c.k. He's just as hard and bitter as th' other, on'y quieter wi' it. Well, they shan't want while I'm alive, nor after my death neither, and d.i.c.k ud make his own way with n.o.body's help. I'll write to him, and find somebody to take the letter. I won't go myself, at this hour o' the day.'

She concocted a letter and sealed it, and putting on her bonnet sallied out to find a messenger. Fate was so far propitious that scarce a hundred yards from her door she met Ichabod Bubb, bound for his morning's work at Perry Hall Farm. Ichabod was bent and gnarled and twisted now, stiff in all his joints and slow of movement, but his quaint visage bore the same look of uncertain and rather wistful humour which had marked it in earlier times.

'Morning, mum,' he said, with a stiff-necked nod at Mrs. Jenny.

'Good-mornin', Mr. Bubb,' said the old lady. Ichabod beamed at this sudden and unexpected ceremonial of t.i.tle, and straightened his back.

'You 'm afoot early, mum.'

'Why, yes. But it's such a beautiful morning; it's a shaame to lie abed a time like this.'

'So many folks, so many ways o' thinkin',' said the ancient one; 'not as it's a sin as I often commits, nayther, 'cos why, I don't get the chance.'

'I've got a bit o' business as I want done, Mr. Bubb,' said Mrs. Busker, 'if ye don't mind earnin' a shillin'.'

'Why,' returned Ichabod, 'I don't know as I've got any, not to say rewted, objection to makin' a shillin'.'

'You're goin' to the farm?' Ichabod nodded. 'Then I want you to take this note to Mr. Richard. But mind, you must get it to him private.

n.o.body else must know. D'you understand?'

'I'm all theer, missus,' responded Ichabod.

'Then there's the note, an' there's the shillin'. An' if you're back in two hours you shall have a pint o' beer.' Ichabod took the note and the shilling, and clattered off with a ludicrous show of despatch, and the old lady returned to her sitting-room to await the result of his message. It came in less than the appointed time, and disappointed her terribly. Ichabod had ascertained that d.i.c.k had started half an hour before his arrival at the farm for Birmingham, and would only return to-morrow night to sleep and take away his luggage on the following morning.

'And you come to me w' a message like that, y' ode gone-off!' said the exasperated old woman. 'You might ha' caught him up i' the time as you've wasted comin' back here.'

'Caught him up,' said Ichabod, with a glance at his legs. 'Yis, likely, like a cow might ketch a race-hoss. I'm a gay fine figure, missus, to ketch up the best walker i' the country-side.'

Mrs. Jenny was a woman, and therefore to offer her reason as an antidote to unreasoning anger was merely to heap fuel on flame.

'Ah!' she said, reasonably enraged with the whole masculine half of her species,' you're like the rest on 'em.'

'Then I'm sorry for the rest on 'em,' said Ichabod, 'whoever they may be.' Here Mrs. Jenny shut the door upon him, leaving him in the street, and retired to her sitting-room. But with beer to be gained by boldness, Ichabod was leonine in courage. He knocked, and the summons brought the old lady to the door again. Ichabod spoke no word, but writhed his twisted features into a grin which expressed at once humorous deprecation and expectancy, and rabbed the back of his veiny hand across his bristly lips.

'Go round to the brewus,' said Mrs. Jenny; 'you'll find the maid there.

It's all you're fit for, ye guzzlin' old idiot.'

Ichabod retired, elate.