“LWONESOME LIZZIE”

It was late on a bright spring afternoon when Mrs Caines betook herself to a certain out-of-the-way wood, in the midst of which her mother’s cottage was situated. This wood lay at a considerable distance from the high road, and the nearest approach to it was across a number of ploughed fields, so that Phoebe Caines was hot and somewhat exhausted when she at last reached the longed-for friendly and familiar shade. There was a high wind that March day, and Phoebe’s face had been blistered alike by it and the sun as she toiled along the road proper. Even in the fields the light soil, newly harrowed, had been caught up now and then by the mischievous wind and dashed into eyes and hair.

But here was the wood at length, and the narrow little moss-grown path along which she had so often tripped as a child. Phoebe had been born and bred in that wood, as had her mother before her. The queer little thatched cottage in which the latter dwelt had been the old keeper’s house, and there Mrs Sweetapple had first seen the light. Her father had been keeper in those far-away days, and both her husbands had been keepers too. If she had been blest with a son he would doubtless have followed the family traditions; but Phoebe was her only child, and the grand new two-storied brick house which the Squire had built at a quarter of a mile’s distance from the old cottage was inhabited by a stranger.

The Squire had not had the heart to turn out old Lizzie Sweetapple, who was allowed to live on in her tumble-down abode, and to keep cocks and hens in the empty kennels, and even to fancy herself extremely useful by bringing up a certain number of pheasants. No hens were ever so conveniently broody as Lizzie’s, no pens so carefully sheltered, no young broods so well watched or tenderly nurtured.

Mrs Sweetapple—“Lwonesome Lizzie,” as her few acquaintances laughingly called her—was quite a celebrated personage in the neighbourhood, and though her apparently desolate plight won her much commiseration, she herself never complained of her solitude.

But Daughter Phoebe did not approve of the existing state of things, and frequently endeavoured to induce her mother to take up her residence with her. The little pension allowed her by the Squire would more than pay for her keep, and why not tend children, of whom Mrs Caines possessed “a plenty,” as well as cocks and pheasants? It was dangerous for her, living so entirely alone at her age, where nobody could look after her if she were taken ill; and if there were an accident, such as setting the house on fire or breaking her leg, nobody would be the wiser.

Though the old woman had hitherto stoutly refused to contemplate any such possibility as illness or mischance, and resolutely announced her intention of remaining where she was, Phoebe returned to the charge periodically, and the present expedition was undertaken with the view of shaking her mother’s determination.

Being a practical person, she wasted no time in looking about her now, but pressed on with as much speed as she could muster, occasionally repeating over to herself the arguments by means of which she hoped to convince the old woman.

Yet indeed the scene was lovely enough to have tempted a less business-like person to dally on her way. The young grass was springing up beneath the budding trees on one side, while on the other the ground was strewn with fir-needles and last year’s beech-leaves. Grass and moss were alike emerald green, withered leaves and needles copper and gold. These tints were repeated again on the trunks of Scotch firs, on the boughs of the heavily-clothed spruces; while the elders and a few stray thorns had borrowed the living green of the herbage below. The sycamores were brave with little crimson tufts, and the larches most glorious of all at this hour, raising as they did their delicate tracery of pendant twigs against the luminous sky, imprisoning the light, as it were, in a golden cage, the floating bars of which were studded here and there with jewels—emeralds that would soon become tassels, rubies that in course of time would turn into cones. The bank on the right was studded with wild violets, and here and there primroses grew in profusion, their tender young leaves flaming in the evening glow almost like the blossoms they protected.

At the turn of the path Mrs Caines caught sight of the lichen-grown roof of the cottage, and heaved a deep sigh of relief. Increasing her pace she hurried on, unceremoniously bursting into the kitchen, into which the door opened.

“’Tis you, Phoebe, love!” exclaimed old Lizzie, coming forward to meet her, dusting her hands on her apron as she advanced. “You’m welcome, I’m sure, my dear. I scarce looked for ’ee to come so late, though it be a goodish long while since I see’d ye.”

“The children have a-had the whooping-cough,” responded Mrs Caines, dropping into a chair. “Of all the tedious illnesses that be the worst—what wi’ coaxin’ of ’em to eat, an’ a-watchin’ of ’em so as they shouldn’t cough an’ a-make theirselves sick the minute they have took their meals, it do fair wear a body out. Little Isaac, the way he do cough and the way he do choke, many a time I think he’ll bust hisself. He do turn the colour of a turkey-cock, he do!”

“That’s bad,” said the grandmother placidly. “You was never much trouble, Phoebe, I’ll say that for ’ee. Every sickness what come you did take so light as anything. An’ there’s some as ye did never have at all. ’Tis wi’ livin’ so much in the fresh air, I think. I’ll just mix this bit o’ meal an’ take it outside to the little chicken, an’ you mid pop on kettle, my dear, an’ rest yourself a bit. We’ll have tea so soon as I get back.”

