Windyridge Part 27

She is a thin, wasted woman, about thirty years old, I suppose, of more than average intelligence, and one of the best needlewomen I have ever seen. She does beautiful work for which she is wretchedly paid, but it serves to keep the home together. I cannot help thinking that she is suffering from some serious disease, but she herself refuses to harbour any such thought. I am very much interested in her and little Lucy, and during the summer have paid them many a visit and been cheered by the little girl's delightful prattle.

They live in a very poor house, and a most peculiar one. It is two-storeyed, but unusually narrow, and the only window in the upper room is a fixture in the roof. It really is remarkable that in a place like Windyridge so many of the windows cannot be opened, either because they were so constructed at first, or because their owners have painted and varnished them until they are glued fast.

The stones in the walls are loose in many places and the stone slabs on the roof lie about at various angles, and seem to invite the thin, tall chimney-stack--and why it should be so tall I have never been able to surmise--to fall down and send them flying. It is a mean, rickety house, not worth the cost of repair.

Inside, however, it is as clean and comfortable as any other in the village. The floor is spotless, the deal tables are white as soap and water can make them, the steel fender and fire-irons s.h.i.+ne like mirrors, and the short curtains at the window might always have come straight from the laundry.

I did not know Roger had come home when I raised the latch and entered the house, after the usual perfunctory knock, the other day, and I apologised for my unceremonious entrance with some confusion.

Roger waved his hand loftily. "Quite all right, ma'am; quite all right. Miss Terry, oblige me by getting the lady a chair."

The dog rose to its feet and with its nose and forepaws pushed a chair from the wall in the direction of the fireplace.

"Thank you, Miss Terry," remarked the man, "I am much obliged to you.

Pray be seated, ma'am."

I was interested, in spite of myself. "Yours is a very remarkable dog, Mr. Treffit," I said.

"Yes'm; very much so indeed. Miss Terry is the name I gave 'er, because she is a 'mystery.' See? Ha! ha! Very good that, eh?

Mystery--Miss Terry. Miss Terry and me, ma'am, has appeared before the n.o.bility, clergy and gentry of a dozen counties."

I expressed polite astonishment and inquired for Mrs. Treffit.

"My wife, ma'am, is upstairs in the chamber. If you want her I will send for her. Miss Terry, will you convey my respects to the missis, and ask her to step this way?" The request was accompanied by a significant gesture in the direction of the narrow staircase, and the dog, with an inclination of the head which might have been intended for a bow, bounded up the steps and returned with its mistress. Its mistress? No, I withdraw the word--with its master's wife.

She coughed a good deal as she came down, and I suggested that a short walk in the suns.h.i.+ne would do her good, but she shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Miss 'Olden, but I'm that busy I couldn't leave just now.

I was wonderin' if you'd mind comin' upstairs while I get on with my work."

"Sit down a bit, can't you?" said the man; "I want Miss Terry to show this lady some of her tricks. You're always in such a desperate hurry, you are."

"Someb'dy has to be in a 'urry," she replied, "when there's naught comin' in, an' three mouths to feed, to say nothin' of the dog, which costs nearly as much as all t' rest put together."

"You leave the dog alone," he growled; "Miss Terry brings in as much as all t' rest put together, doesn't she?"

"I say nought against her," she answered wearily; "t' dog's right enough, but she's bringin' nought in now."

She sat down, however, at my side, and Miss Terry proceeded to justify her name. She dressed herself in a queer little hobble-skirt costume, put on a hat and veil, raised a sunshade, and moved about the room in the most amusing way. She fetched a miniature bedstead, undressed and put herself to bed in a manner calculated to bring down the house every time. She removed the handkerchief (a very dirty one, by the way) from her master's pocket, sneezed, wiped her nose, and then replaced it without apparently arousing its owner's attention. She drank out of his gla.s.s, simulated intoxication, and fell into a seemingly drunken sleep, with much exaggerated snoring.

And all the time Roger Treffit stood or sat, as circ.u.mstances required, addressing the dog in the politest and most deferential terms, with the smug smile of satisfaction threatening to cut the chin entirely, from his face.

"Now, Miss Terry," he said in conclusion, "you must not overtire yourself. We are very grateful for the hentertainment you have pervided. Have the goodness to step up to the lady and say good-bye."

