Oi seed t young un today a-sitting in front o th cottage, a-talking and laughing wi Bill.
They be good uns, feyther and son, though they tells oi as neither on them baint Yaarkshire.
The general feeling among the company was evidently one of surprise that any good thing should be found outside Yorkshire. But further talk on the subject was interrupted by a slight exclamation at the door.
O what a smoke, feyther! I cant see you, but I suppose youre somewhere here. Youre wanted at home.
Although the speaker was visible to but few in the room there was no doubt as to her identity, or as to the person addressed as feyther. Mary Powlett was indeed the niece and not the daughter of Luke Marner, but as he had brought her up from childhood she looked upon him as her father. It was her accent and the tone of her voice which rendered it unnecessary for any of those present to see her face.
Luke was a bachelor when the child had arrived fifteen years before in the carriers cart from Marsden, having made the journey in a similar conveyance to that town from Sheffield, where her father and mother had died within a week of each other, the last request of her mother being that little Polly should be sent off to the care of Luke Marner at Varley.
Luke had not then settled down into the position of one of the elders of the village, and he had been somewhat embarrassed by the arrival of the three year old girl. He decided promptly, however, upon quitting the lodgings which he had as a single man occupied and taking a cottage by himself. His neighbors urged upon him that so small a child could not remain alone all day while he was away at Marsden at worka proposition to which he assented; but to the surprise of every one, instead of placing her during the day under the care of one of the women of the place, he took her down with him to Marsden and placed her under the care of a respectable woman there who had children of her own.
Starting at five every morning from his cottage with Polly perched on his shoulder he tramped down to the town, leaving her there before going to work, and calling for her in the evening. A year later he married, and the village supposed that Polly would now be left behind. But they were mistaken. When he became engaged he had said:
Now, Loiza, theres one point as oi wish settled. As oi have told ye, oi ha partly chosen ye becos oi knowed as how ye would maake a good mother to my little Polly; but oi doant mean to give up taking her down with me o days to the town. Oi likes to ha her wi me on the roadeit makes it shorter like. As thou knowest thyself, oi ha bin a chaanged man sin she coom. There warnt a cropper in the village drank harder nor oi, but oi maad oop moi moind when she came to gi it up, and oi have gid it up.
I know, Luke, the girl said, I wouldna have had ye, hadnt ye doon so, as I told ye two years agone. I know the child ha done it, and I loves her for it, and will be a good mother to her.
Oi knows you will, Loiza, and oi baint feared as yell be jealous if so be as yeve children o your own. Oi shant love em a bit the less coss oi loves little Polly. She be just the image o what moi sister Jane was when she war a little thing and oi used to take care o her. Mother she didnt belong to this village, and the rough ways of the men and the drink frightened her. She war quiet and tidy and neat in her ways, and Jane took arter her, and glad she was when the time came to marry and get away from Varley. Oi be roight sure if she knows owt whats going on down here, she would be glad to know as her child aint bein brought oop in Varley ways. I ha arranged wi the woman where she gets her meals for her to go to school wi her own children. Dost thee object to that, lass?if so, say so noo afore its too late, but doont thraw it in moi face arterwards. Ef thoust children they shalt go to school too. Oi dont want to do more for Polly nor oid do for moi own.
I ha no objection, Luke. I remembers your sister, how pretty and quiet she wor; and thou shalt do what you likest wi Polly, wiout no grumble from me.
Eliza Marner kept the promise she had made before marriage faithfully. If she ever felt in her heart any jealousy as she saw Polly growing up a pretty bright little maiden, as different to the usual child product of Varley as could well be, she was wise enough never to express her thoughts, and behaved with motherly kindness to her in the evening hours spent at home. She would perhaps have felt the task a harder one had her own elder children been girls; but three boys came first, and a girl was not born until she had been married eleven years. Polly, who was now fourteen, had just come home from her schooling at Marsden for good, and was about to go out into service there. But after the birth of her little girl Mrs. Marner, who had never for a Varley girl been strong, faded rapidly away; and Pollys stay at home, intended at first to last but a few weeks, until its mother was about again, extended into months.
