“I falled off a waggon.”
Arminell interrupted. This was the scene of old Gobbo and young Gobbo reenacted. It must be brought to an end. “Tell thou the tale,” she said with an accent of impatience in her intonation, addressing Joan. “What is your name?”
“Joan Melhuish, miss. Us have been sweethearts a great many years; and, miss, the poor old man can’t do a sight of work, because of his leg, and because of his hand. But, lor-a-mussy, miss, his sweepings is beautiful. You could eat your dinner, miss, off a stable floor, where Samuel has swept. Or the dog-kennels, miss,—if Samuel were but with the dogs, he’d be as if in Paradise. He do love dogs dearly, do Samuel. He’s that conscientious, miss, that if he was sound asleep, and minded in his dream there was a bit o’ straw lying where he ought to ha’ swept clean, or that the dogs as needed it, hadn’t had brimstone put in their water, he’d get up out o’ the warmest bed—not, poor chap, that he’s got a good one to lie on—to give the dog his brimstone, or pick up thickey (that) straw.”
She was so earnest, so sincere, that her story appealed to Arminell’s feelings. Was the dust that the witch, Patience, had cast on her head, taking effect and opening her eyes to the sorrows and trials of the underground folk?
“Please, miss! It ain’t only sweeping he does beautifully. If a dog has fleas, he’ll wash him and comb him—and, miss, he can skin a hare or a rabbit beautiful—beautiful! I don’t mean to deny that Samuel takes time about it,” she assumed an apologetic tone, “but then, miss, which be best, to be slow and do a thing thorough, or be quick and half do it? Now, miss, what I was going to make so bold as to say was, Samuel do be a-complaining of the rheumatics. They’ve a-took’n bad across the loins, and it be bad for him out in all weathers weeding turnips, and doing them odd and dirty jobs, men won’t do now, nor wimen n’other, what wi’ the advance of education, and the franchise, and I did think it would be wonderful good and kind o’ you, miss, if you’d put in a word for Samuel, just to have the sweeping o’ the back yard, or the pulling of rabbits, or the cleaning up of dishes, he’d make a rare kitchen-maid, and could scour the dogs as well, and keep ’em from scratching over much. Lord, miss! what the old man do want is nourishing food and dryth (dry air) over and about him.”
“I’ll speak to the housekeeper—no, I will speak to her ladyship about the matter. I have no doubt something can be done for Samuel.”
Joan curtsied, and her honest face shone with satisfaction.
“Lord A’mighty bless you, miss! I have been that concerned about the old man—he is but fifty, but looks older, because of his two accidents. H’s shy o’ asking for hisself, because he was dismissed by the late lord; the upper keeper laid things on him he’d no right to. He’s a man, miss, who don’t set no store on his self, because he has lost a thumb and two fingers, and got a dislocated thigh. But there’s more in Samuel than folks fancy, I ought to know best, us have kept company twenty years.”
“Are you ever going to get married?”
Joan shook her head.