Dorset dear

by M. E. Francis

THE CARRIER’S TALE.

“E-es, I d’ ’low I do see a-many queer things while I be a-goin’ o’ my rounds, year in, year out, every Tuesday an’ Friday so reg’lar as clockwork—only when Christmas Day do fall on a Friday, or Boxin’ Day, an’ then I do have to put it off. E-es, I do often say to Whitefoot when he an’ me be joggin’ along; ‘Whitefoot,’ I d’ say, ‘if you an’ me was to get a-talkin’ of all we’ve a-seen in our day, Lard! we could tell some funny tales.’ Whitefoot do seem to take jist so much notice as what I do do—he be the knowin’est mare in the country. There! ye midn’t notice as he be a-goin’ along a bit unwillin’ to-day, same as if he hadn’t a-got much heart in him; ’tis because he knows so well as me what day ’tis—Friday, d’ye see? He d’ know he’ll have to bring back a heavy load. Fridays we calls at Brewery for two or three cases o’ bottled beer—we do bring ’em full o’ Fridays up to Old’s, at Graychurch—right a-top o’ the hill—an’ we do fetch back empties o’ Tuesdays, an’ then ye should jist see Whitefoot a-steppin’ along.

“E-es, we do see all sorts o’ things, an’ we do hear all kind o’ talk. Miffs do go on many a time under that there wold green shed. When I do hear folks a-havin’ words one wi’ t’other, I do never take notice if I can help it. Sometimes they’ll be for drawin’ me in. ‘Don’t ye think so, Jan?’ one ’ull say; and then another ’ull go, ‘I’m sure Jan ’ull agree wi’ I’. An’ I do always make the same answer, ‘Settle it among yourselves, good folks,’ says I; ‘I don’t take zides wi’ one nor yet wi’ t’other. ’Tis my business for to drive, an’ I do do that,’ I do tell ’em, ‘and don’t interfere wi’ nothin’ else.’

“One day I d’ mind, Mrs. Collins, what fell out wi’ her darter for marryin’ some chap down to Bere—dalled if she didn’t meet the young woman plump in my cart! And they hadn’t been speaking for above a year.

“You see, ’twas this way. I took up Mary—that’s the darter—an’ her little child—a hinfant it was, not above four or five month old; I took ’em up first, an’ we was goin’ along the road Branston-ways, an’ it was gettin’ darkish when the wold lady met us.

“‘Can you make room for me, Jan?’ she says. ‘I bain’t so young as I was, an’ I’ve a-got a pair o’ new boots what do fair lame me.’

“‘To be sure, mum,’ says I. ‘Up wi’ ye; you can set along of I,’ I says, ‘here in front. There bain’t much room under the shed.’

“Well, she sits her down, an’ all of a minute the little baby under the shed begins a-cryin’, an’ poor Mary she begins a-hushin’ of it an’ a-talkin’ to it; and soon as ever the wold ’ooman hears her voice she gives a great start what very nearly throws her off the seat.

“‘Studdy, mum,’ says I; ‘if you do go a-jumpin’ up an’ down like that we’ll be a-droppin’ of ye into the road,’ I says.

“She made no answer and never turned her head.

“Well, the baby kep’ on a-cryin’ and a-cryin’—it had been vaccinated or some such thing—an’ the mother kep’ hushin’ it, an’ at last the wold ’ooman couldn’t hold out no longer.

“‘Give I that child, Mary,’ says she, sharp-like. ‘I d’ ’low you don’t know how to hold it,’ she says. ‘’Tis a shame to let a pore little hinfant scream like that. I d’ ’low ’twill do itself a mischief.’

“‘Oh, mother,’ says poor Mary; an’ she begins to cry herself as she hands over the child.

“Well, soon as ever Mrs. Collins had a-got hold o’ the little thing, an’ got the little face up again hers an’ began singin’ to it, an pattin’ it, an’ rockin’ it, it did stop cryin’—’twas a knowin’ little thing, that baby, I did al’ays say afterwards, for ’twas that done the job. The wold body was so pleased as could be.

