A Son of Hagar: A Romance of Our Time. Hall Sir Caine
it again, mistress," he said.
The parson had thrown off his coat, and was pushing away his long boots with the boot-jack.
"And how's Mr. Bonnithorne this rusty weather? Wait, Peter, give me the slippers out of the big parcel. I got Randal Alston to cut down my old boots into clock sides, and make me slippers out of the feet. Only sixpence, and see what a cozy pair. Thank you, Peter. So you're well, Mr. Bonnithorne. Odd, you say? Well, it is, considering the world of folk who are badly these murky days."
Peter lifted the boots and fixed them dexterously under the stump of his abridged member. The tea and coffee he deposited in his trousers' pockets, and the sugar he carried in his hand.
"There'll be never no living with him," he muttered in Greta's ear as he passed out. "Don't know as I mind his going to plow – that's a job for a man with two hands – but the like o' this isn't no master's wark."
"Dear me!" exclaimed the parson, who was examining his easy-chair preparatory to sitting in it, "a new cushion – and a bag on the wall for my specs – and a shelf for my pipes – and a – a – what do you call this?"
"An antimacassar, Mr. Christian," the lawyer said.
"I wondered was he ever going to see any difference," said Greta, with dancing eyes.
"Dear me, and red curtains on the windows, and a clean print counterpane on the settle – "
"A chintz – a chintz," interposed Greta, with a mock whimper.
"And the old rosewood clock in the corner as bright as a looking-glass, and the big oak cabinet all shiny with oil – "
"Varnish, sir, varnish."
"And all the carvings on it as fresh as a new pin – St. Peter with his great key, and the rich man with his money-bag trying to defy the fiery furnace."
"Didn't I say you would scarcely know your own house when you came home again?" said Greta.
She was busying herself at spreading the cloth on the round table and laying the parson's supper.
Parson Christian was revolving on his slippered toes, his eyes full of child-like amazement, and a maturer twinkle of knowingness lurking in that corner of his aged orbs that was not directly under the fire of the girl's sharp, delighted gaze.
"Deary me, have you a young lady at home, Mr. Bonnithorne?"
"You know I am a bachelor, Mr. Christian," said the lawyer, demurely.
"So am I – so am I. I never knew any better – not until our old friend Mrs. Lowther died and left me to take charge of her daughter."
"Mother should have asked me to take charge of Mr. Christian, shouldn't she, Mr. Bonnithorne?" said Greta, with roguish eyes.
"Well, there's something in that," said the parson, with a laugh. "Peter was getting old and a bit rusty in the hinges, you know, and we were likely to turn out a pair of old crows fit for nothing but to scare good Christians from the district. But Greta came to the musty old house, with its dust and its cobwebs, and its two old human spiders, like a slant of sunlight on a muggy day. Here's supper – draw up your chair, Mr. Bonnithorne, and welcome. It's my favorite dish – she knows it – barley broth and a sheep's head, with boiled potatoes and mashed turnips. Draw up your chair – but where's the pot of ale, Greta?"
"Peter! Peter!"
The other spider presently appeared, carrying a quart jug with a little mountain of froth – a crater bubbling over and down the sides.
"Been delving for potatoes to-day, Peter?" said the parson.
Peter answered with a grumpy nod of his big head.
"How many bushels?"
"Maybe a matter of twelve," muttered Peter, shambling out.
Then the parson and his guest fell to.
"You're a happy man, Mr. Christian," said Mr. Bonnithorne, as Greta left the room on some domestic errand.
Parson Christian shook his head.
"No call for grace," he said, "with all the luxuries of life thrown into one's lap – that's the worst of living such a happy life. No trials, no cross – nothing to say but 'Soul, take thine ease' – and that's bad when you think of it… Have some sheep's head, Mr. Bonnithorne; you've not got any tongue – here's a nice sweet bit."
"Thank you, Mr. Christian. I came round to pay the ten shillings for Joseph Parkinson's funeral sermon last Sunday sennight, and the one pound two half-yearly allowance from the James Bolton charity for poor clergy-men."
"Well, well! they may well say it never rains but it pours," said the parson. "I called at Henry Walmsley's and Robert Atkinson's on my way home from the crossroads, and they both paid me their Martinmas quarterage – Henry five shillings, and Robert seven shillings – and when I dropped in on Randal Alston to pay for the welting and soling of my shoes he said they would come to one and sixpence, but that he owed me one and seven-pence for veal that Peter sold him, so he paid me a penny, and we are clear from the beginning of the world to this day."
"I also wanted to speak about our young friend Greta," said Mr. Bonnithorne, softly. "I suppose you are reconciled to losing her?"
"Losing her? – Greta!" said the parson, laying down his knife. Then smiling, "Oh, you mean when Paul takes her – of course, of course – only the marriage will not be yet awhile – he said so himself."
"Marriage with Paul – no," said Mr. Bonnithorne, clearing his throat and looking grave.
Parson Christian glanced into the lawyer's face uneasily and lapsed into silence.
"Mr. Christian, you were left guardian of Greta Lowther by our dear friend, her mother. It becomes your duty to see that she does the best for her future welfare and happiness."
"Surely, surely!" said the parson.
"You are an old man, Mr. Christian, and she is a young girl. When you and I are gone, Greta Lowther will still have the battle of life before her."
"Please God – please God!" said the parson, faintly.
"Isn't it well that you should see that she shall have a husband that can fight it with her side by side?"
"So she shall, so she shall – Paul is a manly fellow, and as fond of her as of his own soul – nay, as I tell him, it's idolatry and a sin before God, his love of the girl."
"You're wrong, Mr. Christian. Paul Ritson is no fit husband for Greta. He is a ruined man. Since his father's death he has allowed the Ghyll to go to wreck. It is mortgaged to the last blade of grass. I know it."
Parson Christian shifted his chair from the table and gazed into the fire with bewildered eyes.
"I knew he was in trouble," he said, "but I didn't guess that things wore so grave a look."
"Don't you see that he is shattered in mind as well as purse?" said the lawyer.
"No, no; I can't say that I do see that. He's a little absent sometimes, but that's all. When I talk of Matthew Henry and discuss his commentaries, or recite the story of dear Adam Clarke, he is a little – just a little forgetful – that's all – yes, that is all."
"Compared with his brother – what a difference!" said Mr. Bonnithorne.
"Well, there is a difference," said the parson.
"Such spirit, such intelligence – he'll be the richest man in Cumberland one of these days. He has bought up a royalty that is sweating ore, and now he is laying down pumping engines and putting up smelting-houses, and he is getting standing orders to fix a line of railway for the ore he is fetching up."
"And where did the money come from?" asked the parson; "the money to begin?"
Mr. Bonnithorne glanced up sharply.
"It was his share of his father's personalty."
"A big tree from such a little acorn," said the parson, meditatively, "and quick growth, too."
"There's no saying what intelligence and enterprise will not do in this world, Mr.