Mrs Caines unpinned her shawl, threw back her bonnet-strings, and set the kettle on the fire. Then she heaved a sigh, partly of exasperation, partly of fatigue, and looked about her. The room seemed just the same as ever, the furniture a little older and a little shabbier than she remembered it of yore. The grandfather’s clock stood in one corner, with the hands pointing to a quarter to twelve, as they had done ever since she could remember; the warming-pan to the right of the fireplace was not quite as bright as usual, perhaps, and the china on the upper shelf of the dresser was distinctly dusty.

“Poor mother, she be gettin’ past her work, I d’ ’low,” said Phoebe to herself; and the reflection strengthened her resolution.

Continuing her survey, she presently gave a little start of surprise. The old oak settle which ever since her childhood had stood with its back against the wall, being but a clumsy piece of furniture and never used, was now pushed forward in comfortable proximity to the blaze. What fancy was this? Surely her mother could not choose to sit on that hard uncomfortable seat, instead of in the cosy elbow-chair in which Phoebe herself was now reposing. The fellow to it which had once been her father’s, now, to her astonishment, was relegated to the place usually occupied by the settle.

When Mrs Sweetapple returned, her daughter at once questioned her on the subject, openly expressing disapproval, for to people of her turn of mind any change in household arrangements, above all any change carried out unauthorised, must necessarily be condemned.

“What in the name o’ goodness ha’ ye gone shiftin’ thik wold settle for?” she exclaimed, in an aggrieved tone. “Sich a great ar’k’ard thing as it be, too heavy for your arms I d’ ’low—an’ there’s poor father’s chair set standin’ again’ the wall!”

Mrs Sweetapple blushed all over her wrinkled, kindly old face, and answered confusedly:—

“It be jist a fancy o’ mine—jist a notion! Some folks take some notions, an’ some takes others.”

“Well, but what be it for?” persisted Mrs Caines.

“Oh, ’tis jist a fancy I tell ’ee—a fancy o’ my own to make the time pass of an evenin’. There, I do make poor Bartlett an’ your own father take turn about to keep I company, an’ this be Bartlett’s week.”

“What in the world d’ye mean?” gasped Phoebe, staring harder than ever, and flushing in her turn.

“Well, there, I’ve a-lived here all my life in this same little place as ye know—all the time I were a maid, an’ when I wed poor Bartlett—scarce a year wi’ he, an’ nigh upon farty wi’ Sweetapple, your father. By daylight I’m bustlin’ about, ye know, workin’ at one thing an’ workin’ at another, an’ I don’t seem to have no time for thinkin’, but at night, when bolt’s drawed an’ window shut, and I do sit here by myself, I do seem to see their shapes an’ hear their voices. It did use to bother I, thinkin’ of ’em both, ye know, an’ sometimes one ’ud seem to be there, an’ sometimes the other. An’ at last I hit upon the notion o’ makin’ ’em take week about.”

She paused, drawing imaginary patterns with her forefinger on the polished seat of the old settle.

“Mother, you’re raving!” exclaimed Phoebe aghast.

“No, my dear, no; I be in my senses right enough, an’ ’tis wonderful how pleasant the time do pass when I’m fancyin’ I’m havin’ sich company. When I do get the settle out, d’ye see, I do call to mind the time when Bartlett used to come here a-coortin’. Father’d be out on his rounds most like, and mother’d be busy wi’ one thing an’ another, an’ him an’ me’d sit here side by side on thik wold settle—there, I can call to mind as if ’twere yesterday—the very things he used to say, an’ the way he’d put his arm round me.”

She broke off, smiling to herself, her toothless mouth unconsciously assuming something of the archness with which doubtless she had responded of yore to Bartlett’s amorous speeches, her dim eyes looking past Phoebe’s astonished face, and past the smoke-stained wall beyond, to that far, far away past, when she was a maid, and her young lover sate beside her.

“He did use to talk a deal o’ nonsense talk,” she went on. “It do all come back to me now. I do seem to hear what he did say, an’ what I did answer back, and sometimes I do find myself laughin’ out loud, an’ puss’ll get up from the hearth an’ walk over to I quite astonished.”

“Well, to be sure!” ejaculated Mrs Caines, then stopped short, astonishment depriving her for the moment of the power of speech.

“E-es,” continued Lizzie reflectively, “he wer terr’ble fond o’ me—Bartlett were. Even arter we was wed, he did use to say every evenin’ so soon as he comed in from his round: ‘Now then, little ’ooman,’ he’d say, ‘let’s have a bit o’ coortin’ same’s in wold times.’ An’ I’d hurry up wi’ my work an’ pop on a clean apron, an’ squat down aside of en on the wold settle—an’ then he do begin a-talkin’ nonsense talk jist so foolish as ever.”

She drew her withered hand pensively along the back of the settle as she spoke, and presently continued in an altered tone:—

“Thik wold settle. ’Twas here they did lay en when they carried en in arter that there accident wi’ his gun what killed en. An’ I knelt down as it mid be here” (pointing with her hand), “an’ he couldn’t speak nor yet move, but he jist looked at I, an’ I looked back, an’ I took his poor hand an’ kissed it, an’ then when I looked again he wer’ gone.”

