A year had passed since the woodman had been shot. Dicky Duck was in the cottage; Jessie had not made his life more cheerful. The mouth that was formerly puckered with smiles was now drawn and compressed. It really looked as though Dicky were on the edge of a cry rather than on the brim of a laugh.
There is a child’s toy that represents a number of feathery birds on a platform on wheels. When the little thing is thrust or drawn along, a quill is set in motion that strikes fine wires and catgut. The little birds are on the quiver, and then ensues a twittering and chirping as though they were all singing. Dicky’s heart had been like this hitherto; anyone could set it in motion, and produce a twittering and chirping that provoked laughter. But the strings and wires must have been broken or relaxed, or the quill tongue out of order, for now, either no merry sound at all issued from him, or only a plaintive little tweet! tweet! such as a shivering finch gives forth when hail and frost have stripped the trees and made the face of the land desolate. The spring had gone out of the little man’s walk, the straightness from his back, the sparkle from his eye, the whistle from his lips.
Poor little Dicky Duck! What had altered him? Not the getting of regular employ with the weight of responsibility for the young trees. There was nothing else to account for it but his marriage. Jessie made no attempt to curb her tongue. She cast jibes at him, scorned him for his smallness of stature, turned contrary when he was merry, distorted his funny little sayings and gave them an ill-natured turn, as though they were thrusts aimed at her, when nothing was further from his thoughts than to break a lance with his wife. His light-heartedness was made a cause of reproof; his amiability was treated as callousness. Every day some scornful allusion was made to the ridiculous manner in which he had caught Long Jaques, and Dicky heartily wished he had let Long Jaques escape.
Moth was a disappointed woman, and her disappointment had soured her. Did she love Dicky? Who can say? Love expresses itself in various ways. Love in some is tender, considerate, pitiful. In others it is exacting and cruel. Yes, there is a fashion of love that is ashamed to own itself, but wraps itself up in hardness and defiance. There is a story of a princess who was clothed in gold, but over the gold brocade she drew a vesture of horsehair and hog’s skin. Everyone thought she was a wild woman, and those who came near her were scratched; but one day, through a rift in the coarse outer covering, the gleam of the gold shot, and then it was seen that she was a princess in disguise. Was there an under-vesture of cloth of gold, the fine gold of true love, in Jessie? If so she covered it up and hid it, chief of all from her husband, lest he should surmise its existence.
‘It is a year to-night since your father died,’ said Dick, ‘and just about eight months since we were married.’
‘Ah! I have cause to know that; afflictions never come singly. First I lost my father, then I got you.’
‘I’ve a mind to stay at home to-night, and not leave you to your sorrowful thoughts, Moth.’
‘I do not want you. Go again if you like to the “Blue Boar.” You seem to be most at home there.’
‘Well,’ said Dicky, ‘I can’t say that, exactly, but, you see, I meet them old friends, and they ain’t sharp on me, but uncommon kind. And then, Moth, I haven’t yet paid for the carriage and pair, and I must keep the landlord in good humour, lest he press for payment. That carriage and pair do weigh on me like lead.’
But he hesitated whether to go or not. He waited for a word from her to make him stay.
‘Moth,’ said he, ‘I shall go round by Greenhythe. I must fetch a bundle of tarred cord for the trees.’
He would have given a year of his life—a leap-year, even, which has a day extra—for a good word from her, but none came. Then he went away, with a heavy tread. She heard his steps; how they dragged!—there was no elasticity in them now.
After he was gone, it suddenly occurred to her that since the rain of the preceding night a portion of the Knife Back had given way. It would be dangerous to cross it in the dark. Would Dicky venture on this when he returned from the ‘Blue Boar’? In her sullen mood she muttered, ‘If he does it will serve him right for going away from me—on such a night as this.’ But she did not mean what she said, not in the depth of her heart; and because she did not mean it, without staying to cover her head she ran out of the cottage after him, down the lane, to give the caution. She had delayed too long before starting in pursuit, for he was not in the lane. She came out on the road, and almost ran among some men who stood there in a cluster. Their heads were turned in an opposite direction, and they did not observe her; but she recognised them, and to escape being seen slipped into the mouth of the old kiln. She did not wish to be caught running after her husband, and running after him with nothing over her head.