“‘Didn’t I say you didn’t know how to hold it?’ says she. ‘’Tis a very fine child too,’ she says.

“And then, ‘oh, mother,’ says Mary, ‘I did so want ye to see it.’

“And so they made friends straight off, and Mary went home wi’ her mother to tea.

“Coortin’? Well, we don’t see so much o’ that—not these times. The young chaps be all for bicylin’ these days; they wouldn’t be bothered wi’ travellin’ in my cart. But I do mind one queer thing what happened many years ago now—dally! ’twas the very queerest thing as ever I knowed, or did happen in these parts.

“’Twas one Tuesday. I wur jist puttin’ in Whitefoot, an’ a few o’ my fares was a-standin’ about waitin’ for I to be ready to start, when I see a great big fellow marchin’ down the hill from Old’s.

“‘Goin’ Branston-way?’ says he with a nod to I.

“‘E-es,’ I says, ‘I be goin’ Branston-way. Be you a stranger?’ says I. ‘All the folks as lives about here do know as Branston is my way.’

“‘I’m a stranger and I’m not a stranger,’ says he. ‘My folks used to live here. I used to live with my grandfather up yonder at Whitethorns,’ he says. ‘He was called old Jesse Taylor—d’ye mind him?’

“‘I mind him very well,’ says I. ‘A fine wold fellow.’

“‘Well, I come here to have a look at his grave,’ says the young chap. ‘’Twas a notion I had.’

“‘Let me see,’ says I, turnin’ round to look at ’en as I were a-climbin’ into the cart, for Whitefoot was hitched by this time, ‘let me see who mid you be then? Wold Taylor had nigh upon farty grandchildren—I heard ’en say so many a time.’

“‘Oh, I’m one of Abel’s lot,’ says he; ‘Abel Taylor was my father’s name. He emigrated wi’ half a dozen of us when I was a little lad no higher than the shaft there; my name is Jim Taylor. I have spent most of my life in the States; I scarce call myself a Britisher now,’ says he.

“‘Dear, to be sure,’ says Mrs. Mayne, what was a-standin’ by, ‘’tis very sad for to hear ye say that, Mr. Taylor. Ye must feel very mournful havin’ to live out abroad.’

“‘I don’t know that,’ says he. He was a honest, good-natured-lookin’ chap, but when he says ‘I don’t know that’ he looked real melancholy. There; ye’d think some awful misfortune had happened. ‘I don’t know that,’ he says; ‘there’s good and bad all over the world, and there’s as much bad as good in England, I guess.’

“He had a funny way o’ talking: ‘I guess,’ he says, meanin’ for to say ‘I d’ ’low’.

“They was all in the cart by this time, an’ Whitefoot was a-trottin’ out so brisk as could be. He was a young mare then, and ’twas a Tuesday, as I say, an’ he knowed he’d have only the empties to carry along.

“Wold Maria Robbins was a-sittin’ jist behind Jim Taylor—a great talker she was, al’ays ready to gossip about her neighbours. She did sit a-starin’ an’ a-starin’ at this here Jim Taylor till I reckon he felt her eyes fixed on ’en, for he turns round smilin’ wi’ some talk about the weather. But ’twasn’t the weather as Maria did want to be talkin’ on.

“‘I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor,’ says she, ‘as you’ve a-been disappointed like in your country,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry England didn’t come up to your expectations.’

“He laughed and began pulling at his girt brown beard.

“‘’Twill maybe l’arn me not to expect too much,’ he says.

“‘I’ll go warrant ’twas a maid what played some trick on ye,’ says Maria, a-turnin’ her head on one side same as an old Poll-parrot.

“‘Maids be tricky things,’ says he; but he didn’t give her no more satisfaction.

“Well, Mrs. Mayne, what was a-sitting on the t’other side o’ the cart, was jist as anxious to pick all she could out of ’en, an’ says she, pokin’ out her head from under the shed:—

“‘I d’ ’low,’ she says, ‘there isn’t many English maids as would fancy the notion of goin’ out abroad to get married. Most English maids,’ says she, ‘likes to settle down near their own folks, an’ not be tolled off amongst strangers.’

