Part 18 (2/2)

The ground rises steeply behind it, and tall trees cover the hill from base to summit, so that the little white house is quite overshadowed by them. I call it a white house, but the walls are almost concealed by green and yellow and crimson, where the canary creeper and climbing roses stretch forth their slender arms to embrace the brown, thatched roof.

The garden is evenly divided into two parts by the flagged footpath which leads straight to the door, and it is always ablaze with colour in the summer time; but the arrangement is more orderly than in some of our Windyridge gardens, for Carrier Ted, albeit old-fas.h.i.+oned in his tastes, is an epicure in horticulture. Only a few days ago Rose and I had stopped to admire his bloom, and especially the wonderful moss roses which were his especial pride, and to have a word with the old man whose skill and industry had aroused my friend's enthusiasm.

When I first came to the village I took him to be of weak intellect, princ.i.p.ally, I believe, because he always wore a tall silk hat of antiquated pattern. It was a very rough silk of uncertain colour, and gave one the impression that it was constantly brushed the wrong way; but whether working in the garden or walking along the road, Carrier Ted might always be recognised by his peculiar headgear.

But there is no daftness about him really. He is just a quiet, even taciturn old man, who is alone in the world and has saved sufficient money to enable him to spend the evening of life in comfort, and who finds in his home and garden both business, recreation and religion.

He is a little, bent man, round-faced and ruddy in spite of his eighty odd years, with thick grey eyebrows, and a half-circle of beard stretching from ear to ear beneath his chin. When you praise his flowers he pauses for a moment, draws his sleeve across his brow in a confused sort of way, as if to remove perspiration, and smiles. The smile and the action always remind me of a bashful child who would like to be friendly but dare not all at once. The smile lights up his face and reveals the angel within him; but he answers only in monosyllables, and seems relieved when you pa.s.s on your way. It was this man and his cottage who were the subject of excited conversation.

”It's a burnin' shame, Miss 'Olden, that's what it is!” exclaimed Widow Smithies, ”an' if I'd my way I'd wring that old heathen of a Barjona his neck for 'im, that I would; the good-for-nowt, graspin' old money-lender 'at he is.”

”He wants hoss-whippin',” said Sar'-Ann's mother, ”an' if I were a man I'd do it! But our men fowk are no more use nor two penn'orth o' cowd gin, an' I'll be bound ther' isn't one on 'em 'at'll lift a little finger agen 'im.”

”An' I'm sure anyone 'at can find it in their 'eart to do ought wrong to poor old Ted isn't fit to bide in t' village,” said Martha Treffit; ”an' one 'ud ha' thought wi' 'avin' been in t' same trade, like, Barjona 'ud never ha' tried to 'urt Ted.”

”They may have been in t' same trade, Martha,” interposed Susannah, ”but Ted comes off a better pastur' nor ivver Barjona wa' raised on.

'E's as keen as mustard, is Barjona, an' 'ud mor'gage his soul for owt he took a fancy tul.”

”He's as 'ard as iron in his 'eart,” snapped Mrs. Smithies, ”but as soft as a boiled turnup in his 'ead. I'd like to put 'im through t'

wringin' machine, an' squeeze 'im for once, as is so ready to squeeze other fowk. 'Ere comes Reuben. What'll Reuben 'ave to say about it, I wonder?”

Reuben shook his head. ”It's a sad job, neighbours, but law's law, an'

we shall have to make t' best on 't.”

”Hark to him!” said Sar'-Ann's mother; ”didn't I tell you there isn't a man in t' village wi' as mich sperrit as a kitlin'? If Reuben won't do nowt ye can go bail 'at t' rest 'll noan stir.”

”Right's right, an' law's law, all the world over,” said Reuben, shaking his head; ”an' it'll be no manner o' use tryin' to persuade Barjona ought different. I could easy throw him on t' midden, but that wouldn't mend matters. 'Ye can take t' horse to t' water, but ye can't make 'im drink,' as t' Owd Book says. It'll be a trial to t' owd man, but Ted 'll have to make up 'is mind to flit.”

Reuben walked home with me and gave me a connected account of what had happened. ”You see, Ted's lived i' yon cottage ever sin' I can remember, Miss 'Olden. I mind him bringin' his wife to it, maybe forty year sin', though I were just a lad at t' time, an' it'll be 'appen five year sin' she died. They were neither on 'em chickens when they were wed, an' they never 'ad any childer; but they allus seemed to get on right enough, an' I don't know 'at I ever 'eard tell of 'em 'aving a wrong word wi' one another, or wi' anyone else, for that matter. They lived peaceable wi' all men, as t' Owd Book puts it, an' kept theirselves to theirselves. But they never really made any friends, as you may say. If you looked in you were welcome, but you were never asked to stop, an' they never called in to see t' neighbours. His missis wasn't one o' t' gossipin' sort, an' 'e were away a good deal wi' his cart; an' so we got into t' 'abit o' leavin' 'em alone.

”She must have been seventy--ay, more than seventy--when she died (I believe it tells on t' stone, but I never took that much notice), an'

one or two o' t' neighbours did look in during t' time 'at she were ill, an' did what they could for 'em both, and he were very grateful.

But he made no fuss, an' when they put her away 'e just wiped 'is sleeve across 'is face, an' walked back an' started diggin' a trench in t' garden.

”Well, it come out this mornin' 'at Barjona's bought t' cottage, an' it appears he gave Ted notice to quit last week-end, an' his time 's up on Sat.u.r.da'. They say he's goin' to live there himself, an' I daresay it's likely enough. It belonged to a young chap down i' Fawks.h.i.+ll, an'

Barjona has a 'old on him somehow, an' he's forced 'im to sell. I've been to see t' chap just now, but Barjona has got it right enough, deeds an' everything, an' law's law all the world over. Ted's fair rooted in t' soil o' that land, but he'll 'ave to s.h.i.+ft, an' quick too.

'E's as hard as nails, is Barjona, an' Ted 'll have to clear out on Sat.u.r.da'.”

”But what a shame!” I remarked; ”could not someone be induced to buy it from Barjona? Perhaps he would sell at a profit.”

”I'm goin' to see him in t' mornin',” replied Reuben, ”but I durst bet a five-pun note to a toothpick 'at he won't sell at any figure. I know Barjona. There's good wheat i' all men, but it's so lost among t'

chaff i' Barjona's case 'at only t' Day o' Judgment 'll find it.”

Reuben called the next day to report the fruitlessness of his mission.

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