North, South and over the Sea Part 11

"Does Mrs. Rigby live here? No, I'm sure she does not--I beg your pardon--it is a mistake."

"No, sir, no mistake at all; it's quite right. Mrs. Rigby does live here--she's my mother."

The stranger again darted a swift, eager glance at her.

"Right," he said. "I'll come in; I want to see her."

Mrs. Whiteside hesitated for a moment. "My mother doesn't often have visitors," she said. "We've been here more nor ten year now, and n.o.body's ever come lookin' for her."

"I've come a long way to look for her," said the man; "I've come from Australia. I'm bringing her news of her son Will."

"Eh dear!" cried the woman, clapping her hands together, "ye don't say so! My word, mother will be pleased. We didn't know rightly whether he were alive or dead. Tis twenty-five year or more since he left home.

Tisn't bad news I hope, mester?" she added anxiously, for the brown face, as much of it as could be seen under the thick dark beard, wore a troubled look.

"Bad news? No," returned he with a gruff laugh. "It wouldn't matter much anyway, would it? seein' as you'd lost sight of him for so long, and by all accounts he wasn't worth much at the best o' times."

"He's my brother," said Mrs. Whiteside shortly. "Will ye please to step in, sir?"

He followed her into a narrow pa.s.sage, and thence into an odd, little three-cornered room; a room furnished in mahogany and green rep, with a few brightly-bound books on the shining round table in the centre, framed oleographs on the walls, stuffed birds in gla.s.s cases on the mantel-piece, and a pervading odour of paraffin.

"I'll call mother," said Mrs. Whiteside, backing towards the door and eyeing her visitor suspiciously, for her mind misgave her as to whether it would be safe to leave him alone with the Family Bible or the stuffed birds. "Mother!" she cried, raising her voice, "will you come for a minute? There's a visitor here."

"Nay, la.s.s, I can't leave the bread," called back an old woman's voice, shrill yet strong. "Ax the body to step in here, whoever 'tis."

"Will ye come into the kitchen?" said Mrs. Whiteside unwillingly. "My mother, 'tis a notion she has, 'ull never set foot in this 'ere room.

We're Lancashire folk, ye see, mester, and tis the custom there to live mostly in the kitchen."

The visitor followed her in silence across the pa.s.sage and into the opposite room. Hardly had he set foot inside the door before he uttered an exclamation, looking down the while at the floor. The boards were scrubbed to an immaculate whiteness and strewn with sand.

He rubbed his boot backward and forward over the gritty surface with an odd smile; then, raising his eyes, he looked hastily round the room, averting his glance quickly when it fell upon the figure bending over the great brown pan in the fender. Walking to the window he stood looking out without speaking.

"I hope the man's got all his wits," said Mrs. Whiteside to herself, "I never did see a chap act so strange."

Through the open window a fine view could be had of tall grimy houses, and sooty roofs, with scarce a glint of sky between the chimney-stacks, and far down in the street below was the turmoil of city life; the roar and rush of it came echoing up even to that odd, peaceful little chamber. The man neither saw nor heard; as he stood there it seemed to him that he was looking out upon the moorland, with the smell of the heather strong and spicy and sweet in his nostrils, and the cry of the peewit in his ears. His chest heaved; then he turned about and faced the room again. Yes, it was no dream; here was the house-place of a North Country cottage. The st.u.r.dy deal table in the midst of the sanded floor, the oak dresser with its n.o.ble array of crockery, the big chest in the corner, the screened settle on one side of the hearth; and there, kneeling on the patchwork rug, the st.u.r.dy, strong-backed old woman, in bedgown and petticoat and frilled white cap, with lean, vigorous arms half-buried in a shining ma.s.s of dough.

"Well, what's to do?" inquired she, glancing sharply over her shoulder.

"This 'ere gentleman says he's brought news of our Will," said Mrs.

Whiteside hesitatingly.

The old woman uttered a cry, and, withdrawing her hands from the dough, wiped them hastily in her ap.r.o.n, and ran towards the stranger.

"News indeed," she said. "Eh dear, and how is my poor lad? How is he, sir? Eh, bless you for coomin'! I scarce reckoned he were wick, 'tis so long sin' we'n had a word of him."

She was clasping the new-comer's hands now, and shaking them excitedly up and down, her eyes searching his face the while.

"How is my lad?" she repeated. "He mun be a gradely mon now--a gradely mon! Tis what he said hisself when he wur breeched. Dear o' me, I mind it well. He come runnin' in so proud wi's hands in's pockets. 'I'm a gradely mon now,' he says, 'same's my feyther.'"

She dropped his hands and wiped her eyes.

"My word, mother," said Mrs. Whiteside reprovingly, "how ye do run on!