“I’m sure ye didn’t ought to be thinkin’ o’ sich things,” burst out Phoebe, with an irritation that was part real, part feigned, to conceal her alarm. “What call have ’ee now to be fetchin’ ’em up arter all they years—fifty year an’ more, I’m sure, what have gone by since. If ye must think o’ anybody why don’t ye think o’ poor father? The best husband as a woman need wish to be tied-to, I’m sure; him as was allus so kind an’ worked for ye so faithful—why, you was his wife for farty year very near.”

“Farty year and ten month,” said Mrs Sweet-apple. “I do think of en, my dear, frequent,” she continued mildly. “There, as I do tell ’ee, him an’ Bartlett takes it week about. I do push back settle to the carner, d’ye see, where it did bide all the years him an’ me lived together. I could never seem to have the heart to leave it in its wold place here arter Bartlett died. So I do push it back to the carner, an’ I do pull out Sweetapple’s chair, an’ I do set it where he did use to like it anigh the fire, an’ I do sit in my own where you be a-sittin’ now, an’ I do fetch out a wold sock an’ make a purtence o’ darnin’ it. An’ I do look up now an’ again, an’ fancy to myself I do see en a-sittin’ there in his shirt sleeves same as he did use to do, an’ a-smokin’ of his pipe. An’ I do say to en by times: ‘Well, Sweetapple, an’ how be the young birds a-lookin’?’

“Wonderful well,’ he d’ say, an’ then us’ll say nothin’ for a bit till by an’ by I’ll maybe tell en about a hen what I think ’ull soon go broody, or a clutch o’ young pheasants what I do think ’ull turn out very well. Why, there’s times when I do actually take en out o’ door to look at the pens. I do light lantern an’ carry it, an’ I do fancy I hear his steps aside o’ mine so plain—”

“Mother,” exclaimed Phoebe, “do you truly mean you do go out at nights wi’ the lantern an’ all? Why, ye’ll be gettin’ lost in the woods so sure as anything, or maybe settin’ the whole place afire.”

Mrs Sweetapple gazed at her, smiling again and rubbing her hands.

“’Tis only a bit o’ nonsense, bain’t it?” queried her daughter anxiously, struck by a sudden thought. “You do jist fancy you do go out-o’-door same as you do fancy you be talkin’ wi’ my father—you don’t truly do sich a thing, do ye?”

Mrs Sweetapple appeared to reflect:—

“Well, I don’t rightly know, my dear,” she replied after a pause. “There’s times when I mid fancy it, and there’s other times when I do truly think I do go out to show father the pens. Last week ’twas—’twas father’s week ye know—I did get my shoes quite wet, an’ I did have a bit of a cold for a day or two. I think it must have come along o’ takin’ father out to see the pens.”

Mrs Caines gazed resolutely at her mother, the colour once more overspreading her already sufficiently rosy face.

“It’s time there was an end o’ this,” she announced firmly. “You’ll be tumblin’ down the well some night, or else maybe go wanderin’ off the Lard knows where. No, Mother, there’s no use talkin’, the time’s come for ’ee to shift. Lady Day’s very near, an’ ’twill be so good a time as any other. I’ll speak to Squire about it. He’ll send a waggon to move as many o’ your things as be worth takin’, an’ you can come an’ bide along o’ us. The children ’ull be better company for ’ee nor they crazy notions o’ yours, an’ if ye do want to do a bit o’ mendin’ of a evenin’ ye can darn Caines’ socks.”

“Nay, now, nay Phoebe, nay indeed,” cried the old woman in a shaking voice, her eyes becoming round with alarm, and her lips quivering. “I couldn’t shift, my dear, I couldn’t bide nowhere but in the wold place where I was barn, an’ where I do look to die. The only shiftin’ I’ll do ’ull be then. I’ll shift to the New House, Phoebe, my dear, whenever it be the Lard’s will to take I, but not before.”

“I’ll speak to Squire about it,” persisted Phoebe. “Summat awful ’ull be happenin’ if you do go on this way. ’Tis time that he should see to it.

“No, don’t ’ee go for to speak to Squire,” pleaded Lizzie. “What be the good o’ carryin’ tales to Squire? I be so happy as anything here. I don’t want for nothin’, an’ I do never feel lwonesome. If you do go puttin’ notions in Squire’s head—but you wouldn’t be so unkind, would ye, my dear?”

Phoebe made no answer; the kettle boiled at this juncture, and gave an excuse for rising and rescuing it from the fire. She insisted on making tea for her mother, and, instead of reverting to the vexed topic, chatted throughout the meal so incessantly, and on such a variety of topics, that Lizzie became a trifle bewildered; and, imagining from her daughter’s altered demeanour that the latter had come round to her views, smiled pleasantly, and put in a word now and then whenever she could catch the drift of the conversation. For, if truth be told, her wits had become duller than of yore, and remarks and smiles alike were a trifle vague.

Mrs Caines rose at last to take her departure, straightened her bonnet, donned her shawl, and kissed her mother affectionately.

Lizzie had already washed up and put away the tea-things, and after returning her daughter’s embrace, pulled down her cuffs and shook out her apron with a pre-occupied air. Almost before Phoebe had left the room she had installed herself on the settle, and was gazing expectantly at the door.

