[Illustration: 026.jpg Said it was but a Pixie]
John Fry, who in the spring of fright had brought
himself down from Smiler’s side, as if he were
dipped in oil, now came up to me, all risk being over,
cross, and stiff, and aching sorely from his wet couch
of heather.
“Small thanks to thee, Jan, as my new waife
bain’t a widder. And who be you to zupport
of her, and her son, if she have one? Zarve thee
right if I was to chuck thee down into the Doone-track.
Zim thee’ll come to un, zooner or later, if
this be the zample of thee.”
And that was all he had to say, instead of thanking
God! For if ever born man was in a fright, and
ready to thank God for anything, the name of that
man was John Fry not more than five minutes agone.
However, I answered nothing at all, except to be ashamed
of myself; and soon we found Peggy and Smiler in company,
well embarked on the homeward road, and victualling
where the grass was good. Right glad they were
to see us again—not for the pleasure of
carrying, but because a horse (like a woman) lacks,
and is better without, self-reliance.
My father never came to meet us, at either side of
the telling-house, neither at the crooked post, nor
even at home-linhay although the dogs kept such a
noise that he must have heard us. Home-side of
the linhay, and under the ashen hedge-row, where father
taught me to catch blackbirds, all at once my heart
went down, and all my breast was hollow. There
was not even the lanthorn light on the peg against
the cow’s house, and nobody said “Hold
your noise!” to the dogs, or shouted “Here
our Jack is!”
I looked at the posts of the gate, in the dark, because
they were tall, like father, and then at the door
of the harness-room, where he used to smoke his pipe
and sing. Then I thought he had guests perhaps—people
lost upon the moors—whom he could not leave
unkindly, even for his son’s sake. And
yet about that I was jealous, and ready to be vexed
with him, when he should begin to make much of me.
And I felt in my pocket for the new pipe which I had
brought him from Tiverton, and said to myself, “He
shall not have it until to-morrow morning.”
Woe is me! I cannot tell. How I knew I know
not now—only that I slunk away, without
a tear, or thought of weeping, and hid me in a saw-pit.
There the timber, over-head, came like streaks across
me; and all I wanted was to lack, and none to tell
me anything.
By-and-by, a noise came down, as of woman’s
weeping; and there my mother and sister were, choking
and holding together. Although they were my dearest
loves, I could not bear to look at them, until they
seemed to want my help, and put their hands before
their eyes.
A VERY RASH VISIT
[Illustration: 028.jpg Illustrated Capital]
