The Carbonels - Charlotte Yonge 4 стр.

A big girl in a checkered pinafore came out and made a curtsey, assisting to undo the chain.

What has he been doing? asked Dora.

He be a mortial bad boy! answered the girl. Heve been getting at Dame Verdons sugar.

And what is your name? asked Mrs Carbonel.

Lizzie Verdon, maam. I helps Grannie.

Grannie did seem in need of help. There she sat in a big wooden chair by the fire, the very picture of an old dame, with a black bonnet, high-crowned and crescent shaped in front, with a white muslin cap below, a buff handkerchief crossed over her shoulders, a dark short-sleeved gown, long mittens covering her arms, and a checkered apron; a regular orthodox birch-rod by her side, and a black cat at her feet. But her head was shaking with palsy, and she hardly seemed to understand what Lizzie screamed into her ear that, Here was the ladies.

But the door which they had shut in the face of their spaniel was thrust open. Up went the cats back, bristle went her tail, her eyes shot sparks, and she bounded to the top of her mistresss chair. Dandy barked defiance, all the children shouted or screamed and danced about, and the old woman gasped and shook more. Lizzie alone was almost equal to the occasion. She flew at the cat who was standing on tiptoe on the tall back of the chair, with huge tail and eyes like green lamps, swearing, hissing, and spitting, and, regardless of scratches, caught him up by the scruff of his neck and disposed of him behind the staircase door; while Dora at the same moment secured Dandy by the collar, and rushing out, put him over the garden gate and shut both that and the door. Mary, afraid that the old lady was going to have a fit, went up to her with soothing apologies, but the unwonted sight seemed to confuse her the more, and she began crying. Lizzie, however, came to the rescue. She evidently had all her wits about her. First she called out: Order, children. Dont you see the ladies? Sit down, Jem Hewlett, or Ill after you with the stick! Then, as the children ranged themselves, she stamped at some to enforce her orders, shook the rod at others, and set up the smallest like so many ninepins, handling them by the shoulder on one small bench, interspersing the work with consolations to granny and explanations to the ladies, who were about to defer their visit.

Granny, now never you mind. Tip is all right upstairs. Benny, you bad boy, Ill be at you. Dont go, please, lady. Bet, what be doin to Jim? Never mind, granny! Susan Pucklechurch, youll read to the lady, so pretty.

About five children, more tidily dressed than the others, had a whole and sound form to themselves near the fire and the mistress. The other two benches were propped, the one on two blocks of wood, the other on two sound and two infirm legs, and this was only balanced by a child at each end, so that when one got up the whole tumbled down or flew up, but the seat was very low, and the catastrophe generally produced mirth.

Susan Pucklechurch, granddaughter to the old bailiff and his Betty, was evidently the show scholar. She be in her Testament, maam, explained Lizzie; and accordingly a terribly thumbed and dilapidated New Testament was put into the childs hand, from which she proceeded to bawl out, with long pauses between the words, and spelling the longest, a piece of the Sermon on the Mount, selected because there were no names in it. It was a painful performance to reverent ears, and as soon as practicable Mrs Carbonel stopped it with Good child! and a penny, and asked what the others read. Those who were not in the Testament read the Universal Spelling-book, provided at their own expense, but not in much better condition, and from this George Hewlett, son and heir to the carpenter, and a very different person from his cousin Jem, read the history of the defence of that city where each trade offered its own commodity for the defence, even to the cobbler, who proposed to lay in a stock of good l-e-a-t-h-e-rlather!

These, and three little maidens who had picture spelling-books not going beyond monosyllables, were the aristocracy, and sat apart, shielded from the claws and teeth of their neighbours in consideration of paying fourpence, instead of twopence, a week. The boy was supposed to write large letters on a slate, and the bigger girls did some needlework, and not badlyindeed, it was the best of their performances. The dame went on mumbling and shaking all the time, and it was quite evident that she was entirely past the work, and that Lizzie was the real mistress; indeed, Mrs Carbonel was inclined to give her credit for a certain talent for teaching and keeping order, when the sisters emerged from the close little oven of a place, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry, but full of great designs.

