CHAPTER XIV
BARJONA FALLS INTO THE TRAP
"Arternoon, miss!"
It certainly was afternoon, for only a few minutes earlier the little clock in my studio had chimed three, and I was not in the least expecting visitors, particularly of the paying kind, and was hard at work upon the accumulated negatives of Whitweek, when the blunt ejaculation caused me to turn with a start. My astonished eyes fell upon a transformed Barjona!
Barjona in a frock coat of modern cut, with a white waistcoat, and slate-coloured trousers, correctly creased! Barjona, with a starched shirt and a satin tie, vividly blue! Above all, Barjona in a silk hat, which he was at that moment carefully removing from his head, as though anxious to prevent the escape of some bird imprisoned within!
It was not a bird, however, that he captured and produced, but an elaborate "button-hole," properly wired, as one could see at a glance, and with its stems wrapped in silvered paper; and Barjona chuckled as he stepped to the mirror and adjusted it in the lapel of his coat.
"Took that out quick, I can tell you.... Gives the show away, that does ... thought once over I'd throw it in t' gutter ... but I says, 'Nay, it cost fourpence' ... sixpence she asked for it ... sixpence ... mustn't waste it ... smarten up my photygraph, too.... No, no, mustn't waste fourpence!"
"Why, Mr. Higgins," I exclaimed, "you must surely have been to a wedding! But none of our friends in Windyridge have been getting married to-day, have they?"
"No, no ... Marsland Gap ... widow-woman ... name o' Robertsha' ... now Mrs. Higgins ... Mrs. S. B. Higgins ... she's in the trap now," jerking his head towards the roadway.
This was too much for my gravity. I had just enough presence of mind to shake hands with him and offer my congratulations, and then gave way to uncontrollable laughter.
"It's your own fault, Mr. Higgins," I blurted out at length. "Last October you told me that you were too old a fox to be caught again; there were to be no traps for you, and when you said Mrs. Higgins was in the trap it amused me vastly."
"Meanin' the cart, of course," he interrupted, looking somewhat sheepish, but still sufficiently pleased with himself.
"I know," I replied, "but I was just wondering how you come to be caught in the other trap, the trap of wedlock—you, a man of years and experience, and pre-eminently a man of caution."
He hung his hat on the support of my reflecting-screen, and passed his hand thoughtfully over his smooth crown—I had always felt sure that his head was bald—and I imagined I saw an uneasy look creep into his eyes.
"It be very cur'ous, Miss Holden," he said, in a confidential tone, "very cur'ous.... Said to myself many a time ... hunderds of times.... 'Don't 'ee be a fool, Simon ... women be kittle cattle,' I says ... some weepin' sort ... some blusterin' ... but all masterful ... an' costs a lot o' money ... awful lot o' money to keep up.... Went into 't wi' my eyes open ... oh yes; very cur'ous.... Come to think on 't ... dunno why I done it."
"Don't worry, Mr. Higgins," I said soothingly; "many animals flourish splendidly in captivity, and if they miss their freedom they never say anything about it, but look quite sleek and contented. And I am sure you have secured a very capable and good-natured wife, and are to be heartily congratulated. Now fetch her in and I will be getting the camera ready."
"Fetch her in?" he inquired.
"Yes, I shall be ready by the time you return, and it will be the work of only a moment or two to arrange you suitably."
"But she isn't goin' to have 'er photygraph taken," he said, with an emphatic shake of the head; "only me."
"Do you mean to tell me," I remarked severely, "that you will not be photographed together on your wedding day? Mr. Higgins, it is quite the customary thing, and I certainly never heard of such a procedure as you are suggesting. Besides, it costs no more."
"Costs the same? ... for two as for one?"
"Certainly," I replied.
"Taken separate, like?" he continued.
"No, if taken separately the cost would be doubled, but on wedding occasions the bride and bridegroom are almost invariably photographed together, and that involves no extra cost."
He thought this over for half a minute and then made up his mind definitely.
"I'll be taken by myself," he said, "... to match this 'ere."—He drew from his breast-pocket a rather faded photograph, cabinet size, which displayed a younger Mrs. Robertshaw in the fashion of a dozen years before.—"Maria got these ... just afore Robertsha' died ... has best part of a dozen on 'em .... gave Robertsha' 's away ... pity to waste these ... 'll do nicely."
"But Mr. Higgins," I protested, "these photographs are faded, and they are not the Mrs. Higgins of to-day. Nobody wears that style of dress now, and she has actually a fringe! Throw them away, and do as I propose."
"I see nowt wrong wi' 't," he replied, examining it critically. "She's fatter now, an' isn't as good lookin' ... more wrinkles, like.... Makes a nicer pictur, this does ... plenty good enough for 'er."
"Mr. Higgins!" I exclaimed indignantly.
"If—you—please—miss," he said emphatically, "it's me as gives the order ... one dozen, miss ... to match this 'ere."
There was nothing more to be said, and I took two negatives of the wretched little man, in the first of which he is shown standing as erect as nature permits, with the silk hat fixed firmly upon his head, and one hand in his trousers' pocket, so that the white waistcoat might not be concealed; and in the second, sitting with one leg thrown over the other, and the silk hat upon his knee. It was in vain that I pointed out that neither pose would correspond with that of his wife, which was a mere vignetted head and shoulders; Barjona had made up his mind, and was not to be moved, and I felt thankful, with Mother Hubbard, that I was not Mrs. Higgins.
