Part 61 (1/2)
down to the sh.o.r.e an' turnin' itself into a fis.h.i.+n' smack, as that you'd a' got engaged to be married! I would, an' that's a Gospel truth! Ye seemed so steady like an' settled--lor' a mussy me!” And here, despite her effort to look serious, a broad smile got the better of her. ”An' a fine man too you've got,--none o' your scallywag weaklings as one sees too much of nowadays, but a real upright sort o' chap wi' no nonsense about 'im. An' I wishes ye well, Mary, my dear,”--and the worthy soul took Mary's hand in hers and gave her a hearty kiss. ”For it's never too late to mend, as the Scripter tells us, an' forbye ye're not in yer green gooseberry days there's those as thinks ripe fruit better than sour-growin' young codlings. An' ye may take 'art o' grace for one thing--them as marries young settles quickly old--an' to look at the skin an' the 'air an' the eyes of ye, you beat ivery gel I've ivir seen in the twenties, so there's good preservin' stuff in ye wot'll last. An'
I bet you're more fond o' the man ye've got late than if ye'd caught 'im early!”
Mary laughed, but her eyes were full of wistful tenderness.
”I love him very dearly,” she said simply--”And I know he's a great deal too good for me.”
Mrs. Twitt sniffed meaningly.
”Well, I'm not in any way sure o' that,” she observed. ”When a man's too good for a woman it's what we may call a Testymen' miracle. For the worst wife as ivir lived is never so bad as a bad 'usband. There's a suthin' in a man wot's real devil-like when it gits the uppermost of 'im--an' 'e's that crafty born that I've known 'im to be singin' hymns one hour an' drinkin' 'isself silly the next. 'Owsomever, Mister Reay seems a decent chap, forbye 'e do give 'is time to writin' which don't appear to make 'is pot boil----”
”Ah, but he will be famous!” interrupted Mary exultantly. ”I know he will!”
”An' what's the good o' that?” enquired Mrs. Twitt. ”If bein' famous is bein' printed about in the noospapers, I'd rather do without it if I wos 'im. Parzon Arbroath got famous that way!” And she chuckled. ”But the great pint is that you an' 'e is a-goin' to be man an' wife, an' I'm right glad to 'ear it, for it's a lonely life ye've been leadin' since yer father's death, forbye ye've got a bit o' company in old David. An'
wot'll ye do with David when you're married?”
”He'll stay on with us, I hope,” said Mary. ”But this morning he has gone away--and we don't know where he can have gone to.”
Mrs. Twitt raised her eyes and hands in astonishment.
”Gone away?”
”Yes.” And Mary showed her the letter Helmsley had written, and explained how Angus Reay had started off to walk towards Minehead, in the hope of overtaking the wanderer.
”Well, I never!” And Mrs. Twitt gave a short gasp of wonder. ”Wants to find employment, do 'e? The poor old innercent! Why, Twitt would 'a given 'im a job in the stoneyard if 'e'd 'a known. He'll never find a thing to do anywheres on the road at 'is age!”
And the news of David's sudden and lonely departure affected her more powerfully than the prospect of Mary's marriage, which had, in the first place, occupied all her mental faculties.
”An' that reminds me,” she went on, ”of 'ow the warnin' came to me yesterday when I was a-goin' out to my wash-tub an' I slipt on a bit o'
potato peelin'. That's allus a sign of a partin' 'twixt friends. Put that together with the lump o' clinkers as flew out o' the fire last week and split in two in the middle of the kitchen, an' there ye 'ave it all writ plain. I sez to Twitt--'Suthin's goin' to 'appen'--an' 'e sez in 'is fool way--'G'arn, old woman, suthin's allus a-'appenin'
somewheres'--then when Mister Reay looked in all smiles an' sez 'Good-mornin', Twitt! I'm goin' to marry Miss Mary Deane! Wish us joy!'