“Now don’t go out to-night, whatever happens,” urged Phoebe. “There’s a good soul! I can see ye’ve got a bit of a cold hangin’ about ye still.”

“Nay, my dear,” responded Lizzie, with a small secret smile. “’Tis Bartlett’s night, ye know. I do never ha’ time to think o’ chicken an’ sich when Bartlett be here.”

Phoebe stared; then, taking her umbrella, left the house. She heard Lizzie bolt the door behind her, and walked away, shaking her head and pursing up her lips. After proceeding fifty yards or so she paused, and presently turning retraced her steps as noiselessly as possible. The kitchen window was already shuttered, but Phoebe knew there was a wide chink beneath the hinge, and making her way towards it, peered into the fire-lit room.

Old Lizzie was still seated on the settle, in the far corner, so as to leave plenty of room for the other imaginary occupant. She was smiling, and glancing now up, now down, with that revived coyness of her youth.

Now she stretched out her trembling old hand with a curious little gesture, as though stroking something—the crisp brown locks perhaps which had been so long hidden away in the grave; now she was laughing.

“I never did hear any chap carry on like that,” she said. “Why we be old married folks now—six month wed come Tuesday.”

Phoebe turned away from the window and stepped forth briskly through the twilight. Her mind was irrevocably made up.

A wilful woman must have her way, we are told, and Mrs Caines’ way appeared so very reasonable that even the Squire fell in with it, though reluctantly. That he himself should take active measures to turn old Lizzie out of her cherished little house was certainly a most disagreeable necessity; nevertheless he appeared to have no choice. The old woman’s actual plight was undeniably dangerous, and she would no doubt be more cheerful as well as better looked after amid her daughter’s family.

Somehow or other, Lizzie never quite realised how, it was made clear to her that the Squire wanted her cottage for some important purpose, and moreover wanted possession of it so soon that she must turn out at once. Event succeeded event with such rapidity that she found herself uprooted almost before she had time to grasp the full extent of her misfortune, and was installed by Mrs Caines’ hearth and surrounded by Mrs Caines’ noisy little flock while still pleading and protesting.

“Now here you be, mother,” announced Phoebe, whisking off her parent’s bonnet and shawl, and firmly tying on her black net cap, “here you be so right as anything. Here be your own chair, d’ye see, for ye to sit in, and yonder’s the dresser—how well it do look in the carner, don’t it? Us’ll unpack the china by and by, and wash it and set it out—that’s summat to do, bain’t it? An’ there’s father’s chair opposite yours, same as usual.”

“Ah,” murmured Lizzie vaguely, “this be Sweet-apple’s week. ’Ees, sure—’ees, there be his chair. Where be—”

Her eyes wandered round the unfamiliar room. “Where be,” she was beginning again, when Phoebe adroitly interrupted her.

“This be father’s chair, as you do say, mother, an’ this be his week to be sure. There you can talk to en so comfortable as can be.”

Lizzie glanced round again with a deep sigh.

John Caines, Phoebe’s husband, worked in the Branston brewery, and they lived in consequence in the town. Theirs was a six-roomed semi-detached house with a dusty little yard in the rear, and a tiny grass-plot in front, on which Phoebe sometimes spread out linen to dry. It was situated near the station, and many vehicles passed that way, creating much dust, and making a considerable amount of noise.

Phoebe presently commented on this fact to her bewildered mother.

“’Tis nice an’ cheerful to be so near the road, bain’t it?” she remarked pleasantly, tilting up as she spoke a corner of the muslin blind. “Ye can look out, look-see. That’s the ’bus from the Crown, an’ there’s Sibley’s cart, and look, look—there’s a motor.”

The children all rushed to the window to investigate this wonder, Isaac pausing midway to whoop violently. Lizzie bent a vacant gaze upon the window, and then drew back into her corner.

“’Tis awful lwonesome here,” she said, “terr’ble lwonesome—there, that noise an’ the dust an’ all; it do fair make my head go round.”

Phoebe burst out laughing:—

“Dear, to be sure, that’s a queer notion! How can ye be lwonesome wi’ so many folks about?”

Lizzie rocked herself backwards and forwards in her chair, half moaning to herself.

“I can’t find nothin’ what I’m used to. I can’t seem to hear nothin’—wi’ so much talkin’ an’ that there terr’ble noise outside, an’ I can’t find—”

She broke off suddenly, sitting bolt upright.

“Where be the settle?” she cried, in a loud, anxious tone. “Where be the wold settle? Ye’ve never been an’ left that behind?”

Phoebe was taken aback for a moment: as a matter of fact, she had purposely left it behind, not only because it seemed to her worthless in itself, but because she thought the sight of it would conjure up those crazy notions which she was so anxious to dispel. It was all very well that her mother should dwell on the memory of Phoebe’s own departed father; she might look at his chair as much as she liked, and accomplish a bit of darning for the family, under the impression it was for him; but it was quite a different matter to go on in such a foolish way about a man who had been in his grave for more than fifty years, and to whom she had been wed but for a few months. The neighbours would think Mrs Sweetapple daft indeed if she were to regale them with such tales as she had recently related to her daughter.

