Windyridge Part 19

"It's no use," he said, and for once the cheerful farmer had become gloomy; "I haven't got a right hang o' t' words, but t' Owd Book says summat, if I'm not mista'en, about ye can crush a man's 'ead up in a mortar wi' a pestle, an' if he's a fool at t' start, he'll be a fool at t' finish. Barjona says he's stalled o' livin' down yonder i' Maria's house in t' Gap, an' he's set 'is 'eart on yon cottage o' Ted's ever sin' he thought o' gettin' wed again. He's shut his teeth, an' ye couldn't prize 'em open wi' a chisel an' hammer."

"Could the squire do anything if I wrote him?" I asked.

"Mr. Evans? What can 'e do? T' cottage isn't his. Law's law, an'

Barjona has t' law on his side. Ye can't fight agen law. Ted 'll have to shift. It's a pity, but it's no killin' matter, an' 'e'll get over it i' time."

"Not if he's rooted to the soil," I said; "old plants often die when transplanted."

"Now look 'ere, Miss 'Olden," he replied kindly; "don't you take on over this job. You're too fond o' suppin' sorrow. We all 'ave our own crosses to carry, an' it's right 'at we should 'elp to carry other folkses. But it's no use carryin' theirs unless you can lighten t'

load for 'em. Frettin' for owd Ted 'll none make it any easier for 'im. You want to learn 'ow to be sorry i' reason, without frettin'

yourself to death. Why aren't ye sorry for Barjona?"

"The miserable old fox!" I exclaimed.

"I dunno but what he's more to be pitied nor Ted," replied Reuben thoughtfully. "Now you just study a minute. Don't ye think the Lord 'll be more sorry to see Barjona's 'eart shrivelled up like a dried pig-skin, so as it can't beat like other people's, nor what 'E will for Ted, what's as 'armless as a baby? If I read t' Owd Book right 'E allus seemed t' sorriest for them 'at were t' worst. 'E wept over Lazarus, I know, but 'E didn't fret about him an' his sisters in t'

same way as 'E fret over t' city when 'E wept over it. You see, Lazarus 'adn't gone wrong, an' t' city had. Lazarus an' t' girls had suffered i' their bodies an' their minds, same as we all 'ave to do, an' same as Ted is doin', but t' city 'at rejected 'Im was sufferin' in its soul.

"No, I pity Ted, but I pity Barjona more. It's t' sick 'at need t'

physician, as t' Owd Book says, an' Barjona's got t' fatal disease o'

greed an' selfishness an' covetousness an' 'ard-'eartedness, wi' all sorts o' complications, an' it doesn't make me pity 'im any less 'at 'e doesn't know 'at 'e ails ought. You never found the Lord ought but kind to them 'at 'E drave t' devils out of. Now you think it over, an'

keep your sperrits up."

I have thought it over. Just now, perhaps, I am not in the mood to view the case philosophically. My own feelings reflect the mood of the village generally. I don't doubt Barjona's sickness, but my prescription would be a drastic one, and whipping with scorpions would be too good for him. There are some people whom kindness does not cure, and I imagine Barjona to be one of them.

I would go over to see Maria, but Farmer Goodenough is emphatic that I ought not to interfere. "It's ill comin' between married fowk," he says. He is sure I should make trouble, and he is very likely right.

I was astonished when I heard that Barjona had left his lodgings and gone to live in the Gap, for it certainly seems out of the way for his business; but he has no right to disturb poor old Ted for his own convenience. I hope judgment will overtake him speedily.

Did I not say I had a nodding acquaintance with the devil?

CHAPTER XIX

BARJONA'S DOWNFALL

Soon after breakfast on Sat.u.r.day a furniture cart stopped at Carrier Ted's gate, and the village turned out _en ma.s.se_. There had been a heavy downpour of rain during the night, but the sun struggled through the clouds at breakfast time, and by nine o'clock had gained the mastery. It was dirty on the roadway, so the half-dozen neighbourly men who were piling the household effects on to the cart had to be careful not to rest them in the mud.

Not that Carrier Ted cared anything about it. He stood in the garden with the old silk hat pushed deep down over his brow, and looked abstractedly at his peonies. He seemed oblivious to the busy scene that was being enacted about him: of all the spectators he was the least moved: he, the most interested of all, was less interested than any.

By and by Barjona drove up and was greeted with scowls and muttered imprecations. Two or three of the women went a step beyond muttering, and expressed their views in terms that lacked nothing of directness.