“The wold ’ooman had jist knocked the nail on the head. The chap turns round about again wi’ his back to ’em both, an’ the dark look on his face.

“‘Folks are free to please themselves,’ says he, arter a bit, ‘but they should know their own minds. It shouldn’t be “I will” one day and “I won’t” the next.’

“Well, he didn’t seem in the humour to talk much after this, and we did drive on half a mile or so wi’out openin’ our lips, till all at once we came to a turn in the road, and there was a lot o’ folks a-waitin’ for I.

“’Twas Meadway what lives down there in the dip, an’ his wife, an’ three or four of his sons an’ daughters, an’ a couple o’ chaps what works for ’en; they was all gathered round his niece, Tamsine, as was standin’ waiting for I, dressed very nice for travellin’.

“They was makin’ sich a din when I pulled up a body could scarce hear hisself speak.

“‘Up wi’ the box,’ says one, a-tossin’ it up a’most afore I could get my feet out o’ the way. ‘Here be thy band-box, maidie,’ says another. ‘Now, Jan, make room. Good luck, my dear.’

“’Twas old Tom Meadway as did say that, an’ he no sooner let fall the word than the whole lot of ’em took it up. ’Twas ‘Good luck’ here, and ‘Good luck’ there, and the poor maid pulled about from one side to the other, an’ sich kissin’ I thought she’d be in pieces afore I did have her in my cart.

“At last she got in. Maria did have to go and sit next Mrs. Mayne, and Tamsine Meadway took her place behind Jim Taylor, what sat next I.

“‘Drop us a line so soon as you get to the other side,’ says Mrs. Meadway.

“‘Mind ye tell us what he’s like,’ cries one o’ the maids.

“‘Lard, Tamsine,’ says another, ‘I could wish I was you.’

“Then they did all start a-cheerin’, an’ two of ’em popped their heads in under the shed, laughin’ fit to split, and throwin’ somethin’ at the poor maid, an’ she jumps up an’ throws it out again, an’ then another maid comes an’ throws a handful o’ summat almost into her face.

“‘Come,’ says I, ‘I’d best be gettin’ on, or they’ll make an end on ye, maidie.’ So I touches up Whitefoot, an’ we soon leaves ’em all behind, laughin’ an’ shoutin’.

“‘Ye shouldn’t ha’ thrown back the shoe,’ says Mrs. Mayne to Tamsine; ‘that was for luck, my dear.’

“‘They mid ha’ shown a bit more feelin’,’ says Tamsine, and a body could hear she weren’t far off cryin’.

“‘If all the tale be true what I hear,’ says Maria Robbins, ‘you be a very brave young ’ooman. Be it really true as you be goin’ to ’Merica to marry a man what you’ve never seen?’

“‘Why, of course ’tis true,’ puts in Mrs. Mayne, ‘and a very good job, too. What could anybody do, you know, Miss Robbins?’ she says to Maria. ‘There’s poor Robert Meadway left his family terrible bad off, and such a lot of ’em, too, and none of ’em fit to earn a penny wi’out it’s Tamsine herself.’

“‘Why didn’t she take a place, then?’ says Maria. ‘I’d a deal sooner go to sarvice nor set out on this ’ere wild goose chase. Ye’ll have to work jist so hard,’ she says, turnin’ to Tamsine, ‘and the Lard knows what sort of a place it is you be a-goin’ to, nor what kind of a chap your husband ’ull turn out to be.’

“‘I shouldn’t mind the work,’ says Tamsine; ‘of course I’d be willin’ to work for my husband, whoever he mid be.’

“She had a kind of soft, pleasant voice, and Jim, when he heard it, turned round to look at her. I did turn round, too.

“‘What’s this tale?’ says I. ‘I never heard nothin’ of it,’ I says.