“Where be the settle?” repeated Lizzie, with a shrill cry.

“There, don’t ye take on,” said Phoebe soothingly; “there wasn’t room for’t in the cart, d’ye see, an’ us’ll have to send to fetch it. ’Tis so heavy—the poor harse couldn’t ha’ dragged it so far wi’ so many other things.”

“It must be here by end of the week,” said Mrs Sweetapple. “It must be here by Sunday. It’ll be Bartlett’s week, come Sunday.”

“We’ll send for it—we’ll send for it,” exclaimed Mrs Caines. “There now, mother,” returning to an argument which she had before found efficacious, “don’t ye go for to forget as this be father’s turn. Poor father—ye didn’t ought for to forget he.”

“I don’t forget en, my dear, I don’t forget en,” said Lizzie, dropping her head upon her breast. “I do feel a bit confused—I bain’t used to childern, ye see, and—I do feel terr’ble lwonesome; I did ought to be feedin’ chicken now,” she added, half rising, and then dropping back again. “What’s become o’ the chicken, Phoebe?”

“Why, don’t ye know?” responded Phoebe, cheerfully. “Mr Foster—Keeper Foster, ye know, he did take ’em all off your hands. He’ll see to the little pheasants right enough, and he did pay money down for the chicken. I’ve got it safe for ’ee. I did tell ’ee all about that.”

“So ye did, so ye did,” murmured Lizzie. “I was forgettin’—it do seem strange to ha’ no chicken to see to. I d’ ’low father ’ull miss ’em so well as me.”

“Eh?” said Mrs Caines, staring.

“I d’ ’low father’ll miss ’em,” repeated Lizzie. “He’ll be lookin’ to go out wi’ me last thing to see how they be a-comin’ on.”

“My dear ’ooman,” exclaimed Phoebe, “you can’t go walkin’ out in the street o’ nights here, fancy or no fancy. Ye mid be runned over an’ killed straight-off.”

“Runned over!” exclaimed Lizzie. She looked about her vaguely, and then sank into silence.

Mrs Caines drew her John into the privacy of the back kitchen as soon as he appeared, and, with many shakes of the head, explained to him the state of affairs.

“Poor mother be queerer nor ever to-night. Us mustn’t lose sight of her for a minute; there’s no knowin’ what she mid do. There, she’ve been carryin’ on about takin’ father out to see the pens and about bein’ so lwonesome—lwonesome here in the town, ye know. She says the noise an’ the voices an’ all do make her feel lwonesome.”

John Caines removed his pipe in order to grin at ease, and then put it back again; he was a man of few words.

“So I was thinkin’,” continued Phoebe, “you’d best keep an eye to her while I’m gettin’ childern to bed, an’ then so soon as I do come down I’ll look after her. She’d best get early to bed herself, poor wold body, she be fair wore out.”

Caines removed his pipe again: “But what must I do if she should take a notion that I’m the wold gentleman—your father, I mean?” he enquired in some alarm.

Phoebe caught at the idea. “That wouldn’t be a bad thing at all,” said she. “I d’ ’low that ’ud keep her so quiet as anything. Jist you go an’ sit down in father’s chair an’ if she do say anything ye mid jist nod back or say a word or two—my father was never a man of much talk. I d’ ’low if anything ’ull pacify her that will, but mind you don’t let her take up wi’ any notion o’ gettin’ out o’ door. Here, wait a minute, I’ll come wi’ ye.”

She ran upstairs, presently returning with two or three socks, and preceding John to the kitchen, held her mother in play while he seated himself in old Sweetapple’s chair.

“Here, mother,” she cried, “here be some socks what want mendin’ awful bad. See, I’ll light lamp an’ set it behind ye. They be father’s socks, ye know—Sweetapple’s socks.”

Lizzie’s face lit up. “Ah, sure,” she replied, “Sweet-apple’s socks—this ’ere be Sweetapple’s week.”

She endeavoured to look past Phoebe towards the chair, but her daughter’s portly figure blocked the way.

“Here be the needle, look-see, an’ here be the mendin’. The socks be terr’ble broke at heel, bain’t they?”

Turning towards the light the old woman threaded the needle, and Phoebe taking advantage of the opportunity thus created, stepped towards her husband:—

“Don’t ye offer to talk to her,” she whispered, “without she speaks first.”

He nodded in reply, and going towards the window she pulled down the blind and jerked the curtains across. As she left the room she paused to gaze at the two; John was leaning back in his chair, placidly smoking, and Lizzie, who did not seem to perceive his presence, was intent on her work.

Some minutes after her departure he bent forward and tapped his pipe upon the hob, and his mother-in-law looked up, gazing towards him through the semi-darkness with a pleasant smile.

“Ye’ve got your baccy pouch handy, Sweetapple, haven’t ye?” said she.

John nodded, and she dropped her eyes on her work again.

Presently a heavy waggon went lumbering past without, and Lizzie looked up again.

“Wind blows hard,” she said. “D’ye think there’s a starm coming?”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” murmured John, indistinctly. Lizzie picked up her sock once more, but presently paused.

