CHAPTER II
ANTICIPATIONS
It was nearly noon when Hepworth rode up to his door and entered the house. In the kitchen he found Mally, who was so full of work that she had been obliged, sorely against her will, to engage the services of a couple of women from the village. These she was rating soundly when Hepworth entered, one because she was slow and lacking in comprehension, the other for her tendency to stand gossiping instead of going forward with her appointed task.
"Thank the Lord 'at weddin's doesn't come ivery day!" cried Mally, catching sight of Hepworth as he strode into the kitchen. "I used to wish 'at t' maister wod get wed, but I'm not so sure 'at I wor reight i' wishin' it. At ony rate I wish he'd waited till I wor i' my grave and i' peace. Sich a tewin' and a bustlin' as I've had this last fortnit's enow to mak' a saint sweer. And them two women—idle hussies 'at does nowt but talk and stand about and hinder a body 'at's trying to do summut! Eighteenpence a day, and their meat, and a pint o' ale to their dinners—aye, marry, I wonder what they'll ax next! Theer's ivery room i' t' house to sweep and dust, and me throng as Throp's wife and doesn't knaw which way to turn—and theer ye are, maister, come to get in t' way, I reckon."
"I shan't be here long, Mally," said Hepworth. "I want a bit of dinner and then I'm off to Sicaster, out of your way."
"Ye mud as weel ha' gone into Sicaster for your dinner," said Mally. "It's a poor time for dinners wi' t' house turned upside down and a couple o' bone-idle women i' t' road."
"Well, a bit of bread-and-cheese 'll do, Mally," he answered. "Anything—I'm not particular."
"No," said Mally, contemptuously. "I reckon not. That's how men talk. Owt'll do, of course. Now then go in and sit you down, out o' t' way, and t' dinner'll be ready i' ten minutes."
Hepworth laughed and left the kitchen. But instead of going into the parlour as the old woman bade him, he passed through the house and taking a key from his pocket unlocked the door of a room looking out upon the garden and the paddock. The blinds were drawn over the old-fashioned windows, and he went across and drew them up and then turned and looked about him. He hummed a tune as he looked, and presently began to stride up and down, eyeing first one object and then another and still humming merrily.
Until recently the room in which Hepworth stood had never been in use. The old-fashioned life which he and his mother lived required no more accommodation than the parlour and the kitchen could give. During his solitary life Hepworth made the parlour his constant abiding- place, eating, reading, and thinking there with no feeling of sameness or monotony. Meanwhile the room in which he now stood became damp and musty. For months it was never opened, Mally's conception of her duty with regard to it being to sweep it out twice a-year at the spring and autumn cleanings. As a bachelor Hepworth would never have dreamed of using it, but when his marriage was arranged he made up his mind to furnish it as a best parlour for his wife. He now stood looking at the result of this decision. Hepworth intended this room as a surprise for Elisabeth. Although she had visited the house on various occasions, after leaving it for the village, Hepworth and Mally carefully contrived that she should never see the spare parlour. Once or twice there was some difficulty in preventing her from finding out that something uncommon was going on. The room had been given over to painters and paper-hangers, and later on to the furniture dealer, and the presence of these people being likely to give rise to considerable suspicion, Hepworth and Mally were more than once sorely put to it to keep the evidences of their conspiracy out of Elisabeth's sight. These difficulties, however, were now surmounted and the room was ready for its mistress. Hepworth took much pride in it, for he had spared no expense and allowed the furniture dealer to do what he pleased. Moreover, though he was not at all sure that Elisabeth could perform upon it, he had bought a piano for her. This seemed to him the crowning glory of the room, and he pictured to himself his wife's delight when she saw it.
Mally came to his side as he stood at the parlour door, silently enjoying all this splendour. She had never been within the room herself; to her it was as a holy of holies to an awestruck pilgrim. Her enjoyment of its wonders was confined to occasional peeps through the niches of the door or the window. She now stood wiping her hands, fresh from the wash-bowl, on her hard linen apron, while she gazed admiringly at the vision within.
"Now then, Mally," asked Hepworth for the twentieth time, "how does it look?"
"Varry nice, maister," said Mally. "It's fit for t' Queen to sit in. Eh, dear, I doöant know howiver it's to be cleäned up! It'll tak' a deeäl o' dustin', and I shall be afraid o' touching ony o' t' chiny things. Aye, it's varry fine."
"You think it looks well, eh, Mally?"
"Aye, I do! " answered Mally. "Of course theer is things 'at isn't to my taste. If it hed been me, I should ha' hed summut smarter for t' wall paper—summut wi' some blue and yaller and pink in it, and happen a big flowered pattern, insteead o' that plain paper."
"Aye, but they tell me that this style's all the fashion now-a-days, Mally," said Hepworth. "Everything's plain and simple—so the paper-hanger said. We must be in the fashion, you know."
"Aye," answered Mally. "I expect we mun. There's nowt like being a bit fashionable."
Hepworth locked the parlour door and went to eat his dinner. Pleasant reflections came to him. He was smiling when Mally came in carrying a jug of ale.
"Just to think, Mally!" he said. "This is the last time I shall ever eat my dinner as a bachelor. Isn't that queer? The last time, Mally, the last time! I shall be married and done for to-morrow at this time."
"It's a varry serious thing, maister," said Mally. "I should ha' hed my say agen it if I didn't think t' lass 'ud mak' ye a good wife."