“‘Ah,’ says Mrs. Mayne, ‘Meadways did keep it dark, d’ye see, till all was settled; but ’tis quite true as Tamsine here be a-goin’ out to America to get wed to a man what lives out there. A very good match it do seem to be, too. A large farm, I d’ ’low, and a comfortable house. And Tamsine’s intended do write beautiful letters, Mrs. Meadway telled I.’

“Tamsine says nothin’, but keeps on pickin’ up the little bits o’ rice what her cousins had throwed at her, an’ droppin’ of ’em out o’ the cart. She was a very handsome maid, wi’ black eyes an’ hair, an’ a pretty bit o’ colour as a general thing, but her face was so white as chalk that day.

“‘Well,’ says Maria, speakin’ a bit sour, as wold maids will when there’s talk of young ones gettin’ wed. ‘I don’t think it’s at all proper nor becoming to go answer they advertisements what comes in the papers, an’ for such a thing as wedlock—Lard ha’ mercy me,’ she says, ‘however had ye the face to do it, Tamsine?’

“‘’Twas my cousin Martha what did it,’ says poor Tamsine, hangin’ down her head. ‘’Twas in the Western Gazette—a very respectable paper, my uncle says. We was lookin’ out for a place for me, and Martha she saw the advertisement. It said the gentleman wanted a wife from Dorset. Martha said it did seem like a chance for I, an’ she took and wrote straight off, more for a bit of fun than anything else, but when the answer came it was wrote quite in earnest. It said the gentleman had knowed some girl what came from Dorset, an’ he ’lowed he’d like a Dorset wife. He gave two references, one to a bank what said, when my uncle wrote, he was very respectable and well off, and one to a minister as said he was a very good man and ’ud make any ’ooman happy. We be chapel-folk, too, and Uncle Meadway said the offer did seem the very thing for I.’

“‘You were forced into it, then?’ says Jim Taylor, speakin’ out straight and sharp.

“‘Oh, forced,’ says she, makin’ shift to look up, ‘I couldn’t say forced.’

“But there were the big tears gatherin’ in her eyes—anybody could see she hadn’t had much say in the matter.

“‘My uncle said,’ she goes on, ‘I could have some of the little ones sent out to me by-an’-by, an’ Mr. Johnson wrote very nice about it, and said he wouldn’t have no objections.’

“‘What d’ye say the party’s name is?’ axes young Taylor, very quick.

“‘Johnson—Samuel Johnson,’ says the poor maid.

“Well, if ye’ll believe me, the chap got so red in the face as if somebody had hit ’en.

“‘Samuel Johnson,’ says he. ‘For the Lard’s sake, where does he live?’

“‘’Tis in California,’ says Tamsine; ‘he’ve a-got a farm—a ranch he calls it—at a place called Longwood.’

“‘Sakes alive!’ cries Jim, an’ he sits there gawkin’ at the maid.

“‘Of all the durned cheek!’ says he at last, speaking in his queer fayshion. ‘If the boys around was to know he had the face to ax a young British girl to marry him, I tell ye what,’ he says, ‘he’d be lynched afore he knew where he was!’

“‘Dear, to be sure,’ cries Mrs. Mayne, a-clappin’ of her hands together, ‘what’s wrong wi’ the man?’

“‘P’r’aps he’s got a wife already,’ says Maria.

“‘Maybe ’tisn’t the same Samuel Johnson,’ says I. ‘I d’ ’low I seem to ha’ heerd o’ the name afore.’

“‘’Tis a play-actin’ kind o’ a name,’ says Maria.

“Poor Tamsine, she was so white as any sheet, an’ she did stretch out her hand an’ grab hold o’ Jim by the sleeve, an’ shake ’en.

“‘Tell I quick,’ she cried; an’ then she drops her hand, an’ begins a-cryin’.

“‘No, don’t tell me,’ she says; ‘don’t ye tell me nothing. I’m bound every way. I’ve a-passed my word,’ says she; ‘an’ he’s actually sent the money for my ticket. I can’t go back now!’