“I’m not sure if I covered the pens,” she said. “Shall us go out an’ cover the pens, Sweetapple?”

John stared in alarm. What was he to do now? Phoebe had not given him any instructions as to what he should say if her mother suggested going out to see to the pens.

“They young pheasants,” went on Lizzie, talking rapidly to herself, “they be terr’ble nesh. If a heavy starm of rain was to come on they mid all be dead in the marnin’. Where be the lantern?”

She rose hurriedly, looking round her with a startled air. John rose too, thoroughly frightened.

“Missis!” he shouted, “Phoebe! come down this minute! Here be the old lady a-wantin’ to go out!”

Phoebe hurried down with all speed, finding her husband planted with his back against the door for safety’s sake, while Lizzie, also standing, was staring at him piteously.

“Sweetapple!” she gasped, “Richard—what be gone wi’ Richard? I can’t think where I can be! What’s this strange place—and who’s this man?”

“Why ’tis John, mother. Don’t ye know John? You be here in our house. You’ve a-come to bide along o’ we. Don’t ye mind—Squire settled it.”

“Squire?” echoed Lizzie. “Ees, I mind it now. I mind it.”

She came back to her chair without another word, and said no more until her daughter presently took her up to bed.

“I don’t know as we’ve done so very well to toll mother here,” remarked Phoebe, when she came down again. “She do seem to be frettin’ quite sensible by times, an’ at others she’ll carry on wi’ nonsense same as ye heard.”

“I don’t think ’tis such a very good notion, to go playin’ games wi’ her,” responded John. “I’ll not do it no more. I couldn’t think what was comin’ next.”

Lizzie seemed comparatively tranquil on the morrow, however, though she had slept but ill and was very low in spirits. She looked at the children with the same bewildered air as on the previous day, and started at the noises in the street, but she made no complaint, except once when her daughter asked her to repeat some phrase which she had murmured to herself.

“I only said there don’t seem to be no birds here,” said Mrs Sweetapple, half apologetically. “It do feel lwonesome wi’out no birds.”

“Ye don’t look for birds in a town, do ye?” retorted Phoebe, sharply.

“Of course not,” agreed her mother. “I’m not used to towns.”

Towards evening she became restless again, and Mrs Caines despatched her family to bed earlier than usual in order that she might keep guard herself; her lord and master found it more convenient to keep out of the way.

“Father’s chair” was duly set forth, and Mrs Sweetapple sat and watched it, making an occasional remark; whenever these disjointed phrases were of a dangerous tendency Phoebe took care to recall her mother to the sense of her actual situation.

No catastrophe occurred that evening therefore, and as the days passed Mrs Sweetapple seemed gradually to accustom herself to her surroundings; towards the end of the week, indeed, she became as silent during the evening hours as since her arrival at Branston she had proved herself throughout the day.

When Sunday came, however, all was different. She went to church in the morning, and behaved as well as even her daughter could wish; she seemed pleased and interested, and as much excited as a child. She had not been to church for many years, and all was new to her.

The unwonted exertion tired her, and she was even more quiet than usual all that afternoon, dozing in her chair for the most part. Towards evening, however, she woke up with a start.

“What’s gone wi’ the settle?” she cried. “Wherever be the settle? Bartlett ’ull be here in a minute an’ he’ll not ha’ nowheres to sit.”

The children began to giggle, and even John could not repress a smile. Before the perplexed Phoebe had time to formulate any soothing rejoinder, Lizzie started from her chair.

“I’m fair dathered among ye,” she cried out. “Where be the settle, I say? The settle what my father did make wi’ his own hands and what poor Bartlett did always sit on. I’ll not be robbed on’t.”

“Robbed! Dear, to be sure, sich a notion! Who’d ever go for to steal such a thing. We did leave it in the wood, don’t ye mind? ’Tisn’t worth shiftin’—there, I’d ha’ thought ye’d ha’ forgot about it by now.”

“Nay, I’ve not forgot—an’ Bartlett, he’ve not forgot, I’ll go warrant. He’ll be that vexed when he do come. There, Phoebe, I never thought you’d go for to play I sich a trick. You did promise I sure as anything, I should have it by the week-end, and here be Sunday, an’ Bartlett ’ull be comin’, an’ he’ll not find it ready.”

“Well, ye shall have it to-morrow, we’ll send for it sartin sure to-morrow. Ha’ done, childern (in a fierce aside to the youngsters), I’ll not ha’ ye makin’ a mock o’ your grammer. Stop that, or I’ll gie ye summat as ’ull make ye laugh wrong way round. There, mother, ye’d best come upstairs and get to bed. ’Twill make to-morrow come all the sooner. An’ I’ll see en fetch the settle by then.”

“But Bartlett ’ull be comin’,” murmured poor Lizzie, who was shaken with the pitiful dry sobs of the old. “He’ll come an’ he’ll not find I here, an’ he’ll not find settle here.”

“Nay now, mother, nay now. He’ll not come—he could never find his way to our place. These houses warn’t built in Bartlett’s time. Why so like as not,” she continued soothingly, struck by a sudden inspiration, “as like as not he’s waitin’ for ye down in the wood—at the wold place, ye know. Don’t ye think so, John?”