Captain Carbonel, however, to their disappointment, advised them to wait to set anything on foot till Dr Fogram, the President of Saint Cyrils, came down in the summer holidays, when counsel could be taken with him, and there would be more knowledge of the subject. Dora did not like this at all. She was sure that the Son of Mist, as she was naughty enough to call the doctor, would only hamper them, and she was only half consoled by being told that there was no objection to her collecting a few of the children on Sunday and trying to teach them, and in the meantime acquaintance might be made with the mothers.

Chapter Five.

At Home

Cottage visiting turned out to be a much chequered affair. One of the first places to which the sisters made their way was the Widow Moles. They found it, rather beyond the church, down a lane, where it was hidden behind an overgrown thorn hedge, and they would scarcely have found it at all, if a three-year-old child had not been clattering an old bit of metal against the bar put across to prevent his exit. He was curly and clean, except with the days surface dirt, but he only stared stolidly at the question whether Mrs Mole lived there. A ten-year-old girl came out, and answered the question.

Yes, mother do live here, but her be out at work.

Is that your grandfather? as they caught sight of a very old man on a chair by the door, in the sun.

Yes, maam. Will you come in and see him?

He was a very old man, with scanty white hair, but he was very clean, and neatly dressed in a white smock, mended all over, but beautifully worked over the breast and cuffs, and long leather buskins. He was very civil, too. He took off his old straw hat, and rose slowly by the help of his stout stick, though the first impulse of the visitors was to beg him not to move. He did not hear them, but answered their gesture.

I be so crippled up with the rheumatics, you see, maam, and he put his knotted and contracted hand up to his ear.

Mrs Carbonel shouted into his ear that she was sorry for him. She supposed his daughter was out at work.

Yes, maam, with Farmer Goodenougha charing to-day it is.

Washing, screamed the little girl.

She was off at five oclock this morning, he went on. She do work hard, my daughter Bess, and shes a good one to me, and so is little Liz here. Thank the Lord for them.

And her husband is dead?

Yes, maam. Fell off a haystack three years ago, and never spoke no more. We have always kept off the parish, maam. This bit of a cottage was my poor wifes, and she do want to leave it to the boy; but she be but frail, poor maid, and if she gave in, thered be nothing for it but to give up the place and go to the workhouse; and theres such a lot there as I could not go and die among.

Yes, maam. Will you come in and see him?

He was a very old man, with scanty white hair, but he was very clean, and neatly dressed in a white smock, mended all over, but beautifully worked over the breast and cuffs, and long leather buskins. He was very civil, too. He took off his old straw hat, and rose slowly by the help of his stout stick, though the first impulse of the visitors was to beg him not to move. He did not hear them, but answered their gesture.

I be so crippled up with the rheumatics, you see, maam, and he put his knotted and contracted hand up to his ear.

Mrs Carbonel shouted into his ear that she was sorry for him. She supposed his daughter was out at work.

Yes, maam, with Farmer Goodenougha charing to-day it is.

Washing, screamed the little girl.

She was off at five oclock this morning, he went on. She do work hard, my daughter Bess, and shes a good one to me, and so is little Liz here. Thank the Lord for them.

And her husband is dead?

Yes, maam. Fell off a haystack three years ago, and never spoke no more. We have always kept off the parish, maam. This bit of a cottage was my poor wifes, and she do want to leave it to the boy; but she be but frail, poor maid, and if she gave in, thered be nothing for it but to give up the place and go to the workhouse; and theres such a lot there as I could not go and die among.

He spoke it to the sympathising faces, not as one begging, and they found out that all was as he said. He had seen better days, and held his head above the parish pay, and so had his son-in-law but the early death of poor Mole, and the old mans crippled state, had thrown the whole maintenance of the family on the poor young widow, who was really working herself to death, while, repairs being impossible, the cottage was almost falling down.

Oh, what a place, and what a dear old man! cried the ladies, as they went out. Well, we can do something here. Ill come and read to him every week, exclaimed Dora.

And I will knit him a warm jacket, said Mary, and surely Edmund could help them to prop up that wretched cottage.

What a struggle their lives must have been, and so patient and good! Where are we going now?

I believe that is the workhouse, behind the church, said Mary. That rough-tiled roof.

It has a bend in the middle, like a broken back. I must sketch it, said Dora.

Why, theres Edmund, getting over the churchyard stile.

Ay, he cant keep long away from you, Madam Mary.