“‘Yes, but you shall go back,’ cries Jim, a-catchin’ of her by the wrist. ‘I’ll not stand by—no honest man could, an’ see a young girl—a good honest young girl, sold to such a chap as Johnson. Why, he’s a nigger!’ he cries.

“Poor Tamsine, I thought she’d ha’ fell off the seat.

“‘A black man!’ screeches she.

“‘As black as my shoes,’ says Jim. ‘A great big, oily, dirty nigger,’ says he.

“He didn’t pick his words, d’ye see.

“‘Why, his head’s as woolly as a sheep’s back,’ he says.

“‘No, my girl,’ he goes on, ‘it can’t be allowed.’

“‘But I’m bound,’ says Tamsine, wi’ her face working pitiful.

“‘You are no more bound nor I am,’ says he. ‘The rascal’s imposed on ye shameful. He knows right well he’d no business to ax a white girl to marry him wi’out tellin’ her all the truth. Why didn’t he ax you straight if you’d be willin’ to take up wi’ a black man? But he knowed a deal better nor that.’

“‘But perhaps it isn’t the same Mr. Johnson,’ says Mrs. Mayne. ‘It ’ud be a pity for the maid to give up her husband if there was any mistake.’

“‘I know Longwood in California,’ says Jim, ‘as well as I know my own hand. I was there only last fall. ’Tisn’t a very big place, an’ I knowed every one as lives there. I knowed Samuel Johnson well—he come to chapel reg’lar. I reckon,’ says he, ‘the name o’ the minister as recommended him was Ebenezer Strong.’

“‘E-es,’ says Tamsine, ‘that’s the name. The Reverend Ebenezer Strong.’

“‘That’s it,’ shouts Jim. ‘Why, he’s a coloured man hisself—he wouldn’t be likely to find fault wi’ the man for bein’ a nigger. You mustn’t ha’ no more to do wi’ him, my girl. ’Twas a mercy I met ye, and could warn ye in time.’

“‘Oh! but what can I do?’ cries the poor maid, a-sobbin’ fit to break her heart. ‘There’s not a bit o’ use in my goin’ back. None of ’em would believe the tale. My uncle would make me go all the same, I know.’

“‘E-es, to be sure,’ says Maria Robbins, looking at Jim very sour-like; ‘’tisn’t very likely as Mr. Meadway ’ud be put off by a chance tale from a stranger. There he’ve a-been at the expense o’ gettin’ everthin’ ready for the maid, and this ’ere gentleman what writes so straightforward an’ sends the money so handsome, may be some quite other Mr. Johnson. I mind,’ says Maria, ‘the time o’ the Crimee War, Miss Old went into deep black for some chap called John Old, what got killed out abroad, and what she reckoned was her brother, an’ ’twasn’t him at all.’

“‘Samuel Johnson, o’ Longwood, is a nigger,’ cries Jim, smacking his hands together. ‘His grandfather was a slave. He belonged to some queer old gentleman what gave ’en the name to start wi’, ’cause ’twas the name of some old ancient chap what wrote a book or some such thing; an’ this chap was named for him Samuel Johnson too. There ain’t no mistake, you bet,’ says he.

“Well, Tamsine was a-cryin’ and a-shakin’ all over like a aspen leaf all this time; and when Maria was advisin’ her to be sensible an’ not hearken to them sort of idle tales, I thought she’d ha’ had a fit. I could ha’ laughed any other time to hear wold Maria, as was so dead again’ the girl marryin’ when she thought ’twas a nice match, an’ now she was all for her doin’ it, though she seed how skeart the poor maid was. Mrs. Mayne had a softer heart.

“‘If this be really true, Jan,’ she says, lookin’ at I, ‘it do seem a pity for the maid to go any forrarder. Better for her to stay at home and go to sarvice,’ says she. ‘There, Tamsine, give over cryin’. Nobody can force ye to go to America or to take up wi’ this ’ere nigger against your will. Go back an’ tell your uncle what you’ve a-heard, an’ let him keep ye a bit longer till ye’ve a-got a situation.’

“‘Oh, I dursn’t go back,’ says poor Tamsine. An’ then Jim reaches towards her and takes her by the hand again.