“Ees,” said John, controlling his features, “’Tis better nor likely he’m waitin’ there.”

“Bidin’ there all alone,” sighed Lizzie. “The house be empty now, and everything be changed. But the settle’s there.”

“Ees, the settle’s there,” responded Mrs Caines briskly. “An’ he’ll set on’t jest so comfortable as can be. Now you come along o’ me, mother, an’ get to bed. Don’t you bother yourself no more about Bartlett—he’s all right.”

Mrs Sweetapple made no further objection, but went upstairs quietly enough, suffering her daughter to undress her, and getting into bed in obedience to her command.

When Alice, the eldest grandchild, who shared her room, came up, she thought the old woman was asleep. But Lizzie was not asleep. She lay there very wide-awake on the contrary, forcing herself to keep quiet with difficulty, until the family should have retired to rest.

At last the house was absolutely still: a duet of snores from the neighbouring room announced that Mr and Mrs Caines were sunk in slumber; but Lizzie lay motionless for an hour or so longer; until, in fact, she had heard the church clock strike twelve, and had noted the extinguishing of the street lamp opposite her window.

Even then she lay still for a while longer, until the lamplighter’s steps had died away, and the little town itself, which had ever seemed to her so noisy, was wrapped in unbroken silence.

Then, stealing noiselessly from the bed, she began to put on her clothes with as much haste as the necessity for caution would admit of. The moonlight streamed in through the uncurtained window, and she could find her way with ease about the little room. The bandbox containing her bonnet was here, on top of the chest of drawers, her cloak hung on one of the pegs beside it; here were her boots, but she would not put them on until she found herself safely in the street.

Out of the room she crept, and down the narrow stairs; John and Phoebe snoring unbrokenly on. Here was the door—the back door—oh, what a noise the bolt made in shooting back! She paused breathless, but no sound ensued, either of a hurried foot upon the stair, or of an alarmed cry. With a gasp of relief Lizzie crept out into the night. Sitting down upon the doorstep she donned her boots, the clock striking one just as the operation was completed.

One! How late it was! Would Bartlett be tired of waiting? Would he have gone before she reached home?

Down the hill she went, as fast as she could, and then across the market place. How quiet all the houses looked as they stood thus with shuttered windows and roofs shining in the moonlight. Now over the bridge and under the chestnut trees, the cool breath from the river catching her heated face, the delicious fragrance of the half-opened leaf buds filling her nostrils.

Here was the turn now, and here the long, long hill. Bartlett and she had trodden it once together when they had come back from that famous outing to Shroton Fair. They had got out of the waggon which had given them a friendly lift, just at the bridge, and had walked home together in the moonlight. She had hung on to Bartlett’s arm, and he had talked courting-talk all the way, just as when they were lovers.

The old woman smiled to herself as she tottered onwards. It had been moonlight then and it was moonlight now, and she was going to meet Bartlett. “He’ll wait, Bartlett ’ull wait,” she said to herself. “He’ll not disapp’int I.”

But, dear to be sure, that was a very long hill, and Lizzie was quite exhausted when she reached the top. She paused, gasping, while she surveyed the prospect before her. There were the woods before her on her right, the fir-trees sending out spicy scents which might have refreshed her had she been less anxious to get on; on her left the fields sloped away behind the hedge. They were asleep, too, fields and hedge, like the houses in the town; nobody was awake but Lizzie and poor Bartlett, waiting yonder, in the empty house.

But that dreary white road, how long it was? First a dip down and then a climb up—a long tedious climb, and the corner round which she must turn so far away that it was out of sight; and even when gained there was still more road, long and straight and weary, before she could reach the short cut which led across the fields to her own wood. While she considered the greatness of the distance and the lateness of the hour Lizzie became quite frightened, and wishing to make the most of the downward incline, she set off at a kind of hobbling run. Then, all of a sudden, she never quite knew how, something hit her in the face; her whole frame jarred through and through; stretching out her hand she groped about her blindly for she could not see, and felt grass and a tuft of weeds: it must have been the ground which had risen up to buffet her. But even while turning over this new idea in her mind she lost consciousness.

* * *

“Hullo, Mrs Sweetapple!”

Lizzie opened her eyes and smiled vaguely; somebody had raised her head and was dusting her face with a cotton handkerchief: Lizzie sat upright, feeling still dizzy, but happy and hopeful. She had had dreams—curiously pleasant dreams—and was at first astonished at not finding herself in her bed; but presently remembered. Then a spasm of anguish crossed her face. The moon was set, the gray light of dawn shone on her companion’s face and showed forth the ghostly world about her. Would Bartlett still be there?

“I couldn’t think whatever it was,” continued the man. “Me an’ Jinny was a-joggin’ along so quiet as anything, wi’ our load, when I see’d summat a-lyin’ aside o’ the road. First I thought ’twas a bundle, then I see’d ’twas a ’ooman, an’ then I turned ye over an’ says I: ‘’Tis Mrs Sweetapple.’ You’ve a-had a bit of a tumble, haven’t ye? Ye did seem stunned-like when I did pick ye up.”