"She will, Mally, she will!" cried Hepworth.
"I'm sewer on it, maister. There's nowt escapes me," said Mally. "But ye know ye mooänt forget t' owd woman 'at's slaved and tewed for ye iver sin' ye wor a lad. Owd Mally mooänt be forgotten."
She placed the jug of ale on the table with hands that trembled somewhat. Hepworth looked up at her quickly. The old woman's bright blue eye twinkled with an unshed tear, and round the wrinkles of the grim mouth there ran a sudden quiver of emotion. Hepworth suddenly comprehended matters.
"Mally, Mally!" he cried. "How can you say such things? As if I could ever forget you! Why, Mally, I look on you as the best friend I have."
"Ye'll niver find no truer," said Mally, and went away.
Presently Hepworth heard her rating the women in the kitchen. Her voice rose and fell in measured scoldings for a full five minutes.
"Poor old Mally," said Hepworth. "She's a faithful creature, and she loves me. No, I couldn't find a truer friend than Mally."
He finished his dinner and went out into the yard to order his trap to be got ready. He was going to Sicaster, and had parcels to bring back which he could not well carry in the saddle. Then he made himself smart and drove away. In the village he stopped at the gate of the cottage where Elisabeth lived. She caught sight of him through the window and came down the path to him. He bent down and looked earnestly at her. Elisabeth blushed as she met his ardent gaze.
"You are going into Sicaster?" she said.
"Yes, Elisabeth. There are two or three things I have to get, and there's my wedding finery to try on for the last time. Yours, I expect, is all ready?"
"Yes," she said, laughing. "I think it is."
Then they were silent, Hepworth watching the girl's face, and she looking away from him along the road. As he watched her he could not help contrasting the Elisabeth that he now saw with the Elisabeth of the statute hiring fair. That was a sad-faced Elisabeth, a woman losing her youth and good looks under a cloud of sorrow—this was a girl again, with a happy face and bright eyes and a look of hopefulness.
"You are looking well to-day, Elisabeth," said Hepworth presently. "Against an old fellow like me you look quite a girl. You are getting really beautiful."
Elisabeth smiled as she turned to him.
"Am I?" she said. "Then I am glad for your sake. I want to make you happy."
"No fear of my happiness," he said. "My dear—my dear—I am the happiest man alive, I think! Good-bye, Elisabeth—I shall see you to-night, and that, please God, will be our last parting. Good-bye, my dear, good-bye."
He drove away, and Elisabeth, standing at the garden gate, watched him out of sight. He turned at the bend of the highway and waved his hand and so went onward.
Hepworth, on arriving at Sicaster, stabled his horse at the inn and then pursued his business. He had numerous calls to make, and at each place he found himself compelled to receive congratulations on the approaching event. Everybody seemed to derive some satisfaction from the thought that Hepworth was to be married.
"A very joyful occasion this, sir," said the little tailor who fitted on the wedding coat. "Very joyful indeed, if I may be allowed to say so. A very proper figure of a man you do make in that coat, Mr. Hepworth. Your good lady, sir, will be proud of you."
Hepworth laughed and went away to the inn. He had finished all his business then and turned into the bar-parlour to smoke a pipe before driving home. The bar-parlour already had several occupants. Two or three farmers of Hepworth's acquaintance sat there, together with a butcher and a cattle-dealer with whom they had evidently been doing business. In a corner near the fire-place sat a young man, apparently a stranger to the rest of the company.
Hepworth's arrival was greeted with a round of applause. The oldest of the men rose to his feet and insisted on shaking him by the hand.
"Dang it!" said he. "It's a long lane 'at hes no turnin', and I alius said 'at he'd wed some day or another. Here's good luck, my lad."
"Thank you," said Hepworth. "I'm heartily obliged to you."
"It's a joyful occasion is a weddin'," said the old farmer. "Eh, I mind mine as weel as if it wor yesterday! It's nigh on to forty year sin', but it's fresh enew i' my memory. Aye, so it is."
"I think Mestur Hepworth mun ax us to drink his wife's health," said the drover, with a roguish twinkle of the eye. "It's t' least we can do on such a joyful occasion. I've drunk a many healths i' my time, but niver one 'at I'd drink wi' more pleasure."
"Nor me," said the butcher. "I allus had a great respect for Mr. Hepworth."
"I shall be very glad, friends," said Hepworth. "It's very kind of you. Perhaps the young lady 'll take the company's orders. What'll you all take, gentlemen?"
The men named their drinks to the young woman behind the bar. Hepworth turned to the stranger in the corner. He felt ready to treat a whole room full of people and to ask them to drink to his happiness.
"Will you join us, sir?" he said politely. "I shall be very much honoured."
"Thank you, sir," answered the stranger. "The honour is mine, I'm sure."
When the glasses had been handed round the old farmer rose to his feet and held his up.
"Here's to the health—" he began. "Come," he said, pausing—"I don't know t' young lady's name. Give us her name, Hepworth, lad—all friends here, you know."
"Mrs. Elisabeth Verrell," said Hepworth.
"Then here's to Mrs. Elisabeth Verrell, Mrs. Hepworth as is to be—long life and much joy to her and her good man," said the old farmer.
The others re-echoed the sentiment and drained their glasses to the bottom, setting them on the table with a hearty ring. But when the stranger caught the name he suddenly sat down in the seat from which he had risen and put his glass on the table untasted. 