Part 9 (2/2)
Women doesn't want to be t' boss: they want to be bossed, or anyway they like t' man to think 'at he's bossin' 'em. An' they like 'im to come in wi' his great dirty boots spreadin' t' muck all ovver t' floor, an' puttin' 'em on t' scoured 'earthstone, so as they can 'call' 'im an' clear up after 'im.
”Oh, aye, to be sure, an' they like to see 'im light his pipe an' then fratch wi' 'im for fillin' t' 'ouse wi' smoke; an' even if he knocks ye about a bit now an' then, he sidles up to ye at after, an' 'appen puts 'is arms round ye, an'--an' makes a fool of hissen; but ye feel t' want on it when ye've been used to 't.”
”But we cannot all have husbands,” I objected; ”there are not enough of the other s.e.x to go round.”
”To be sure, that's so,” she consented; ”but that doesn't alter t' fact 'at we want 'em, does it? But I'd tax all t' men 'at isn't married, the selfish beggars. The Almighty meant 'em to pair off. Two an' two they went into t' ark, an' two an' two they should go yet if I'd my way. It's nature. An' I never could see yet why t' wimmen should 'ave to sit quiet an' wait for t' men to come an' ask for 'em. A woman knows better by 'alf what man 'ud suit 'er, an' 'er 'im, than t' man knows. She knows without knowing how she knows; whereas t' man just sees a pretty face, an' some dainty little feet i' 'igh-heeled boots, an' some frizzy 'air, 'at she's bought as like as not at a barber's, an' there ye are! But where are ye in toathree years' time? Aye, to be sure, where are ye then?”
”Perhaps if conventionality had permitted, your state might have been changed again by now,” I suggested slyly.
”Well, now, to be sure, Miss Holden,” she replied, drawing her chair a little nearer to mine, and laying one hand upon my lap for emphasis, ”I thought after Robertsha' died 'at it were a case of 'once bitten, twice shy,' for there were odd times when he filled up the cup, so to speak.
But, ye know, I missed 'im; an' though it's twelve year sin' come Shrove-tide, I miss 'im yet; an' if I had the askin' I've known for a long time who it 'ud be 'at 'ud take his place; but ye see I 'aven't, so I bide as I am.”
I thought of the old fox, Simon Barjona, and laughed inwardly as well as outwardly. Widow Robertshaw little realised that I knew her secret.
Outside the storm raged furiously. The snow lay thick upon the ground, moist as it fell, but frozen in a moment, and to venture out seemed in my case impossible. We held a council of ways and means which resulted in the production of a young man of strong build from a cottage a few doors away, who smiled at the storm and readily undertook, in exchange for a s.h.i.+lling, coin of the realm--to convey a note to Mother Hubbard, describing my predicament.
I enjoyed Widow Robertshaw's hospitality, perforce, for two days, and when I returned home it was in Mr. Higgins' market cart, he having called in the Gap ”casual-like” to see how Mrs. Robertshaw was ”going on.”
CHAPTER XI
GINTY RUNS AWAY
What a curious medley life is! How crowded with dramatic situations and sudden anti-climaxes! Even in Windyridge the programme of existence is as varied and full of interest as that of any picture palace. We have all the combinations of tragedy and pathos and humour, and he who has eyes to see and ears to hear and a heart to feel need not complain of the monotony of the village, nor pine for the manufactured excitements of the metropolis.
A letter with a foreign postmark and an Egyptian stamp was handed to me on Monday morning, and I have been excited and troubled ever since, though it brought me a great joy. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but when I turned to the signature I found it was from the squire, and I began to read it eagerly. I was astonished to find how small and particularly neat his handwriting is.
The letter ran thus, omitting certain descriptive and unimportant paragraphs:
”a.s.souan, Upper Nile, ”_March_ 12_th_, 19--.
”DEAR MISS HOLDEN,
”I wonder if I might claim an old man's privilege and call you 'Grace'?
I should like to do so, for do you know there is not one of your s.e.x in the wide world whom I have a right to address by the Christian name, and, what is perhaps more noteworthy, there is no other whose permission I have the least desire to ask. But somehow or other I am longing for kinsfolk to-day, and the sensation is almost inexpressibly acute, so much so that I actually feel the pain of loneliness, and that 'Inner Self' in which, I remember, you trust so completely, cries out for sympathy and companions.h.i.+p. If I mistake not we have common ideals and aspirations--you and I--which make us kin, and I am disposed to 'stretch out lame hands of faith' in your direction if haply I may find you and draw your soul to mine. So if it be your will, let us be friends, and do you send across the seas and deserts those mysterious waves of kindly feeling which will vibrate upon the heart of the solitary old man, to whom earth's messages of love come but seldom--now.
”Have I ever told you that I have not a relative on earth, and that I have outlived all my own friends? I sometimes feel to be like these old monuments on the banks of Nile, which stand calm and impa.s.sive whilst the children of this age picnic around their ruins; yet I am no patriarch, for I have not much overstepped the natural span of man's existence. I hope you may never experience the sensation, but the fact that you are yourself amongst earth's lone ones is not the least of the links that connect you to me.
”I stayed some weeks in Biarritz ... but the weather turned cold and wet, and the doctors bade me journey to Egypt. It is an unknown land to my material senses, but not to my spiritual. Every stone preaches to me of the familiar past. I have always revelled in ancient history and have kept abreast of modern discovery and research. For a while I enjoyed the company of my imagination, and we trod together the courts and temple corridors of the mighty kings of ancient days, and reconstructed their history. Sometimes, for brief periods, I have interesting conversations with men who are learned in all this lore; but imagination and learning are but cold companions, and I am longing for a hand-grasp and the look of love--longing, like the modern woman of whom Derwent speaks--for the unattainable.
”I am half ashamed of myself for writing in this strain, and half afraid of bringing a shadow over the spirit of the gentle soul whose sympathy I seek; but you must not worry on my account, for I am neither morbid nor unhappy, though sadness usually walks by my side. Indeed, life is strangely and even unaccountably dear to me just now, though I am perfectly sure that the 'call' is not far away, and when it comes I shall pa.s.s behind the curtain and face the unknown without fear and without regret.
”Of late I have caught myself wondering whether I shall ever return home and see the brown and purple moors again, and the homely people whom I love; and when the thought that I may not do so grips me I have just one overwhelming desire--a curious desire for the 'archaeological old fossil' I am generally taken to be. Perhaps I am becoming weak and sentimental, but when the time comes and I have to go, I want someone who cares for me to 'see me off.' I should like my eyes to close to the sound of a woman's voice, I should like to feel the touch of a woman's hand, and maybe the kiss of a woman's lips; and I should like a few verses of Scripture and a simple hymn.
”I am an old fool, but the thought brings sweetness and peace with it; and it is as a father to a daughter that I ask this boon of you: When I hear the summons, will you come to me? Whether I am at home or abroad will you do me this service for love's sake? I have no claim upon anyone, and certainly none upon you, but my heart calls for you, and I believe yours will answer the call.
”For the present, letters addressed to the British Post Office, Cairo, will be forwarded to me, for I have no fixed address, but I shall look eagerly for your reply. Let me say in one word that I shall make provision for the expense of your journey if I should send for you, and I shall not send unless the call is clear.
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