The dog extended a paw, and Martha and I were permitted to withdraw.

"It really is a very clever dog," I remarked, when we were alone in the prison-like bedroom.

"It's a very good dog, too," she replied; "it 'ud look after me more nor he would if he'd let it. It 'asn't a bit o' vice about it, an' I only wish I could say as much for its master."

"Why are you sitting up here in this wretched loft, where the light is so poor for such fine work?"

"To be out of his way, an' that's the truth," she replied bitterly. "I shall go down when Lucy comes in from t' school, and not afore. I've never no peace nor pleasure when he's at 'ome."

"He doesn't ill-treat you, does he?"

"No, but I cannot bear to see him all t' day through, soakin', soakin'.

He can always walk straight, however much he takes, but 'e gets that nasty by tea-time there's no bidin' in t' 'ouse with 'im. And he natters so when I cough, an' I can't help coughin'. It's nought much, an' I've got used to it, but it vexes 'im, an' he says it worries t'

dog."

"He's a brute!" I said; "anybody can see that he thinks more of his dog than of you."

"Well, you see, his dog's his business. I don't know 'at he's worse nor lots more 'at makes their business into their G.o.d, but it isn't always easy to bide. An' when I get to t' far end I answer back, an'

that makes fireworks. I wish he wor at Blackpool yet."

At that moment a loud report rang through the house, and I sprang from my seat in alarm.

"It's nothin'," said Martha; "there's nought to be frightened of. He's teachin' t' dog some new fool's trick with a pistol, but I don't believe there's a bullet in it. He nearly frightened me an' our Lucy out of our wits t' first time he did it."

I sat down again, but my heart was still beating violently. "I fear I couldn't live with such a companion," I said.

"You'd 'ave to, if you were i' my shoes," she replied. "I'm tied up to 'im, ain't I? Tell me what _you'd_ do. You couldn't get a divorce even if you'd plenty o' money, for he never bothers wi' other women.

An' t' court wouldn't give me an order, 'cos he doesn't thrash me; an'

t' vicar's wife says 'at it was for better or worse 'at I took 'im, an'

I must kill him wi' kindness. But kindness doesn't kill 'im; nought does. Oh G.o.d, if it wasn't for our Lucy I'd be glad to go where he couldn't follow."

"You won't think I am preaching, will you, dear," I said, "if I ask you if you have tried really hard to make him love you? I don't quite know what you could do, but there must be some way of reaching his heart.

And think how happy you would all be if you could change his heart and win his love."

"Miss 'Olden, there comes a time when you give up tryin', becos you fair 'aven't strength an' 'eart to go on. I've done all I could for that man. He's asked nought of me I 'aven't let 'im 'ave. I'm the mother of his child, an' I've tried to learn t' little la.s.s to be as good as she's bonny, bless her! an' I keep her as neat as I know how; an' he thinks more o' t' dog. I've worked early an' late to keep t'

'ome together, an' he's never once found it ought but tidy, for I get up afore he wakes to scrub and polish. I've gone without food to give 'im luxuries, an' he never says so much as 'Thank ye'; but he thanks t'

dog for every trick he's trained it to. I've smiled on 'im when my heart's been like lead, an' talked cheerful when it 'ud 'a done me good to cry--an' all for what? Not for curses: not for kicks. I could stand curses an' kicks when he wor i' drink, if he'd love me an' be sorry when he wor sober. No, after all I've done for 'im he just takes no notice of me. I'm his woman, not his wife, an' I'm too broken-hearted now to try any more."

One solitary tear stole down her cheek--a tiny tear, as though the fountain from which it had escaped were nearly dry; and she did not stop to wipe it away.

I bent over and kissed her. "The darkest night ends in day," I said.

"Don't lose heart or hope. I cannot preach to you, and I fear if I were in your place I should not do so well as you. I should lose my temper as well as my spirits. But don't let love die if you can help it. I suppose you loved him once?"

"Yes, I loved him once," she said.

"And you still love him?" I ventured.

"No, I don't. I neither love 'im nor 'ate 'im. But I love his child.

That's our Lucy's voice. I must be goin' down now."

CHAPTER XXV