CHAPTER LIII.—PANSY.
Pansy and her grandfather, Eben Morris, were the persons whose arrival at the Masons’ Arms had interrupted Tuppit and his brother. Even had Wrentham’s attention been disengaged, the light in the room was too dim for him to recognise the girl before he was dragged out to the balcony.
Pansy had left home in a woeful state of mental perplexity; ashamed of her conduct to Caleb, anxious to hide from every one and to suppress in herself the silly fancies which had induced it. On alighting from the train at Liverpool Street, she was as much frightened by suddenly encountering Coutts Hadleigh as if he had been the Evil One himself.
‘Whither away, my forest nymph?’ he said with a smile in which there was nothing more than the careless freedom he would have taken with any pretty maid of the servant rank. ‘What brings you to Babylon?’
‘I am going to visit a sick friend,’ she answered, turning away her face.
‘And when will you be back? We cannot afford to lose you from Ringsford.’
‘I do not know—but I am in a hurry, sir;’ and she attempted to pass.
‘Stop a minute; you don’t know your way about the city. Where does your friend live?’
‘I know the way quite well, thank you, sir,’ she replied nervously, without giving the address.
‘Oh, that’s all right, then. I thought I might save you some time and trouble by putting you on the right track.’
That was the whole of their conversation, and without looking at him, she hastened to Gracechurch Street, where she obtained an omnibus which carried her to the Green. Making her way through a narrow lane of small houses in various stages of dilapidation, and through crowds of ragged, gamboling children whose ages ranged from two to ten years, she came to a comparatively open space. There was a wheelwright’s yard with samples of his trade—fragments of wheels, whole wheels, three or four broken-down carts of tradesmen—strewn about. The wheelwright had some idea of beautifying this oasis in the crowded district; for on the window-sills of his wooden house there were chrysanthemums in bloom, and the bare twigs of a rose-tree trained against the wall, suggested that in summer there might be pleasing perfumes and sights even in the midst of squalor.
Opposite was a blacksmith’s shop, and nestling underneath the side of it, a cobbler’s stall, where the occupant was busy singing a music-hall song as he stitched and hammered. Passing between the wheelwright’s and the smith’s places, she came to a square plot of ground—about an acre in extent—which was divided into patches for the use of the dwellers in the surrounding cottages. These were of one story, red-tiled, with whitewashed walls, and with many indications of attempts to cultivate flowers. It was like dropping out of the town into an old country village; and indeed this was a relic of the ancient village of Camberwell.
Pansy found that her grandfather’s illness had been much exaggerated by the neighbour who had reported it, or that he had made a sudden recovery, for when she arrived he was dressed and shuffling about his little room, making preparations to start on what he called his ‘business round,’ whilst in a squeaky voice he kept on mumbling his favourite phrase: ‘Oh, I am so happy!’ This agreeable announcement he made on all occasions whether well or sick, and at times it formed as grim a satire on the common lot as if a death’s-head sang a comic song.
He was a little man, and his shoulders being bent and contracted, his stature was not much more than that of a dwarf. Although his body was thin, his face was ruddy, set in a horseshoe of ragged gray hair. His features were large—the chin particularly prominent—the brow such as would have suggested intellect, but the dull faded eyes had little speculation in them. Neither features nor eyes had the least expression of laughter, whilst he was proclaiming himself in the highest glee. The absurd phrase sounded more like a whine than a cry of exultation.
He had been a greengrocer for over forty years, and in that capacity had daily made the round of the district to supply customers; but his wife had been the real manager of the business. This good woman, with shrewd foresight, insured their joint lives for the modest annuity of thirty pounds, to be paid to the survivor. On her demise the old man, then unfitted for hard work, was thus provided for. But he could not get over the habit of going his daily ‘business round;’ the only houses at which he now called, however, were the various taverns and ale-houses on his route, and he always found in several of them some cruel wags who were ready to give him ‘two pen’orth’ of beer or gin in return for the sad exhibition of an old man in his dotage talking nonsense and squeaking out snatches of ballads.
No persuasion could induce him to change his mode of life; and it was probably as an obstinate protest against the persuasion that he adopted his grotesque refrain of ‘Oh, I am so happy!’ Even on the first day of Pansy’s arrival he insisted on going out as usual, and she was obliged to be content with the promise that he would return early. He was later than usual, however, and Pansy, resolute to rescue him from this pitiable course, decided that she would in future meet him before he had completed his round and entice him home. The first attempt was successful; the second landed her with him in the Masons’ Arms—and she did not regret it after the discovery she made through the conversation between Wrentham and his brother of what mischief had been at work against Philip and Madge.
She was glad to be able to do something to show her gratitude and affection; Madge had been always a good friend and adviser—especially in her own present trouble. So, having seen her grandfather safely housed, she travelled down to Willowmere.
The gravity with which Dame Crawshay received her, and the sad look in Madge’s eyes, caused the visitor to fear for an instant that they were offended with her; but she quickly understood that it was their own sorrow which had made the change in their manner. There was another reason, however, for the expression in Madge’s eyes—sympathy for the pain which the girl must feel when she learned that Caleb Kersey had been arrested on suspicion of having set fire to the Manor, and that the evidence was strong against him. For the present, Pansy was only told about the fire, and her immediate exclamation was:
‘Is father hurt?’
