II
Said Miss Susan Angel this evening, as I leant over the counter of her little dark shop, studying the rows of sweetstuff bottles beyond: ‘Th’ chillern here, ’tis real astonishin’ how changeable they be. One time ’tis all lickrich wi ’em, an’ next ’tis all sherbet-suckers, an’ then maybe ’tis nought but toffee-balls for weeks on end. But you!’—she turned me a glance full of smiling, proud approbation—‘You!—come winter or summer, come rain or shine, I allers knaws ’twill be nobbut black-fours!’
She reached down the ancient glass jar, and stabbed at its contents ruminatively with an iron fork.
‘Black-fours—ah!’ she mused, as the shining magpie lumps rattled into the brass scale-pan. ‘An’ I never smells ’em but I thinks o’ my ould missus as— Lorey me! how many long year ago! Fond on ’em, wur she? Ah! an’ scrunch ’em up, ’a could, quicker ’n e’er wan wi’ a nateral jaw!’
‘What kind of jaw, then, had she, Susan?’
‘Ah! I believe ye! My dear! th’ money as ut costed! All gold, an’ ivory like, an’ red stuff! An’ when ’a died— Did never I show ’em to ye?’
She disappeared into the little kitchen behind the shop. I heard a drawer unlocked; there was a sound of rummaging, accompanied by asthmatic interjections; Miss Susan Angel came forth again bearing a bulky parcel. This, as she removed various coverings, became smaller and smaller until, from a final wrapping of tissue-paper, there appeared a beautiful double set of false teeth. Miss Angel held them up to my gaze admiringly.
‘Left ’em to me, ’a did! ’Twur all writ in her will—“To my faithful servant an’ friend, Susan Angel, I give an’ bequeath”—an’ all th’ rest on ’t. Ah! bless her an’ rest her sowl!’
It seemed rather an appropriate legacy, for Miss Angel had possessed not a single tooth of her own in all the years I had known her. But the display of the treasure provoked a very natural commentary.
‘How long have you had these put by, Susan?’
‘Nigh upon thirty year, my dear.’
‘And never used them yourself all that time, although you—’
‘What!’ The old lady drew herself up, the youthful blue eyes in her wrinkled face flashing indignation. ‘What d’ ye say!—me use ’em? Me? Th’ very same as my dear ould missus chawed wi’? Shame on ye! Not if there was nought to eat but cracking-nuts left i’ th’ wureld fer us all!’
I took the rebuke in penitent silence. When she had restored the revered relics to their locker in the back room, she resumed her knitting in the great wicker chair behind the counter. In a minute or two she had alike forgiven me and forgotten the cause of her displeasure, as I knew from her tone.
‘How the evenin’s do draw in, to be sure!’ she observed, laying down her work. ‘A’most dark, ut be, though ’tis no more ’n six o’clock.’
The ancient timepiece in the corner promptly droned out eleven. Miss Angel clapped her hands.
‘What did I tell ye?’ she said triumphantly. ‘Wunnerful good time ’a keeps, when I recollects to putt un back reg’lar.’
She rose and reversed the hands for a circle or two.
‘That’ll do till mornin’,’ said she placidly. ‘Ye warnts to be a little particler i’ country places: ut bean’t like i’ towns where—Gipsies! I do believe! An’ this time o’ night, to be sure!’
I followed her sudden glance to the doorway. A heavy grinding of wheels had sounded outside, and across our field of view, silhouetted against the deep turquoise blue of the night, there passed what looked like a gipsies’ caravan. A bony horse toiled in the shafts, and a long lean man walked in front, dragging at the animal’s bridle with almost as much apparent effort. Lights shone from the windows of the vehicle, and its chimney smoked voluminously against the stars. As it went by, we could see another man sitting upon the steps in its rear, his squat bulky form entirely blocking the open door-place. The caravan pulled up about midway over the green.
‘Now, that wunt do!’ observed Miss Angel decisively. ‘We warnts nane o’ they sort traipsing about Windlecombe after dark, leastways not them as keeps chicken. ’Tis on your road hoame: jest gie ’em a wured as you goos by, my dear. Tell ’em as you warnts to save trouble fer th’ policeman.’
In nowise intending to disturb the gipsies, I nevertheless took the short cut over the green, passing in the darkness close by their queer, spindle-spanked, top-heavy dwelling. As I cut through the beam of light that poured from the doorway, a suave voice hailed me.
‘Hi! my man! Just a moment! Now, Grewes, your difficulty is at an end. I have intercepted one of the inhabitants, and doubtless he will— Yes: inquire of him—very politely now—where we may obtain water.’
The long lean man had blundered into the light beside me, carrying two pails. He was clothed in little better than rags from head to foot. A massive gold watch-chain glittered across his buttonless waistcoat. He turned upon me two gaunt, diffident eyes.
‘Water,’ he hesitated, holding out the pails helplessly before him. ‘Water, you know! Could you be so kind as to—’
The suave, flute-like voice sounded again from the depths of the caravan.
‘Now, Grewes! if I am to carry out the little supper scheme I explained to you, no time must be lost. When once they are peeled, potatoes should never—’ The owner of the voice appeared in the doorway. ‘Dear, dear! My good fellow! there you are, still standing there; and I fully impressed it upon you that if rabbit is permitted to bake one moment longer than— Grewes! give me those pails!’
But the long lean man had drawn me precipitately away. As we hurried across the green together in the direction of the well-house, he seemed to consider himself under some necessity of explanation.
‘It is his caravan,’ he said, ‘Spelthorne’s, you know. And I am travelling with him for a bit, because I was run down, and—and other things. One of the best fellows breathing, he is, though you mightn’t—I mean I so often forget what I— Of course, I really don’t wonder that sometimes he— Why! I have forgotten to unharness the horse! Do remind me—will you?—when we get back; but quietly, you understand? Spelthorne, he is the best fellow breathing, but— Oh, is this the well? It is most kind of you, I’m sure!’
He seemed in so strained and nervous a mood that I did not trust him to handle the heavy bucket and chain, nor to return unaided to the caravan with his burden. When we drew into the beam of light again, I could see Spelthorne inside, stooping over the little cooking-stove in his shirt-sleeves and a great sombrero. If anything, his clothes were even more tattered and soiled than his companion’s. At sound of our clanking pails he turned, stared, then swept me a low bow with the sombrero.
‘Thoughtless, very thoughtless!—indeed, most selfish of Grewes!’ he said confidentially, for the long lean man had hurried away to attend to the horse. ‘A good fellow, such a good fellow, you cannot think! But he has this little failing of sometimes taking advantage of any kindness that— But excuse me: I must get the potatoes on!’
I had hardly gone a dozen paces towards home, when I heard him pounding after me.
‘What is—the name,’ he asked breathlessly, ‘of—of this village?’ And when I had told him: ‘There are beautiful old cottages here, are there not? And quaint people? And charming country round about? Such a spot—isn’t it?—where two artists could find incessant inspiration, and—and—’
But the question had been put to me before, and too often.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said I discouragingly. ‘The place is very quiet and humdrum, and most inconvenient—no railway and no roads to anywhere and—’
‘The very place!’ he broke in delightedly. ‘I shall persuade poor Grewes to remain here with me a month.’
And when I took a last look at the night some hours after, I beheld the faint glow, from the windows of the caravan upon the green, with dismal foreboding. A month of that prospect! And not only that, but something worse; for, upon the wings of the slow night wind, there drifted over to me the mournful thrumming of a guitar.