At the refreshment stall of the junction to the new line, some time after what has been related, might be seen a young woman in black with wonderfully light hair, so light as to be nearly if not quite silver, a young woman with a beautifully delicate, pure complexion; one with an expression of sadness on her face, but with that sadness tinged with a certain sweetness, the sweetness of humility and modesty. The guards, and the young men who came to the bar, never ventured on any familiarity with her, but always treated her with deference, and addressed her as ‘Mrs Duck.’ A year passed, and then, one day between trains, when the girls were away, and only Moth was there, Sam Underwood came into the refreshment room. He looked round, saw that no one was within earshot, leaned across the counter, and said, ‘Moth!—I mean Mrs Duck—what do you say? Will you take me now? I’m well off; and we’ll have a splendid wedding and a carriage and pair.’
She shook her head.
‘My first carriage and pair is not yet paid for.’
‘Indeed—I know it is.’
‘Yes, the host of the “Blue Boar” is satisfied. But I still owe it to Dick.’
No, she would not have Sam Underwood. No, nor Joseph Ruddle, when he asked. No, nor Ben Polson, when he came for the same purpose. And when Mr Parkinson hung about the bar and asked for a glass of bitter, or a nip of cherry brandy, and looked tender things, did she encourage him to make any further advance? No, not by a sign.
On All-Hallow E’en the old head-keeper, Finch, came to look in on her at her lodging.
‘Mrs Duck,’ he said, ‘now I understand it. That lead-running was not all gammon. The second heart after all was broke—that is, all its pride and hardness gave way. The shell was broke.’
She liked to talk to Finch as to a father; he had known her from a child. She told him how troubled poor Dick had been because he had incurred debts—especially about the wedding conveyance—through her pride; and how she thought about the wrong she had done him, and grieved over it.
‘Mrs Duck—Moth,’ said he; ‘Dick was the gentlest and most forgiving creetur there ever was; what was that paper he thrust on you as he died?
‘“For a Carridge and Pear, etceterer,
Sottled?” |
What is “Etceterer”? Everything between you scored
off—sottled. He bore no grudges—not Dick!—sottled!’
THE END