‘No, he is quite well, and poor Mr Hadleigh is lying in his cottage. As soon as he can be moved, he is to be brought here, and we are turning this room into a bedroom, so that he may not have to be carried up-stairs.’
‘And the young ladies?’
‘Miss Hadleigh is still with her father; Miss Caroline and Bertha are here.’
‘And thou’lt have to stay here to-night, too,’ broke in the dame as she continued her rearrangement of the lighter pieces of furniture; ‘there cannot be a corner for thee in the cottage.’
Pansy gave thanks to the dame, and went on to say that it was her intention to return to her grandfather in the morning, but she would ‘see father before starting.’
‘I did not intend to be back so soon,’ she went on, with an awkward glance first at Madge, next at Aunt Hessy. She did not know how to convey her information with the least offence. ‘But there was something I heard about Missy and Master Philip this afternoon that I thought she ought to know—that you all ought to know.’
‘About Philip and me!’ exclaimed Madge, the colour heightening in her cheeks as she wondered if it could be possible that the broken engagement had already become the subject of common gossip.
‘Sit thee down, Pansy,’ said Aunt Hessy, ceasing to work, ‘and tell us plainly what thou hast heard.’
Thus encouraged, the girl repeated with considerable accuracy the substance of the conversation she had overheard.
‘And as I fancied,’ Pansy concluded, ‘that though you knew of the mischief, you might not know how it was being put right—I came straight to tell you.’
There was a pause. The treachery of Wrentham to Philip and the villainous insinuations with which he had endeavoured to poison his mind regarding Madge in order to distract him and prevent him from looking too closely into business details—the whole wicked scheme was made clear to Aunt Hessy. Madge saw at once how grossly Philip’s generous confidence had been abused, but at the moment she did not quite understand why Wrentham in carrying out his plot should be so foolish as to try to slander her to Philip—she knew he could only try to do it, for not one word against her would be credited for an instant by her lover. And yet!... He had been so strange of late in many ways: he had shown so much displeasure with her for maintaining Beecham’s secret—what may he not have suffered from brief doubt, although he did not believe in anything ill that was suggested to him.
‘Thou art a good girl, Pansy,’ said Aunt Hessy, kindly, but without any sign of agitation, ‘and we thank thee for coming to us with what is really good news—that the man is found out.’
‘Ay, mistress, I thought that would be good news for you—and his own brother is against him!’
‘I am sorry for the poor brother.—Now go into the kitchen and get supper with the maidens: make friends with Jenny Wodrow, for she will be thy bedfellow to-night.’
Pansy obeyed, although she would have intensely liked to have had some sign from Madge to show how the news had affected her.
‘I will see you before bedtime,’ said Madge in answer to the look; ‘I have something to tell you.’
But Madge’s friendly intention to break the news to her of Caleb’s position was frustrated. Jenny Wodrow, the maiden to whose graces Pansy had been directed to recommend herself, although good-natured in the main, had been ready to give more of her favour to the stalwart Agitator than to any of the other lads about. That all the shafts levelled at him with her bright eyes and soft tongue fell pointless, she attributed rightly to the charms of the gardener’s daughter. In church, in field, or at the harvest-home, Caleb had no vision for any one but Pansy. The maidens saw, understood, and discreetly turned their thoughts elsewhere.
Jenny was ready enough to follow their example, but she felt aggrieved and a little spiteful, especially as Pansy, not being precisely ‘in service,’ seemed to take a place above those who were ‘quite as good as her any day, and maybe her betters.’ Jenny continued to think of Caleb Kersey, and at present her head was full of his misfortunes. So, in the bright kitchen where the huge fire was reflected on rows of shining dish-covers and platters, and the supper of bread and cheese and beer was being served on a massive white deal table, the chatter of the maidens was all about the latest wonder, the burning of the Manor, and the parlous state of Mr Hadleigh.
‘Ay, and who d’ye think they’ve taken up and put in prison for burning the big house?’ said Jenny shrewishly, as she looked full in her rival’s face. ‘Who but Caleb Kersey; and if the master dies, hanging will be the end on’t.’
Pansy was frightened. She became red and then so white that young Jerry Mogridge, who was not given to close observation of anybody when engaged with his meals, growled at Jenny.
‘It’s darned spite that. Can’t you let the wench take supper in peace.’
‘She didn’t mean no harm,’ retorted a young ploughman who had his own reasons for acting as Jenny’s champion. ‘How was she to know that hearing the news was to spoil Miss Pansy’s supper. Ain’t she like the rest ov us?’
‘You keep your tongue in your jaw—it ought to be big enough for it, I believe,’ snorted Jerry, his mouth full of bread and cheese, his mug of beer raised to his lips.
‘I’ll teach you, young man, to speak without splutter,’ cried Jenny, administering a smart slap to poor Jerry’s back with a result fatal to the contents of his mouth and mug.
The roar of laughter elicited by the coarse jest might have provoked Jerry—half choked though he was—to further argument, had he not been too well aware of the more immediate importance of securing the huge brown jug in order to replenish his cup.
Pansy had slipped out of the kitchen during this passage-at-arms. She was full of self-reproaches. Caleb arrested—in jail—in danger maybe of hanging! And all through her fault! If Caleb had emigrated, she might have consoled herself with the idea that in rejecting him she had done him a great kindness—for every strong man made a fortune in the colonies, she understood. But to think that she, however innocently, had some share in driving him to this terrible crime—that was a thought which made the poor girl’s heart and brain ache.
(To be concluded.)