CHAPTER II
THE FASTENING PENNY
The young women on the Butter-Cross looked at the new-comer with something of wonder and disdain. She was obviously not of their own class, nor fitted for the work which domestic servants are expected to perform in farm-houses. Her pale face and retiring air formed a marked contrast to their own ruddy countenances and confident demeanour. They began to whisper amongst themselves, glancing at the stranger with eyes which were not altogether friendly. She, however, took no notice of them, but stood waiting for someone to accost her. The farmers and their wives, who came into the Cross and looked about them, gazed at her curiously, but did not speak to her. The men wondered who she was, and what she did there; the women, keener in their criticism, decided that all was not well with her. Being somewhat dulled by the disappointment she had just experienced, the stranger did not perceive the effect her presence had produced. Her attitude was one of apathetic expectation; she merely waited to see if anything would happen.
After a time there advanced through the constantly-moving throng a man who paused for a moment at the foot of the steps leading to the Butter-Cross, and looked upward at the people above. He was a tall, broad-shouldered person of apparently forty years of age, dressed in a long grey driving coat which came nearly to his feet, but left a glimpse of his stout leather gaiters. His clean-shaven face was dark and full of character. His eyes were somewhat deep-set in his head, and his mouth, which was full and firm, gave the impression of a strong will that was further deepened by his square jaw and bold chin. He seemed to be of a somewhat superior class to most of the men standing by, and some of these greeted him in passing with more show of respect than they made towards their fellows.
The new-comer glanced at the crowd within the Butter-Cross without any particular sign of interest until his eye fell on the young woman who had just taken up her station there. She still stood looking out upon the throng, apparently taking little notice of what was going on around her. Her appearance showed him that she was a stranger to the place and the people, her indifference to her surroundings told him that she was not of the class of girls who usually offer themselves for domestic service in farm-houses. As she had not seen him, or betrayed no sign of having done so, he felt no compunction in continuing to gaze at her and to study her face, which seemed to him to be a singularly attractive one. Presently he mounted the steps and mixed with the throng. Some of the girls knew him and replied respectfully to his greeting. He walked in and out between them, but after a while returned to the stranger and addressed her.
"Are you looking for a situation?" he said.
The young woman started as if from a reverie and looked at her questioner. The man was regarding her intently, but with a certain kindliness in his eyes which made her reply to him with some confidence.
"I should be thankful for one, sir," she answered.
"I am wanting someone," he said, and stopped short as if not sure of what he was about to say. "Have you any experience of domestic service?" he enquired, after a pause.
A little spot of colour came into the girl's cheeks. The man noticed it quickly, and spoke again before she could answer him.
"I mean of household requirements," he said. "I don*t want servants so much as someone who could give them a sort of superintendence. Do you know anything of baking, now, or sewing?"
"I know plenty about sewing, sir."
"Ah, you've perhaps been engaged in that sort of work?"
"Yes, sir."
He looked at her curiously, tapping his boot with the ash stick which he carried in his hand, and obviously disliking to put personal questions to her. The young woman, however, found courage to relieve his embarrassment.
"I was engaged in the dressmaking business at Clothford," she said, "but my mistress failed in business, and I could not find another situation there. I heard of a place here at Sicaster, so I walked over to apply for it to-day, but it was filled up when I got here."
"You walked over from Clothford? That's a long distance on such a nasty day. Why didn't you take the train?"
"Because I couldn't afford it, sir."
"I see—I see. I'm sorry I asked that—I didn't think what I was saying. Now about this business of mine—I'm a farmer, and I have a strong servant who does all the actual work, but I want someone to see after things a little—not exactly a housekeeper, you know, but somebody that could mend and sew, and keep my rooms tidy, and see that things were as they ought to be. What do you think? Could you undertake that?"
"I think so, sir. I've kept house—and I am tidy and orderly, I believe."
"That I can see. Well, I think we might arrange. You see, I don't want a young woman such as these behind us. I want something superior—somebody that has a bit of better feeling and knows how things should be done. The setting of a table for dinner, now—could you see to that?"
"Oh yes, sir."
"And such things as choosing curtains for a parlour, now, or making linen for the house—you could manage all that, I daresay?"
"I'm sure I could, sir."
"That's what I want. My old servant—she's been with me a long time—is very good at plain cooking and at kitchen work, but of course she doesn't pretend to more. Well, now, what would you say about wages—I haven't much idea myself."
"I don't know, sir. Perhaps I ought to tell you that I was never used to—to this, until recently. But I have no friends, and my husband is—is dead—"
"Yes, yes," said the man. "Don't cry—it comes to all of us—but it's hard, no doubt."
