“Ah, Liddy!” The mother breathed out this name with a softened expression; here was still a last hope that had not been torn from her. Joan for her part went out of the room briskly, but stood and gazed out of the window on the landing, which looked towards the village, holding her hands very tightly clasped, and looking for the return of the messenger whom she would not acknowledge to have sent. “Ah, Liddy,” she said to herself, “she’ll be just such another as mother herself, and what will I do between them? but I wish old Simon would come back with some news of that boy.”
CHAPTER X.
INQUIRIES.
SIMON went down to the village, stooping over his stick and laden with his big basket with a crab-like progression, which, nevertheless, was by no means slow. There were few people to be met on the road, children going to school for the most part, with whom he was no favourite, and who called out little taunts after him when they were far enough off to be safe from pursuit. He was not an amiable old man, but unless an urchin came in his way he did not attempt to take any vengeance. “Little scum o’ t’ earth,” he would say, shaking his fist, but that amused and stimulated instead of alarming the youngsters. The village was mildly astir, wrapped in a haze of morning sunshine; the better houses opening up by degrees; the cottages all open to the sweet yet chill air of the spring morning. At the “Red Lion” all was already in activity, doors and windows open to carry off the heavy fumes of beer and tobacco left by last night’s customers. Simon went in and rested his big basket on the bar table. The ostler in the yard was making a great noise with his pails, the women were brushing and scrubbing upstairs, and talking to each other in harsh unmodulated rustic voices, and the mistress was busy in her bar arranging and dusting the array of bottles which was its chief decoration. “Is that you, Simon?” she said, and “It’s just me,” was the old man’s answer; no ceremonial greeting was necessary. “I’ve brought you th’ butter,” Simon said. “When it’s a fine colour and extra good, I like to get the credit of ’t mysel’.”
“You the credit,” said Mrs. Armstrong; “you’ll tell me next you’ve kirned it and washed it and printed it yoursel’.”
“I’ve milk’t it,” said Simon. “There’s a great art in milking. If you do it in wan way the cream’s spoilt; but if ye do ’t in my way you see what’s the consequence. Just look at my butter—it’s like lumps of gowd.”
“A wee too yallow for my fancy,” said the buyer. “That’s beet, and it gies a taste. I’m no saying it’s your fault. There’s nae pasture on the fells to keep the baists without feeding.”
“My baists,” said Simon, “want for naething; there’s no such sweet pasture on a’ the fells as ower by the Reedbush yonder; it’s that juicy and tasty. I think whiles it would be a good thing for me if I could eat it mysel’.”
“Well, Simon, you’re humble-minded,” said the mistress. “What will you have? If ye eat cow’s meat ye will want something to warm your stamack after ’t. Is it true they tell me that Miss Joan’s gotten a lad at long and last?”
“Miss Joan,” said the old retainer; “and wha might it be that evened Miss Joan to lads or any nonsense o’ t’ sort?”
“Eh, what’s the matter with her that she’s so different from other folk? A lad’s natural to a lass; and though she ca’s herself a lady she’s just a lass like the rest. Lady here and lady there; she’s just a stout lass like any farmer’s daughter aboot. I’m no speaking a word again the family.”