Was my brother well, mester, when ye see him last?"

"Quite well," responded the stranger gruffly. "Well and hearty."

"Thank G.o.d for that!" cried the old woman.

"He told me," went on the other, and his voice still sounded rough and harsh from behind his great beard; "he told me if I were anywhere in Lancashire to look up the old place, and tell his folks he was alive and well."

"Has he been doin' pretty well, sir, d'ye know?" inquired the younger woman, politely, but with interest.

"Pretty well--lately; so I've been told," returned he.

"And he didn't send nothin' to his mother? Nothin' besides the message?" she went on. "Well, I call it a sin and a shame; 'twas scarce worth your while to seek us out for that."

"Howd thy din, Mary," cried Mrs. Rigby angrily. "Not worth while! Why, I'll bless the gentleman for it, an' pray for him day an' neet while I live. Wick an' hearty. My lad's wick an' hearty,--an' I was afeared he wur dead. An' he took thought on his owd mother so fur away, an' sent her word, bless him!"

"He might ha' sent ye somethin' else I think," said Mary wrathfully; "I don't hold wi' makin' such a to-do about a chap as never did nothin' for you in his life. There's others as is worth more nor him."

The old woman drew herself up, her eyes blazing in their sunken orbits.

"Mary," she said, "if ye mean to cast up as ye're keepin' me in my owd age, I tell ye plain, though there are strangers here, I think no shame on't. I brought ye into the world, an' I reared you an' worked hard for you till ye was up-grown, an' kept a whoam o'er your head wi'

nought but the labour o' my two hands. An' now as I'm stricken in years an' the owd place is gone, I think no shame o' being' behowden to ye for mate an' shelter."

"La, mother," stammered Mary "whatever makes ye go for to say such things?--I'm sure I wasn't castin' up--"

"Ye've no need to cast up," interrupted her mother fiercely. "I'm not behowden to ye for mich, as how 'tis--I reckon I addle my mate."

The man turned upon the younger woman with a savage glance, but she was too much absorbed in her own grievance to heed him. "I wasn't castin' up, mother," she a.s.severated. "I n.o.bbut meant it seemed a bit hard as you should think as much of Will as of me."

"Eh," said the old woman, beginning to laugh and shaking her head, "I'll not deny but what the lad was a great fav'ryite. The only lad ever I had, and my first-born. Dear o' me, I mind how proud I was when they telled me 'twas a lad. 'A fine lad,' said the woman as did for me. Eh, I thought my heart 'ud fair burst wi' joy! An' he wur sech a gradely little chap, so peart an' lively, crowin' an' laughin' from morn till neet. Dear, yes--soon as ever leet coom he'd come creepin'

up to our bed an' pull at the sheet. 'Wakken up, mother,' he'd say; 'mother, it's time to wakken up!' Eh, mony a time I fancy I can hear the little voice when I wak' up now, i' this dark dirty place. I keep my e'en shut, an' hark at the birds chirrupin', an' think o' the little hand pluckin' at the sheet, an' the little voice. An' then clock strikes an' I oppen my e'en and see the smoke an' the black chimnies--eh, I'm welly smoored among 'em all! I could fair go mad to find mysel' so far away fro' whoam."

"But surely," said the visitor, with a dreamy glance round, "you've made this place very home-like."

"'Tis, an' 'tisn't. Says I to Mary when she axed me to shift wi' her, 'I'll not coom,' says I, 'wi'out I bring th' clock an' chest, an' all they bits o' things as I'm used to.' 'Eh, mother,' says she, 'what would you be doin' wi' 'em down i' London town?'--'What should I be doin' wi' 'em?' says I. 'Same as I do here,' says I. 'If I coom wi'

you, my la.s.s I mun keep to the owd ways. I'm too owd mysel' for aught else. I mun keep th' owd things an' th' owd fashions.'--Is that a bit o' heather as ye've getten i' your hat, sir?"

"Yes," said the man deliberately; "'tis a bit of heather--and it comes from Boggart Moor. I picked it last week when I went to look for you."

"'Twas wonderful kind of you to go all that way, I'm sure," said Mrs.

Whiteside. "I doubt our Will reckoned we was livin' there still. Tis years an' years since we've had a word from him. He didn't know I'd got wed, very like."

"No, he didn't," said the man. "He thought his mother and sister were livin' still in the little cot up yonder. I had hard work to trace you."

"How does the little place look, sir?" asked the old woman, with a wistful look.

"Much as usual," returned he, half absently. "They'n shifted the horse-block, an' thrown the two shippons into one, an' tiled the wash-house roof."

Mrs. Rigby clacked her tongue, and her daughter stared.