The failing woman reaped now the benefit of Pollys training. Her gentle, quiet way, her soft voice, her neatness and tidiness, made her an excellent nurse, and she devoted herself to cheer and brighten the sickroom of the woman who had made so kind an adopted mother to her. Her influence kept even the rough boys quiet; and all Varley, which had at first been unanimous in its condemnation of the manner in which Luke Marner was bringing up that gal of his, just as if the place was not good enough for her, were now forced to confess that the experiment had turned out well.
Polly, my dear, the sick woman said to her one afternoon when the girl had been reading to her for some time, and was now busy mending some of the boys clothes, while baby, nearly a year old, was gravely amusing herself with a battered doll upon the floor, I used to think, though I never said so, as your feyther war making a mistake in bringing you up different to other gals here; but I see as he was right. There aint one of them as would have been content to give up all their time and thoughts to a sick woman as thou hast done. There aint a house in the village as tidy and comfortable as this, and the boys mind you as they never minded me. When I am gone Luke will miss me, but thar wont be no difference in his comfort, and I know thoult look arter baby and be a mother to her. I dont suppose as thou wilt stay here long; thou art over fifteen now, and the lads will not be long afore they begin to come a-coorting of thee. But doant ee marry in Varley, Polly. My Lukes been a good husband to me. But thou knowst what the most of them bethey may do for Varley bred gals, but not for the like of thee. And when thou goest take baby wi thee and bring her up like thysel till she be old enough to coom back and look arter Luke and the house.
Polly was crying quietly while the dying woman was speaking. The doctor, on leaving that morning, had told her that he could do no more and that Mrs. Marner was sinking rapidly. Kneeling now beside the bed she promised to do all that her adopted mother asked her, adding, and I shall never, never leave feyther as long as he lives.
The woman smiled faintly.
Many a girl ha said that afore now, Polly, and ha changed her moind when the roight man asked her. Dont ee make any promises that away, lass. Tis natural that, when a lassies time comes, she should wed; and if Luke feels loanly here, why hes got it in his power to get another to keep house for him. He be but a little over forty now; and as he ha lived steady and kept hisself away from drink, he be a yoonger man now nor many a one ten year yoonger. Dont ye think to go to sacrifice your loife to hissen. And now, child, read me that chapter over agin, and then I think I could sleep a bit.
Before morning Eliza Marner had passed away, and Polly became the head of her uncles house. Two years had passed, and so far Mary Powlett showed no signs of leaving the house, which, even the many women in the village, who envied her for her prettiness and neatness and disliked her for what they called her airs, acknowledged that she managed well. But it was not from lack of suitors. There were at least half a dozen stalwart young croppers who would gladly have paid court to her had there been the smallest sign on her part of willingness to accept their attentions; but Polly, though bright and cheerful and pleasant to all, afforded to none of them an opportunity for anything approaching intimacy.
On Sundays, the times alone when their occupations enabled the youth of Varley to devote themselves to attentions to the maidens they favored, Mary Powlett was not to be found at home after breakfast, for, having set everything in readiness for dinner, she always started for Marsden, taking little Susan with her, and there spent the day with the woman who had even more than Eliza Marner been her mother. She had, a month after his wifes death, fought a battle with Luke and conquered. The latter had, in pursuance of the plans he had originally drawn up for her, proposed that she should go into service at Marsden.
Oi shall miss thee sorely, Polly, he said; and oi doant disguise it from thee, vor the last year, lass, thou hast been the light o this house, and oi couldna have spared ye. But oi ha always fixed that thou shouldst go into service at MarsdenVarley is not fit vor the likes o ye. We be a rough lot here, and a drunken; and though oi shall miss thee sorely for awhile, oi must larn to do wiout thee.
Polly heard him in silence, and then positively refused to go.
You have been all to me, feyther, since I was a child, and I am not going to leave you now. I dont say that Varley is altogether nice, but I shall be very happy here with you and the boys and dear little Susan, and I am not going to leave, and sothere!
Luke knew well how great would be the void which her absence would make, but he still struggled to carry out his plans.
But, Polly, oi should na loike to see thee marry here, and thy mother would never ha loiked it, and thou wilt no chance of seeing other men here.
Why, I am only sixteen, feyther, and we need not talk of my marriage for years and years yet, and I promise you I shant think of marrying in Varley when the time comes; but there is one thing I should like, and that is to spend Sundays, say once a fortnight, down with Mrs. Mason; they were so quiet and still there, and I did like so much going to the church; and I hate that Little Bethel, especially since that horrible man came there; he is a disgrace, feyther, and you will see that mischief will come out of his talk.