“‘Look here, my dear,’ says he, ‘don’t go back. Ye can go out to America,’ says he, ‘but it needn’t be to marry that dirty nigger. I’m going back to the States now,’ says he, ‘and I thought to take a wife wi’ me, but the maid I was coortin’ drew back at the last. She didn’t think so much of her word seemingly as you do. Come,’ says he, ‘you’ve seen me an’ you haven’t seen Samuel Johnson. Look me in the face and tell me if you think you could put up wi’ me?’

“The poor maid she was that upset, and that surprised, she couldn’t for the life of her look at ’en, an’ he leaned over an’ took her by the chin, very gentle-like, an’ turned up her face.

“‘Look at me, my dear,’ says he, ‘an’ see if ye can trust me.’

“So at that Tamsine did look at ’en, wi’ the big tears standin’ on her eyelashes, an’ her mouth all a-quiverin’.

“‘I d’ ’low I could,’ says she.

“‘And, mind ye,’ goes on Jim, ‘I can make ye just so comfortable as t’other chap ’ud ha’ done. I’ve got a big place and a comfortable house, and I do want to settle down reg’lar. So say the word, my dear,’ says he.

“‘Lard, maid!’ cried Maria, so sudden-like that we all fair jumped, ‘whatever be ye thinkin’ on?’ says she; ‘’tis plain what he’ve made up this cock-an’-bull story for now,’ she says. ‘He be a reg’lar deludin’ deceiver; don’t ye ha’ nothin’ to say to ’en.’

“‘It do seem very sudden,’ says Mrs. Mayne; ‘I wouldn’t go out to America wi’ a stranger, Tamsine.’

“‘Do you trust me, my dear?’ says he, looking at Tamsine, and not takin’ no notice at all of nobody else.

“The maid she looked back at ’en more pitiful than ever, an’ then she did say:—

“‘I d’ ’low I do.’

“‘Well, then, so ye may,’ says he, a-shakin’ of her hand very serious like; ‘but I’ll make all fair and square for ye first. I’ll not ax too much of ye. We’ll be man and wife before we go,’ says he.

“So the whole thing was made up wi’out no more trouble nor that. Jim axed Mrs. Mayne if the maid could lodge wi’ her till they was married, an’ he settled straight off what he’d pay for her board. He did pull out a pocket-book stuffed wi’ money, so as even Maria Robbins could see the maid was a-doin’ well for herself.

“‘You hand me over that there money as Johnson sent ye,’ says he to Tamsine; ‘he must have it back by the next mail. I’ll look after ye now,’ says he. ‘My purse is your purse.’

“An’ though the man could scarce ha’ meant it, for I d’ ’low he was too sensible a chap to hold wi’ settin’ women-folk so much above theirselves as that ’ud shape to, ’twas a handsome thing for ’en to say. Well, Tamsine went to lodge wi’ Mrs. Mayne, for she couldn’t no ways make up her mind to go back to her uncle; an’ she did beg us all not to say a word about the changin’ her plan till the weddin’ was over, but Maria, she did go straight off to Meadways’ wi’ the tale. They were all in a terrible takin’ at first, an’ Mrs. Meadway she came to Mrs. Mayne’s an’ gave her an’ Tamsine a bit of her mind—more, I d’ ’low, on account of the maid not goin’ back to their place than for her takin’ up wi’ another man. ’Twas bringing disgrace on her family, says she.

“Poor Tamsine was in a terrible way, when in walks Jim Taylor, an’ what he said an’ what he did I couldn’t tell ye, but he managed to pacify them all. Meadways all come to the weddin’, an’ Jim was so taken up wi’ Tamsine’s little brothers and sisters, that he took two of ’em out wi’ ’en an’ sent for the others some time after. I d’ ’low he’d ha’ cut off his head for Tamsine.

“Well, that’s the end o’ the tale. Ye’ll agree ’twas a bit queer—the queerest thing as ever did happen to I, though, as I do say, Whitefoot an’ me have a-seen many queer things in our time.”