Were you going to the workhouse? said Captain Carbonel, coming up, and offering an arm to each lady, as was the fashion in those days.

We thought of it. All the poorest people are there, of course.

And the worst, said the captain. No, I will not have you go there. It is not fit for you.

For besides that he was very particular about his ladies, and had no notion of letting them go to all the varieties of evil where they could hope to do good, like the ladies of our days, the workhouse was an utterly different place from the strictly disciplined union houses of the present Poor Law. Each parish had its own, and that of Uphill had no master, no order, but was the refuge of all the disorderly, disreputable people, who could not get houses, or pay their rent, who lived in any kind of fashion, on parish pay and what they could get, and were under no restraint.

While the captain was explaining to them what he had heard from Farmer Goodenough, a sudden noise of shouting and laughing, with volleys of evil words, was heard near the Fox and Hounds.

What is that? asked Dora, of a tidy young woman coming her way.

Thats only the chaps at old Sam, she answered, as if it was an ordinary sound. And on them exclaiming, she explained. Samson Sanderson, thats his name, sir. He be what they calls non-compos, and the young fellows at the Fox and Hounds they have their fun out of he. They do bait he shameful.

Violent shouts of foul words and riotous laughter could be distinguished so plainly, that Captain Carbonel hastily thrust his wife and sister into the nearest cottage, and marched into the group of rough men and boys, who stood holloaing rude jokes, and laughing at the furious oaths and abuse in intermittent gasps with which they were received.

For shame! his indignant voice broke in. Are you not ashamed, unmanly fellows, to treat a poor weak lad in this way?

There was a moments silence. Then a great hulking drover called out, Bless you, sir, he likes it.

The more shame for you, exclaimed the captain, to bait a poor innocent lad with horrid blasphemy and profanity. I tell you every one of you ought to be fined!

The men began to sneak away from the indignant soldier. The poor idiot burst out crying and howling, and the ostler came forward, pulling his forelock, and saying, Youll not be hard on em, sir. Tis all sport. There, Sammy, dont be afeared. Gentleman means you no harm.

Captain Carbonel held out some coppers, saying, There, my poor lad, theres something for you. Only dont let me hear bad words again.

Sam muttered something, and pulled his ragged hat forward as he shambled off into some back settlements of the public-house, while the ostler went on

Tis just their game, sir! None of em would hurt poor Sam! Theyd treat him the next minute, sir. All in sport.

Strange sport, said the captain, to teach a poor helpless lad, who ought to be as innocent as a babe, that abominable blasphemy.

He dont mean nought, sir! Alls one to he!

All the worse in those who do know better, I tell you; and you may tell your master that, if this goes on, I shall certainly speak to the magistrates.

There was no need to tell the landlord, Mr Oldfellow. The captain was plainly enough to be heard through the window of the bar. The drovers had no notion that their amusement was sinful, for it didnt hurt no one, and, in fact, getting a rise out of Softy Sam was one of the great attractions of the Fox and Hounds, so that Mr Oldfellow was of the same mind as Dan Hewlett, who declared that they Gobblealls was plaguey toads of Methodys, and wasnt to think to bully them about like his soldiers.

They had another drink all round to recover from their fright, when they treated Softy Sam, but took care not to excite him to be noisy, while the captain might be within earshot.

The two ladies had meanwhile taken refuge in what proved to be no other than Mrs Daniel Hewletts house, a better one, and less scantily provided with furniture, than the widow Moles, but much less clean and neat. The door stood open, and there was a tub full of soap-suds within. The captain gave a low whistle to intimate his presence, and stood at the entrance. Unwashed dinner things were on a round table, a dresser in confusion against the wall, on another Moores Almanack for some years past, full of frightful catastrophes, mixed with little, French, highly-coloured pictures of the Blessed Virgin.

His wife and her sister were seated, the one on a whole straw chair, the other on a rickety one, conversing with a very neat, pale, and pleasant-looking invalid young woman, evidently little able to rise from her wooden armchair. Molly Hewlett, in a coarse apron, and a cap far back amid the rusty black tangles of her hair, her arms just out of the wash-tub, was in the midst of a voluble discourse, into which the ladies would not break.

You see, maam, she was in a right good situation, but she was always unlucky, and she had the misfortune to fall down the attic stairs with the baby in her arms.