Lizzie, looking at him vaguely, supposed she must have catched her foot in something.

“Whatever be you a-doin’ out-o’-door at this time o’ marnin’?”

Lizzie collected her scattered thoughts, and resolved to make the most of this unexpected opportunity. This was Jim Frizzle, the corn-merchant’s man, who had so often driven past her house, with corn for the pheasantry and forage for the keeper’s pony, and who had even now and then halted at her own door, to deposit a bundle or two of straw for her private use.

“Be you—be you goin’ up—along our way?”

“’Ees, I be a-takin’ a truss or two o’ hay to Keeper Foster’s, an’ a sack o’ Injun carn. There’s lots o’ room in my cart; would ye like a lift?”

“Thank ye kindly, Mr Frizzle, I would indeed. It be a good thought; I be jist about tired.”

“Well, you’m afoot early. What brings ye out at this time o’ marnin’?”

Lizzie considered.

“Well, ’tis nice an’ cool,” she said falteringly. She was learning to be cunning. People looked so strange and spoke so sharp when she told her secrets that she was now resolved to keep them to herself. If she were to let on to Jim Frizzle about Bartlett he might, as like as not, go and send Phoebe after her.

Jim let down the tail-board of the cart, and lifted her in.

“Now you’m all right,” he said, as she sank down between the trusses of hay. “You’ll be so snug as anything there. You’m a wonderful active body for your years, I’ll say that. I heerd ye’d shifted,” he continued, after a pause, “but I s’pose that bain’t true.”

Lizzie considered again.

“I’ve been a-biding wi’ my darter for a while,” she returned presently, “jist for a while—I’m goin’ back now.”

Jim jerked the reins, and lit his pipe, and they proceeded on their way in silence, Lizzie dozing now and then, and waking with a start. Their journey took a considerable time, for Frizzle could not avail himself of the short cut across the field and was obliged to proceed by road, approaching the wood at length by a narrow green lane.

Lizzie opened her eyes wide when they turned into this lane, and raised herself a little, gazing eagerly towards the longed-for goal.

The sun was up now, and all the fresh and dewy April world rejoicing. The grey-green fringes of the larches swung in the breeze, busy birds fluttered from bough to bough, sending forth ecstatic little notes; a rabbit scudded across the path just as the cart entered the wood; Lizzie clapped her hands and laughed. Jim turned round on his seat, and gazed at her in surprise.

“What be that for?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” answered Lizzie, abashed; “’twas seein’ the rabbit, I think. Did ye notice the rabbit, how he did kick up his little feet and whisk his little tail?”

“Most rabbits does that,” commented Jim.

On they went, and now the cottage came in sight, the desolate cottage with its smokeless chimney and shuttered windows.

“Why it be all shut up,” exclaimed Frizzle, as he stopped before the closed door. “There b’ain’t nobody about, nor yet nothin’ stirrin’.”

He gazed towards the empty kennels and the piled up heaps of pens which the keeper had not yet found time to remove. But Lizzie did not heed him; she had risen to her feet and was endeavouring to descend from the cart.

“Here, bide a bit, ’ooman, bide a bit. Ye can’t get down by yourself. Wait till I help ye.”

He let down the tail-board and assisted her to alight, and Lizzie, staggering towards the door, beat upon it with her open palm.

“Oh, I must get in—I must get in,” she cried. “I forgot about door bein’ locked! Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! He’ll be gone!”

“There, there, that’s a job that’s easy managed,” responded Jim, and, applying his vigorous shoulder to the door, he sent it swinging inwards on its hinge.

Peering curiously in he saw a dismantled little room, dark, save for the shafts of light which pierced their way through the chinks of the shutters and down the chimney to the fireless grate, and dismantled, save for a clumsy old oak settle which stood near the hearth. But to his surprise Lizzie uttered a cry of rapture, and tottered forward into the room.

“I knowed I’d find ye waitin’!” she exclaimed.

* * *

“I think I’d best look in again on my way back,” said Jim, as he clambered into his cart again after depositing his load at the keeper’s. “I’d no notion the old body was so childish as that. I never thought someway she’d rid house altogether—”

“Oh, she’ve shifted for good,” interrupted Keeper Foster. “Her darter came and carried her off, and none too soon either. There’d ha’ been some mischance so sure as anything.”

“Well, I thought it a bit queer to find her out on the road so early. She’d had a tumble too, mind ye, one side of her face was all bruised. But ’twasn’t till I heerd her call out, ‘I knowed I’d find ye waitin’,’ in the empty room, that I knowed for certain she’d gone silly.”

“You must take her home—along wi’ ye,” said the keeper. “It’s not safe to leave her, and Mrs Caines ’ll be in an awful state. Here, I’ll come with ye, and we’ll persuade her between us.”

He got into the cart too, and they drove together to Lizzie’s cottage. The door stood open as before, and the room was very still. Lizzie was crouching in a corner of the settle, with her hands outstretched, and a smile upon her face. In the green wood without the boughs were waving, and the birds were singing. “Lwonesome Lizzie” was lonesome no more: she had found Friend Death waiting for her in the deserted house, in the guise of the husband of her youth.