The men were Mr Parkinson, Sam Underwood, Joseph Ruddle, and Ben Polson. Dusk had fallen, and in the kilnmouth all was dark. Jessie heard the voices approach it, and as once before, so now she drew back into the depths.
‘I say,’ said Mr Parkinson, ‘it is warmer here out of the east wind. Are any of you going to the “Blue Boar” to-night? There’s Dicky Duck trotting off there, not knowing what is in store for him.’
‘What is in store for him?’ asked the carpenter.
‘Don’t you know, Ruddle? Well, I dare say you do not. It has been kept quiet that the surprise may be complete. Some of us who were with him this day last year, when he took that scoundrel Jaques, also the Squire and some others, have clubbed together to make him a testimonial—a beautiful clock, with a silver plate let in on the stand, engraved with a few lines, to show it is a mark of esteem for his pluck and readiness. He has been told to come to the “Blue Boar” to-night, but has no notion that the Squire will be there to present him with the testimonial, and that he’ll be the lion of the evening. I am going.’
‘I fancy something ought to accompany the clock,’ said Underwood. ‘The poor little chap is under water with the extravagance of that fool of a wife of his, who would have a grand wedding, with a carriage and pair. I’ve heard the host of the“”Boar” say that was never paid for, and he believes the reason why Dick is so down-hearted now is because he is in debt.’
‘I think we’re all of one mind,’ said Ben Polson, ‘that we owe him something—we who’ve not been asked to subscribe to a testimonial of which nobody told us anything. First, because we all respect the little man; though small in body he is big in heart. Second, because he tackled what was worse than Long Jaques—the Dragon of Darenth.’
‘The Dragon of Darenth has been too much for him,’ said the carpenter. ‘It is my opinion that it is because of her he is so altered in looks and spirits, not because he is in debt. Lord! we had a lucky escape, all of us.’
‘I say, mates,’ spoke Sam Underwood, ‘shall we send the cap round here in the kiln to raise a little sum among us to pay for the coach and pair and the white favours? Mr Parkinson has already subscribed to the testimonial.’
‘But my thankfulness at my escape from the Dragon is not exhausted. I insist on adding my mite. Take my hat and pass it round.’
Jessie heard the clink of coin. Her face was on fire. She nearly choked with anger. Her heart beat so furiously that it was a wonder it did not reveal her presence.
‘I must tell you a joke,’ said Mr Parkinson. ‘On this night, a twelvemonth ago, Dick and I, old James Mullins, and the keepers, were in Mr Finch’s waiting to go after the poachers, and some took to running lead to find out their fortunes. What do you think Mullins ran?’
‘I’ve heard,’ said Underwood, ‘a coffin.’
‘And that is what he got. Dick ran the lead next, and he ran—a Dragon!’
There followed a burst of laughter, and a general exclamation of ‘And that he has got.’
‘There was something more he ran in lead,’ continued the Oxford man. ‘He ran two broken hearts in lead—linked together.’
‘One broken heart is accounted for already,’ said Underwood. ‘His wife has pretty nigh broke his—but the other!’
‘The other can’t be hers,’ said the carpenter. ‘For why? He is that gentle and considerate he would not say a word or do a thing to hurt her.’
‘For why?’ put in Ben of the strawberries. ‘Her heart is too hard ever to be broke.’
This elicited another burst of merriment.
Then the men went forth.
Jessie, angered, ashamed, with burning head and bounding heart, rushed out and ran up the lane to her cottage, and threw herself on her bed, with her hands over her eyes, tossing, muttering, then at length with the tears of mortification streaming between her fingers. She was no longer the Moth-Mullein, but the Dragon of Darenth. Her husband was in high esteem, and she—she was despised and disliked. What had her grand wedding, with carriage and pair, brought her? Ridicule; and the cost of the luxury was defrayed by her slighted suitors.