Part 29 (1/2)

”I may well be bitter; you'd be bitter if you saw what I see,” she replied.

I endeavoured to turn the conversation and to satisfy my curiosity.

”Where has your brother been, and what has he been doing all these years?” I inquired.

”Oh, he tells a tale like a story-book,” she replied impatiently. ”I'm bound to believe him, I suppose, because whatever else he was he wasn't a liar, but it's more like a fairy tale than ought else. After he hit father an' ran away he got to Liverpool, an' worked his pa.s.sage on a boat to Cape Town, an' for a long time he got more kicks than ha'pence--and serve him right, too, _I_ say. He tried first one thing an' then another, and landed up in Rhodesia at last, an' sought work from a man who employed a lot o' labour. He says he wouldn't have been taken on if the gentleman hadn't spotted him for a Yorks.h.i.+reman.

'Thou'rt Yorks.h.i.+r', lad?' he said; an' our Joe said: 'Aye! bred an'

born.' 'Let's hear ta talk a bit o' t' owd tongue, lad,' he said; 'aw've heeard nowt on 't for twelve yeear, an' t' missis willn't hev it spokken i' t' haase.'

”Well, of course, Joe entered into t' spirit of it, an' the old gentleman was delighted, an' gave him a job, an' he always had to speak broad Yorks.h.i.+re unless the missis was there. It wasn't exactly a farm, but they grew fruit an' vegetables and kept poultry an' pigs an' bees an' such like, and it was just to our Joe's taste. I won't deny but what he's clever, and he was always steady an' honest. He says the old gentleman took to him an' gave him every chance, an' t' missis liked him too, because he always spoke so polite an' proper. An' then he fell in love wi' one o' t' daughters, an' they were married last year, an' by what I can make out he's a sort of a partner in t' business now.

Anyway, he says it's his wife 'at brought him to see what a wrong 'un he'd been, and when he'd told 'em all t' tale nothing 'ud do but he was to come to England and make it up with his father. So he's come, an'

mother blubbers over him, an' holds his 'and, an' strokes his 'air till I'm out of all patience.”

Farmer Goodenough looked grave, but he did not speak, so I said: ”Isn't this rather unworthy of you, Jane? Your mother is naturally glad to see her boy back again, and if she had not been here you would have welcomed him just as cordially.”

”Would I?” she replied. ”No fear! He gave father ten years of sorrow an' brought him to 'is grave. I loved my dad too well to forgive his murderer that easy. He's taken no notice of us all this time, an'

while he's been makin' money an' courtin' a rich girl we might all have been in t' workhouse for ought he knew or cared. And then he's to come home, an' it's to be all right straight off, an' we must have t' best counterpane on t' bed, an' t' china tea-service out 'at were my grandmother's, an' we must go s...o...b..rin' round his neck the minute he puts his head in at t' door. Bah! it makes me sick. You've only got to be a prodigal, as I say, an' then you can have t' fatted calf killed for you.”

”Now look you here, la.s.s,” said Farmer Goodenough kindly, ”I've said nought so far, 'cos it does you good to talk. It's poor policy to bung t' kettle up when t' water's boilin', but I think ye've let off enough steam now to keep from burstin', so we'll just look into this matter, an' see what we can make on 't.”

”Oh, I know you of old, Reuben Goodenough,” replied the girl; ”you'd be every bit as bad as my mother.”

”You'll be every bit as bad yerself, la.s.s, when ye've as much sense; but now just let me ask you a question or two. T' Owd Book says, if I remember right, when t' father came out to talk to t' sulky brother: 'It was meet to make merry an' be glad,' an' I take that to mean 'at it was t' right an' proper thing to do. Now why were they glad, think ye?”

”Just because he'd come home,” replied Jane bitterly, ”an' his brother, like me, had never gone away. I don't wonder 'at he was sulky. But that prodigal hadn't killed his father.”

”Well, now, Jane,” replied the farmer, ”'cordin' to my way o' sizin'

that tale up, you've got hold of a wrong notion altogether. I don't know what t' parsons 'ud make of it, but it seems to me 'at t' owd man was glad, not so much because t' lad had come back, but because he'd come to hisself, an' that's a very deal different thing.”

”I don't see no difference,” said Jane.

”You will do if you think a minute, la.s.s. Suppose a lad loses his senses an' runs away from 'ome, an' comes back one fine day as mad as ever. There'll be as much sorrow as joy, won't there, think ye, in that 'ome? But suppose while he's away his reason comes back to 'im, an' he gets cured, an' as soon as he's cured he says: 'I must go 'ome to t' owd folks,' an' he goes, an' they see 'at he's in his right mind, don't you think they'll make merry an' be glad? Wouldn't you?”

”Our Joe didn't lose his senses,” the girl replied sullenly; ”he was as clear-headed then as he is now. It's a different thing when they're mad.”

”Nay, la.s.s,” he replied, ”but unless I'm sadly mista'en all sin is a sort o' madness. You said just now 'at Joe went wrong. Now where did he go wrong--I mean what part of 'im?”

Jane made no reply.

”You'd say he was wrong in his 'ead to have treated his father as he did, but if 'is 'ead wasn't wrong 'is 'eart was, an' that's a worse kind o' madness. Doesn't t' Owd Book talk about 'em bein' possessed wi' devils? They mightn't be t' sort 'at has 'orns on, but they were t' sort 'at tormented 'em into wrong-doin', an' surely it was summat o'

that sort 'at got hold o' your Joe. Now, if his wife has brought him to hisself, an' he's come 'ome to say he's sorry, 'it was meet to make merry an' be glad.'”

”It's hard on them that don't go wrong,” said Jane.

”Well, now, how is it 'ard on them?” asked the farmer. ”Talkin' quite straight, where does t' 'ards.h.i.+p come in?”

”Well, mother doesn't cry round _my_ neck, an' stroke my hands, an'