Twitt, 'e up an' sez, 'There's your suthin', old gel! A marriage!' an' I sez, 'Not at all, Twitt--not at all, Mister Reay, if I may make so bold, but slippin' on peel don't mean marriage, nor yet clinkers, though two spoons in a saucer does convey 'ints o' the same, an' two spoons was in Twitt's saucer only this very mornin'. Which I wishes both man an' woman as runs the risk everlastin' joy!' An' Twitt, as is allus puttin' in 'is word where 'taint wanted, sez, 'Don't talk about everlastin' joy, mother, 'tis like a hepitaph'--which I answers quick an' sez, 'Your mind may run on hepitaphs, Twitt, seein' 'tis your livin', but mine don't do no such thing, an' when I sez everlastin' joy for man an' wife, I means it.' An' then Mister Reay comes an' pats me on the shoulder cosy like an' sez, 'Right you are, Mrs. Twitt!' an' 'e walks off laughin', an'
Twitt 'e laughs too an' sez, 'Good luck to the bridegroom an' the bride,' which I aint denyin', but there was still the thought o' the potato peel an' the clinker, an' it's come clear to-day now I've 'eerd as 'ow poor old David's gone!” She paused to take breath, and shook her head solemnly. ”It's my opinion 'e'll never come back no more!”
”Oh, don't say that!” exclaimed Mary, distressed. ”Don't even think it!”
But Mrs. Twitt was not to be shaken in her p.r.o.nouncement.
”'E'll never come back no more!” she said. ”An' the children on the sh.o.r.e 'ull miss 'im badly, for 'e was a reg'lar Father Christmas to 'em, not givin' presents by any manner o' means, 'avin' none to give, but tellin' 'em stories as kep' 'em quiet an' out of 'arms way for 'ours,--an' mendin' their toys an' throwin' their b.a.l.l.s an' spinnin'
their tops like the 'armless old soul 'e was! I'm right sorry 'e's gone!
Weircombe 'll miss 'im for sartin sure!”
And this was the general feeling of the whole village when the unexpected departure of ”old David” became known. Angus Reay, returning in the afternoon, reported that he had walked half the way, and had driven the other half with a man who had given him a lift in his trap, right into Minehead, but had seen and heard nothing of the missing waif and stray. Coming back to Weircombe with the carrier's cart, he had questioned the carrier as to whether he had seen the old man anywhere along the road, but this inquiry likewise met with failure.
”So the only thing to do, Mary,” said Angus, finally, ”is to believe his own written word,--that he will be back with us before Sunday. I don't think he means to leave you altogether in such an abrupt way,--that would be churlish and ungrateful--and I'm sure he is neither.”
”Oh, he's anything but churlis.h.!.+” she answered quickly. ”He has always been most thoughtful and kind to me; and as for grat.i.tude!--why, the poor old dear makes too much of it altogether--one would think I had given him a fortune instead of just taking common human care of him. I expect he must have worked in some very superior house of business, for though he's so poor, he has all the ways of a gentleman.”
”What are the ways of a gentleman, my Mary?” demanded Angus, gaily. ”Do you know? I mean, do you know what they are nowadays? To stick a cigar in one's mouth and smoke it all the time a woman is present--to keep one's hat on before her, and to talk to her in such a loose, free and easy fas.h.i.+on as might bring one's grandmother out of her grave and make her venerable hair curl! Those are the 'ways' of certain present-time 'gentlemen' who keep all the restaurants and music-halls of London going--and I don't rank good old David with these. I know what _you_ mean--you mean that he has all the fine feeling, delicacy and courtesy of a gentleman, as 'gentlemen' used to be before our press was degraded to its present level by certain clowns and jesters who make it their business to jeer at every ”gentlemanly” feeling that ever inspired humanity--yes, I understand! He is a gentleman of the old school,--well,--I think he is--and I think he would always be that, if he tramped the road till he died. He must have seen better days.”