"You ought to be ashamed o' yerself, Barjona Higgins!" said one; "yes, you ought! To turn the old man out of his 'ome at his time o' life.

You'd turn a corpse out of its coffin, you would!"

Barjona's cold eyes contracted. "What's wrong now, eh?" he jerked; "house is mine, isn't it? .... Paid good money for it.... Can do as I like wi' my own, can't I? ... You mind your business; I'll mind mine."

He walked up the path to the house, merely nodding to Ted as he pa.s.sed; but Ted did not see him.

After a while he returned and went up to the old man, and shouted in his ear as though he were deaf, so that we all could hear:

"There'll be a bit o' plasterin' to do ... your expense ... an' there's a cracked winda-pane ... ye'll pay for that, Ted?"

The old man looked up and pa.s.sed his sleeve across his brow, then rubbed his knuckles in his eyes as though awaking from sleep.

"Owt 'at's right, Barjona; owt 'at's right, lad."

Reuben Goodenough's eldest son was pa.s.sing at the time, with a heavy fender over his shoulder. Hearing these words he stopped, and I thought for a moment that he was going to bring it down on Barjona's head, but with an angry gesture he moved on and deposited his burden on the cart. Then he went up to the new owner and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. How I admired the strong, well-set man, and the man within him.

"Mr. Higgins," he said, "you can see for yourself 'at Ted isn't fit for business. If you've ought to say, say it to me. I'm actin' for 'im."

There had been no such arrangement, of course, but this provisional government met with the approval of the crowd.

"That's right, Ben lad, you tak' both t' reins an' t' whip!" shouted Sar'-Ann's mother; "I'm fain to see there's one man in t' village."

"Now, you look here, Mr. Higgins," continued Ben, thus encouraged, "ought 'at it's right for Ted to pay shall be paid, but you send your list an' bill in to me, an' if my father an' me pa.s.ses it ye'll be paid, an' if we don't ye won't; so you can put that in your pipe an'

smoke it."

"Keep cool, Ben, keep cool!" said Barjona, who himself was not in the least ruffled; "only want what's right, you know ... only what's right.... You or Ted, Ted or you ... all the same to me."

"I feel dead beat, lad," said Ted, who still seemed dazed; "I'll go inside an' lie down a bit."

Ben motioned to me, and I stepped through the gate and joined them.

"Ted's tired," he said, "and wants to lie down. Would you mind taking him across to Susannah's and askin' her to let 'im rest on t' sofa a bit?" Then turning to the old man he said: "Go with this lady, Ted: go with Miss Holden. We've nearly finished packing all your stuff on t'

cart, you know. But Susannah 'll get you a sup o' something warm, an'

you can lie down on her sofa, an' Miss Holden 'll talk to you a bit."

He spoke soothingly, as to a child, and the old man turned his eyes upon me.

"Shoo's a stranger, Ben?"

"Nay, she's lived here a twelvemonth, Ted. Now come, you go with 'er.

She'll look after you nicely."

He suffered himself to be led away, but when we reached the group about the gate he would go no farther, but suddenly found tongue, and began to speak in a ruminating way, looking first at one and then another, but keeping fast hold of my arm.

"Ye'll none o' ye mind my mother? No, no, ye're ower young, all o' ye.

It'll be seventy year an' more sin' she died, an' I wor only a lad at t' time. That wor her rockin'-chair 'at they're puttin' on t' cart, an' when I browt my missis 'ome, shoo hed it. First my mother, neighbours, an' then t' missis; an' t' owd chair lasts 'em both out, an' 'll last me out. I nivver thowt but it 'ud stand there aside o' t'

chimley till they carried me out o' t' door, feet for'most. T' old chair 'll feel kind o' lonesome, neighbours, kind o' lonesome, in a strange kit chin."

"Nivver 'eed, lad," said one of the older women; "ye'll be varry comfortable down i' t' Clough."

"Aye, happen so," he replied, "but lonesome, neighbours, lonesome.

There isn't a crack i' t' beams but what looked friendly-like, for we've grown old together; an' all t' furnitur' spake to me abaht old times, for I niwer shifted 'em out o' their places. An' them two chaney orniments o' t' chimley-piece, they wor allus comp'ny, too--Duke o' Wellington an' Lord Nelson they are. My mother wor varry proud on 'em i' her time, an' t' missis wor just t' same; an' sin' shoo went they've allus felt to be comp'ny like. I doubt they'll nivver look t'

same on another chimley-piece."

"It's a shame 'at 'e's turned ye out, Ted," said Susannah, "an' I 'ope 'e'll 'ave to suffer for it, I do."