Oi dont like him myself, Polly, and maybe me and the boys will sometoimes come down to the church thou art so fond of. However, if thou wilt agree to go down every Sunday to Mrs. Mason, thou shalt stay here for a bit till oi see what can best be done.
And so it was settled, and Polly went off every Sunday morning, and Luke went down of an evening to fetch her back.
Well, what ist, lass? he asked as he joined her outside the Brown Cow.
George has scalded his leg badly, feyther. I was just putting Susan to bed, and he took the kettle off the fire to pour some water in the teapot, when Dick pushed him, or something, and the boiling water went over his leg.
Oill give that Dick a hiding, Luke said wrathfully as he hastened along by her side. Why didnt ye send him here to tell me instead of cooming thyself?
It was only an accident, feyther, and Dick was so frightened when he saw what had happened and heard George cry out that he ran out at once. I have put some flour on Georges leg; but I think the doctor ought to see him, thats why I came for you.
Its no use moi goaing voor him now, lass, he be expected along here every minute. Jack Wilson, he be on the lookout by the roadside vor to stop him to ask him to see Nance, who be taken main bad. I will see him and ask him to send doctor to oor house when he comes, and tell Jarge I will be oop in a minute.
Upon the doctors arrival he pronounced the scald to be a serious one, and Dick, who had been found sobbing outside the cottage, and had been cuffed by his father, was sent down with the doctor into the town to bring up some lint to envelop the leg. The doctor had already paid his visit to Nance Wilson, and had rated her father soundly for not procuring better food for her.
Its all nonsense your saying the times are bad, he said in reply to the mans excuses. I know the times are bad; but you know as well as I do that half your wages go to the public house; your family are starving while you are squandering money in drink. That child is sinking from pure want of food, and I doubt if she would not be gone now if it hadnt have been for that soup your wife tells me Bill Swinton sent in to her. I tell you, if she dies you will be as much her murderer as if you had chopped her down with a hatchet.
The plain speaking of the doctor was the terror of his parish patients, who nevertheless respected him for the honest truths he told them. He himself used to say that his plain speaking saved him a world of trouble, for that his patients took good care never to send for him except when he was really wanted.
The next day Mary Powlett was unable to go off as usual to Marsden as George was in great pain from his scald. She went down to church, however, in the evening with her father, Bill Swinton taking her place by the bedside of the boy.
Thou hast been a-sitting by moi bedside hours every day, Polly, he said, and its moi turn now to take thy place here. Jack ha brought over all moi books, for oi couldnt make shift to carry them and use moi crutches, and oill explain all the pictures to Jarge jest as Maister Ned explained em to oi.
The sight of the pictures reconciled George to Pollys departure, and seeing the lad was amused and comfortable, she started with Luke, Dick taking his place near the bed, where he could also enjoy a look at the pictures.
Did you notice that pretty girl with the sweet voice in the aisle in a line with us, father, Ned asked that evening, with a great, strong, quiet looking man by the side of her?
Yes, lad, the sweetness of her singing attracted my attention, and I thought what a bright, pretty face it was!
Thats Mary Powlett and her uncle. You have heard me speak of her as the girl who was so kind in nursing Bill.
Indeed, Ned! I should scarcely have expected to find so quiet and tidy looking a girl at Varley, still less to meet her with a male relation in church.
She lives at Varley, but she can hardly be called a Varley girl, Ned said. Bill was telling me about her. Her uncle had her brought up down here. She used to go back to sleep at night, but otherwise all her time was spent here. It seems her mother never liked the place, and married away from it, and when she and her husband died and the child came back to live with her uncle he seemed to think he would be best carrying out his dead sisters wishes by having her brought up in a different way to the girls at Varley. He has lost his wife now, and she keeps house for him, and Bill says all the young men in Varley are mad about her, but she wont have anything to say to them.
She is right enough there, Captain Sankey said smilingly. They are mostly croppers, and rightly or wronglyrightly, I am afraidthey have the reputation of being the most drunken and quarrelsome lot in Yorkshire. Do you know the story that is current among the country people here about them?