The Son of His Father. Mrs. Oliphant
as to do a good turn to a mate o’ mine, as was with me, I needn’t say where. Maybe ye may know, lady, as it can be seen you’re a charitable lady. Maybe you can tell where I’ll find a Missis May——’
Mrs. Sandford’s little outline quivered for a moment, but her face did not change. She shook her head.
‘There is nobody,’ she said, ‘of that name in this village. I know all the people, as you say. I think there was a woman called May about here a number of years ago, but she has removed, and where she has gone I can’t say.’
‘Ah, that’s like enough,’ said the man; ‘it’s a long time, and maybe she might not want the folks belonging to her to know.’
‘Was it news you were bringing her?’ Mrs. Sandford said. ‘That was very kind of you—but perhaps she would rather you didn’t tell her affairs to everybody, and that her husband was——’
‘I didn’t say nothing about her ’usband,’ said the man, quickly.
‘Oh! was it her son then, poor creature? for that is still worse,’ the old lady said.
He looked at her keenly with the instinct of one who, deceiving himself, has a constant fear of being deceived; but to see the little Lady Bountiful of the village standing there with her basket, her fresh face as fresh as a child’s, her limpid eyes looking at him with an air of pity yet disapproval, and to imagine that she was taking him in was impossible even to a soul accustomed to consider falsehood the common-place of existence.
‘It was her ’usband,’ he said, sullenly, ‘and I don’t care much if she liked it or not. She oughter like it if she didn’t, for it was news of him I was bringing, and I could tell her all about him—being mates for a matter of seven years, him and me.’
‘Poor woman!’ Mrs. Sandford said. ‘But I can’t tell you where she has gone, only that she’s not here.’
‘You wouldn’t deceive a poor fellow, lady? I’ve ’ad a long tramp, and that beggar there, though it’s nothing but a public he keeps—— him——’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs. Sandford, ‘don’t swear! What good can that do you? Indeed, I am not deceiving you. I’m very sorry for you. I will give you something to pay your fare to the town. You will be better off there than here.’
‘It’s not much of a town as far as I’ve heard,’ he said, ‘and I ain’t ’ad no breakfast. And my ’eart’s set on doing my duty by my mate. I’ll go from door to door but I’ll find that woman, blast her. She’s a proud ’un, I know, and thinks herself a lady. I’ll have it out with her, I will, afore I go.’
‘In that case,’ said Mrs. Sandford, ‘I can’t give you the money which I offered you: and I meant to give you something for your breakfast too—and I must speak to the constable, for we cannot have you about the village, Mr.——I don’t know what your name is. To have you here frightening all the poor people would never do.’
She gave him a lofty nod of her little head, and turned away: but the man, after all, was not willing to relinquish present advantage for problematical good. He made a stride after her, which frightened her very much, and took away all her pretty colour, but not the courage in her heart.
‘Lady,’ he said, ‘if you tell me on your honour that woman ain’t here—them folks all said so, but I didn’t believe ’em: and if you’ll give me—say ten shillin’—over and above the fare, as you promised—— ’
A gleam of eagerness came into Mrs. Sandford’s eyes; but she controlled herself.
‘I can assure you,’ she said, ‘the woman is not here.’
She had grown quite pale, and, though she smiled still, her countenance was drawn with terror, perhaps, or some other feeling.
‘You’re frightened of me, lady,’ the man said, ‘but you hain’t got no cause. I’m rough enough, but a lady as speaks kind and don’t try to bully a poor fellow—or go talking about the police—and besides I couldn’t do nothin’ to you. The men would be on me afore we could say Jack—— And I’m pretty sure as it’s the truth, and May’s wife ain’t here. She’s a proud one, she is. She’s maybe gone out of the country, or changed her name, or summat. Gi’ me ten shillin’ and I’ll go away.’
‘You had better go to the clergyman,’ said Mrs. Sandford.
‘Gi’ me ten shillin’,’ said the man.
‘Oh, perhaps I am doing what is wrong; perhaps I ought to speak to the constable. I’m not a person with any authority, and why should I interfere?’
‘Gi’ me ten shillin’,’ he repeated, coming close to her, holding out his hand.
‘Will you go away if I do? Perhaps you had better see the clergyman. I’ve no right to interpose to send you away. Will you go if I do?’
He nodded, watching her trembling hands as she took out her purse and felt in it, pressing very close to her, rubbing against her silk gown with his rough dress; and, as it happened by ill-luck, Mrs. Sandford had but a sovereign in her purse. When he saw it he put his hand upon hers suddenly, and crushed the little fingers together which held the golden coin.
‘Gi’ me that,’ he said, with his hot breath in her face, ‘gi’ me that, or afore any o’ them can get to ye I’ll knock you down; and they can’t do anything as bad to me.’
The little old lady stood enveloped in his big shadow, with his hairy, villainous face close by hers. She did not shrink, nor scream, nor faint, but stood up, deadly pale, with her limpid eyes fixed upon him.
‘I am not afraid of you,’ she said, with a little gasp. ‘Will you keep your word and go away?’
Some sentiment, unknown and inexplainable, came into the ruffian’s heart. He loosed his grip of the delicate little hand that felt like nothing in his grasp, which he could have crushed to a jelly: and indeed he had nearly done so. He said, ‘I will; I’ll keep my word,’ in a deep growling bass voice.
It was all that Mrs. Sandford could do to unclasp the fingers he had gripped, and to keep from crying with the pain. She dropped the sovereign into his hand.
‘Now go,’ she said.
‘You are game,’ he cried, with a sort of admiration, looking at her rather than the sovereign, though his hand closed upon that with the eagerness of a famished beast upon a bone. ‘I never saw one as was more game.’
She made a gesture of dismissal with her cramped fingers.
‘Oh, go, go—and God forgive you. And oh! try to get honest work, and live decent—and not fall into trouble again.’
‘Good-bye, lady,’ he said; then coming back a step—‘I’m sorry I hurt you.’
She waved to him to go away. The man still lingered a moment, putting up his hand to his cap, then turned, and, slouching, with his shoulders up to his ears, took the way across the corner of the moor to the railway-station, which was a mile off or more.
Mrs. Sandford turned to go back to her house. She was so pale that when she came near the door of the shop Mrs. Box came running out to her in alarm.
‘Oh, Mrs. Sandford, come in, ma’am; come in and rest a bit. You’ve not a bit of colour on your cheeks—you that have such a fine complexion. You’re just dead with fright, and I don’t wonder at it. How did he dare to speak to you, the villain? and shook your nerves, poor dear, so that I see you can’t speak.’
‘Oh! yes, I can speak,’ said the old lady. Her knees were knocking under her, her whole little person in a tremble. ‘I was glad to speak to him, poor creature. He wanted some one that used to live here by. Perhaps a person like that, who does really wicked things, may not be worse, in the sight of God, than many a man who makes a fair show to the world.’
She said this with