"And so I had to earn my own living after that," said the young woman, making a resolute attempt to keep back her tears, "and dressmaking was all that I could do, and lately—"
"I understand. Well, now, what would you say to your board and lodging and fifteen pounds a year? That was what I reckoned to pay for the service I want."
"I should be glad of it, sir, for I am practically destitute. I would do my best to earn it."
"Well, I’m sure you would. Perhaps you could give me the name of the dressmaker you worked for in Clothford for a reference. It's the usual thing to do so, though I suppose it's just a form.”
"Oh, yes, sir. It was Mrs. Feather, in Widegate—though, of course, the shop is closed now."
"I know the name. Well, now, we'll call our bargain settled then, and I hope you'll try to do what I want. My old servant's a little bit touchy, but I daresay you won't disagree with her. Now, what's your name?"
"Elisabeth Verrell, sir."
"Very well, Elisabeth—I'll write it down in my pocket-book. My name is Hepworth—Thorndyke Hepworth—and if you'd like to ask any questions about me, anybody in the fair will answer them, or any of the Sicaster shopkeepers. Well, now, let me see—oh, there’s one thing I mustn't forget."
He unbuttoned his long coat and drew forth a leather bag from his breeches' pocket. From this he extracted a half-sovereign, and held it towards Elisabeth. She looked at it in astonishment.
"What's that for, sir?"
Hepworth smiled.
"I forgot," said he. "Of course, if you're a stranger hereabouts you don't know the custom. That's a fastening penny to conclude the bargain. Now, you'll perhaps be wanting some little thing before I drive home, and if I were you, as it's a cold day, I'd go and have something to eat—there's a good eating-house close by—and oh, you'll be having a box to take, perhaps?"
"No, sir—my box is at Clothford—I must send for it."
"Very good, Elisabeth. Then go, get your tea, and meet me at the Elephant Hotel at six o'clock—ask the ostler for Mr. Hepworth's conveyance."
Hepworth now turned away and went down the steps of the Cross into the Market-Place, where he was presently lost to sight amongst the crowd. Elisabeth watched him wonderingly until he disappeared. She was a little confused at the sudden change in her fortune, and was inclined to ponder over it. She recognised friendliness in the way Hepworth had spoken to her. She had been so lonely and sick at heart until he addressed her that a certain numbness of spirit had filled her mind and made her insensible to much of what was going on around her. Now that there was some definite prospect of gaining an honest living presented to her, her spirits revived, and she left the Butter-Cross with a lighter heart.
Elisabeth made her way to the eating-house which Hepworth had pointed out. She had not tasted food for many hours, and her breakfast, taken at Clothford, had been of poor and unsubstantial quality. She now felt keenly hungry, and entered the eating-house with something like alacrity. The place was well patronised: there were few vacant corners, but she found one near the door and slipped into it. The young woman who waited on customers came to her and recommended her to try ham-and-eggs. The house, she said, was famous for its ham-and-eggs, and the price was moderate. Elisabeth acquiesced: she was famishing, and could have eaten anything that the waitress chose to set before her.
While Elisabeth was enjoying her meal, one of the girls who had stood near her on the Butter-Cross came in and took a seat at the same table. She was a plain-faced country girl, with a kindly expression of countenance, and she had been almost the only one of the crowd not to talk or giggle over the stranger's appearance. She now looked at Elisabeth with a new interest, and presently addressed her.
"I see'd you talking to Mr. Hepworth," she said. "Perhaps you're going to place there. You'll excuse me for speaking, but I used to live there myself once."
Elisabeth saw that there was no undue inquisitiveness in the girl's manner. She replied that she was going to service at Mr. Hepworth's, as the girl supposed.
"And a rare good master he is," said the girl, with emphasis. "I should ha' liked to stay there, but he had one servant already, old Mally, and besides, I had a bad illness. I expect you'll be going as a sort o' parlour maid—he's a very gentleman-like sort o' man, is Mr. Hepworth, and likes things doing right. He's a religious man, too: he preaches at the Chapel sometimes. He was very good to me when I was badly—used to read to me for an hour at a time, and buy me things to do me good. I don't think nobody could find a better place than that. I'm stopping again in my present place, and I wish I wasn't."
Elisabeth heard this news with considerable satisfaction, and was not averse to hearing more. But as it was by that time drawing near to six o'clock, and as she had yet to enquire her way to the Elephant Hotel, she said good-afternoon and went away.