Part 20 (1/2)
”Aye, la.s.s,” he replied, ”I could ha' liked well to ha' drawn my last breath i' t' old cottage, I could, for sure. I think Barjona mud ha'
let me live on i' t' old 'ome. I shouldn't ha' troubled 'im so long--not so long.”
”Come inside, Ted,” said Susannah, whose eyes were filling with tears, ”an' lie down while I get you a sup o' tea.”
He appeared not to hear her, however, but stared fixedly at the flagged footpath and muttered, as he slowly shook his head:
”I shouldn't ha' troubled 'im so long--not so long.”
Somebody fetched him a stool, and he sat down outside the gate with his back against the wall, whilst the women sympathised volubly, arms akimbo.
It was very pathetic, but no words of comfort came to my lips, though my heart ached for the silent old man who was leaving behind everything that counted in life, and who was sure to feel keenly the loss of familiar faces and friendly looks, even though he had not shown himself neighbourly. I said something of the sort to Mother Hubbard, who had now joined us, but she was doubtful.
”Well, love, I don't know. Ted has never shown much feeling. I have known him nearly all his life, and I don't think he has very deep feelings, love. He always seemed friendly with his wife, but not what you would call affectionate, you know, love. Of course, one doesn't know what he really felt when she died, but it didn't seem to trouble him very much.”
”That proves nothing,” I replied, with the emphasis born of observation; ”the proverb says that 'still waters run deep,' and it is never more true than in this connection. The wailing widower is usually easily consoled.”
”Yes, love, but I have discovered that you are very imaginative, though at one time I didn't think so, and you may read your own feelings into Ted's, you know. I really do think, love, that he has not very deep feelings.”
Soon everything was piled upon the cart, and Ben Goodenough came up to the old man to inform him that they were ready to leave.
”Now, Ted!” he said, with an a.s.sumption of cheerfulness; ”we've got everything on nicely, an' we'll step down with you to t' Clough an' get 'em into their places at t' other end. You'll want to have a look round, 'appen, before we leave.”
”Aye, Ben lad, I tak' it varry kindly 'at ye're givin' yerself all this trouble. It's friendly, lad, friendly. Aye, I sud like to hev a look round for t' last time afore we start.”
He rose wearily and accompanied Ben up the path. Barjona was standing at the door, and all three went in. They came out before long, and there were no traces of emotion on Ted's ruddy face. But as he looked up and down the garden his lips quivered, though he mastered himself with an effort. The gladioli and hollyhocks made a brave show amid the humbler sweet-williams and marigolds, but they would have to be left.
He stopped opposite the rose-bush.
”Ben, lad,” he said, ”ye'll do me one more favour, willn't ye? Get me a spade off o' t' cart, will ye? I've left it till t' last minute, for I can 'ardly bide to root it up, but I munnut leave that tree be'ind.”
One of the men had darted off at the mention of the word ”spade,” and the beloved implement--the old man's faithful friend--was placed in his hand.
”Thee an' me's hed monny a grand time together, lad,” he said, apostrophising the spade, ”but nivver such a sad job as this afore. A sad job, aye, a sad job. But we've got to do it, lad, ye an' me.”
He put his foot upon it and prepared to dig up the tree, when Barjona interposed. Every word was clearly heard by the group in the roadway.
”Steady there! ... what ye goin' to do?”
”n.o.bbut just dig t' tree up, Barjona.”
”Leave t' tree alone ... that tree's mine.”
Ted looked at him and his hands began to tremble. ”Ye don't meean, Barjona, 'at ye won't let me tak' t' rose-tree away wi' me?”
”Ye tak' nowt out of t' garden ... all what's rooted in t' soil belongs to me ... paid good money for it.... Put yer spade away.”
”Look 'ere, Mr. Higgins,” interrupted Ben, ”do you mean to tell me 'at you're going to prevent Ted takin' a bit of a rose-tree with him? If you do, you're a harder-'earted old wretch than I took you for.”
Angry murmurs arose from the crowd, but Barjona's jaw stiffened and there was no hint of yielding in his tone.
”Right's right,” he said ... ”that rose-tree's mine ... took a partic'lar fancy to it ... won't part with it for n.o.b'dy.”