I went out to speak to her when the operation had been completed, and at our approach the neighbours who had been keeping her company smiled and drew back a little.
"Good-afternoon, Mrs. Higgins," I said. "I have already congratulated your husband; let me now wish you much happiness."
"Well, now, to be sure, Miss Holden," she replied, and accompanying the words with a most decided wink, "that remains to be seen. But if he doesn't give me much, he'll 'ave less, I can tell you. I think we shall get on when we've settled down a bit; an' anyway, time won't hang as 'eavy on my 'ands, so to speak."
"Come, lass, we must be going," interrupted Barjona, who had climbed up beside her.
"As soon as ever I've finished," replied Mrs. Higgins, smiling upon him sweetly. Nevertheless, she tightened the reins and prepared to move.
"I'll drive, lass," said Barjona, holding out his hand.
"I'll keep 'em mysen, lad," replied his wife; "I've 'eld 'em all this time while t' mare was still: I'll 'old 'em now when she's on t' move. Come up, lass!"
She threw me another portentous wink, and the mare moved slowly down the lane.
"Poor Barjona!" murmured Mother Hubbard, as we sauntered back to the cottage.
"I wonder if you are right," I remarked rather viciously. "I certainly hope you are. At present my sympathies lie in the other direction, and I am disposed to say 'Poor Maria!'"
"Yes, love," said Mother Hubbard, "perhaps she has the worse of the bargain; but I think the old fox has got into a trap that is going to hold him very tight this time, and it will nip hard."
"I hope it nips until he squeals," I said impenitently.
This was on the Monday following Whitweek. The next day brought me a long, chatty letter from the squire, who feels wonderfully better and talks of coming home again soon. He cannot understand why the doctors always say "not just yet." He is at Sorrento now, and chaffingly condoles with me on the remote prospects of a continental trip, at any rate on his account. I wonder if he guesses how relieved I am, and how eagerly I anticipate his home-coming.
In him I seem to have a friend who understands, and I am beginning to think that is the only real kind of friend. I have said all along that I do not understand myself. I am always coming across odd little tracts of territory in my nature which surprise me and make me feel something of an explorer, whereas I cannot help feeling, somehow or other, that the squire knows all about me, and could make a map of my character if he chose, with all my moods and whims and angularities accurately indicated, like so many rivers and mountains. And so far from resenting this I am glad of it, because he is so kind and fatherly with it all, and not a bit superior. Now the Cynic, although he is no doubt a mighty clever man, makes you so frightfully conscious of his cleverness.
By the way, I have made a discovery about him. He is a barrister, and quite an eminent one in his way. I suppose I might have found this out long ago by asking any of the Windyridge men, but for some occult reason I have never cared to inquire. The discovery came about in this way.
When I had finished reading the squire's letter, and before proceeding to my work, I took up the Airlee Despatch which Farmer Goodenough had left with us, solely because it contained a short paragraph on the "Wedding of a well-known Windyridge character"—no other, in fact, than our friend Barjona.
As my eyes travelled cursorily over the columns they were arrested by the following:
"Mr. Philip Derwent, whose brilliant advocacy admittedly secured a verdict for the plaintiff in the recently concluded case of Lessingham v. Mainwaring, which has occupied so much space in all the newspapers recently, is, as most of our readers will know, a native of Broadbeck. His father, Mr. Stephen Derwent, was engaged in the staple trade of that town, but was better known for the interest he took in many religious and philanthropic movements, and in those circles his death five years ago occasioned a considerable gap. If report may be relied upon Mr. Philip Derwent's decision to read for the bar was a disappointment to his father, but the striking success which has attended him all through his legal career has sufficiently justified his choice. It was a matter of general comment in legal circles during the recent proceedings that Mr. Derwent more than held his own against such eminent luminaries as Sir George Ritson and Mr. Montgomery Friend, who were the King's Counsel opposed to him. He showed remarkable versatility in the conduct of his case, and his cross-examinations and repartees were brilliant in the extreme. Whether his law is as reliable as his rhetoric may be open to question, but one looks forward to his future career with special interest, as he is still on the sunny side of forty, and is therefore young enough to win many laurels. His mother died when he was quite young, and he is himself unmarried."
Why I should have felt low-spirited when I put the paper down I do not know. It is just these unexplained "moodinesses" which make me feel so cross with myself. The squire's letter had been bright, and the paragraph about Barjona amusing, and certainly the reference to Mr. Derwent was ordinary enough. Still I stared at nothing quite intently for a few minutes after reading it. Then I shook myself.
"Grace Holden!" I said, "plunge your face into cold water, and go straight to your work in the studio. You have negatives to retouch, and prints to tone and develop, and nearly a dozen miniatures to paint, all of which are shamefully overdue; and no amount of wool-gathering will bring you in the thirty shillings which you have fixed as your weekly minimum. Now be a sensible woman, and 'frame,' as your neighbours say."
So I "framed," thinking the while how contemptuously the Cynic would smile at my thirty shillings.