Arminell, a social romance. Baring-Gould Sabine

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      CHAPTER VIII.

       Table of Contents

       ABREAST.

      As Arminell left Chillacot she did not observe the scant courtesy shown her by Captain Saltren. She was brimming with sympathy for him in his trouble, with tender feeling for the wife who had so loved her mother, and for the son who was out of his proper element. It did not occur to her that possibly she might be regarded by Saltren with disfavour. She had not gone many paces from the house before she came on a middle-aged couple, walking in the sun, abreast, arm in arm, the man smoking a pipe, which he removed and concealed in the pocket of his old velvet shooting coat, when he saw Arminell, and then he respectfully removed his hat. The two had been at church. Arminell knew them by sight, but she had not spoken at any time to either. The man, she had heard, had once been a gamekeeper on the property, but had been dismissed, the reason forgotten, probably dishonesty. The woman was handsome, with bright complexion, and very clear, crystalline eyes, a boldly cut nose, and well curved lips. The cast of her features was strong, yet the expression of the face was timid, patient and pleading.

      She had fair, very fair hair, hair that would imperceptibly become white, so that on a certain day, those who knew her would exclaim, "Why, Joan! who would have thought it? Your hair is white." But some years must pass before the bleaching of Joan's head was accomplished. She was only forty, and was hale and strongly built.

      ​She unlinked her arm from that of her companion and came curtseying to Arminell, who saw that she wore a hideous crude green kerchief, and in her bonnet, magenta bows.

      "Do you want me?" she asked coldly. The unæsthetic colours offended her.

      "Please, my lady!"

      "I am not 'my lady.'"

      Joan was abashed, and retreated a step.

      "I am Miss Inglett. What do you want?"

      "I was going to make so bold, my la—I mean, miss——." Joan became crimson with shame at so nearly transgressing again. "This is Samuel Ceely."

      Arminell nodded. She was impatient, and wanted to be at home. She looked at the man whose pale eyes quivered.

      "Is he your husband?" asked Arminell.

      "No, miss, not exactly. Us have been keeping company twenty years—no more. How many years is it since us first took up wi' each other, Samuel?"

      "Nigh on twenty-two. Twenty-two."

      "Go along, Samuel, not so much as that. Well, miss, us knowed each other when Samuel was a desperate wicked (i.e. lively) chap. Then Samuel was keeper at the park. There was some misunderstanding. The head-keeper was to blame and laid it on Samuel. He's told me so scores o' times. Then came his first accident. When was that, Samuel?"

      "When I shooted my hand away? Nineteen years come next Michaelmas."

      "Were you keeper, then?" asked Arminell.

      "No, miss, not exactly."

      "Then, how came you with the gun?"

      "By accident, quite by accident."

      Joan hastily interfered. It would not do to enquire too closely what he was doing on that occasion.

      ​"When was your second accident, Samuel?"

      "Fifteen years agone."

      "And what was that?" asked Joan.

      "I falled off a waggon."

      Arminell interrupted. This was the scene of old Gobbo and young Gobbo re-enacted. It must be brought to an end. "Tell thou the tale," she said with an accent of impatience in her intonation, addressing Joan. "What is your name?"

      "Joan Melhuish, miss. Us have been sweethearts a great many years; and, miss, the poor old man can't do a sight of work, because of his leg, and because of his hand. But, lor-a-mussy, miss, his sweepings is beautiful. You could eat your dinner, miss, off a stable floor, where Samuel has swept. Or the dog-kennels, miss,—if Samuel were but with the dogs, he'd be as if in Paradise. He do love dogs dearly, do Samuel. He's that conscientious, miss, that if he was sound asleep, and minded in his dream there was a bit o' straw lying where he ought to ha' swept clean, or that the dogs as needed it, hadn't had brimstone put in their water, he'd get up out o' the warmest bed—not, poor chap, that he's got a good one to lie on—to give the dog his brimstone, or pick up thickey (that) straw."

      She was so earnest, so sincere, that her story appealed to Arminell's feelings. Was the dust that the witch, Patience, had cast on her head, taking effect and opening her eyes to the sorrows and trials of the underground folk?

      "Please, miss! It ain't only sweeping he does beautifully. If a dog has fleas, he'll wash him and comb him—and, miss, he can skin a hare or a rabbit beautiful—beautiful! I don't mean to deny that Samuel takes time about it," she assumed an apologetic tone, "but then, miss, which be best, to be slow and do a thing thorough, or be quick and half do it? Now, miss, what I was going to make so bold as to say was, Samuel do be a-complaining of the rheumatics. ​They've a-took'n bad across the loins, and it be bad for him out in all weathers weeding turnips, and doing them odd and dirty jobs men won't do now, nor wimen n'other, what wi' the advance of education, and the franchise, and I did think it would be wonderful good and kind o' you, miss, if you'd put in a word for Samuel, just to have the sweeping o' the back yard, or the pulling of rabbits, or the cleaning up of dishes; he'd make a rare kitchen-maid, and could scour the dogs as well, and keep 'em from scratching over much. Lord, miss! what the old man do want is nourishing food and dryth (dry air) over and about him."

      "I'll speak to the housekeeper—no, I will speak to her ladyship about the matter. I have no doubt something can be done for Samuel."

      Joan curtsied, and her honest face shone with satisfaction.

      "Lord A'mighty bless you, miss! I have been that concerned about the old man—he is but fifty, but looks older, because of his two accidents. H's shy o' asking for hisself, because he was dismissed by the late lord; the upper keeper laid things on him he'd no right to. He's a man, miss, who don't set no store on his self, because he has lost a thumb and two fingers, and got a dislocated thigh. But there's more in Samuel than folks fancy; I ought to know best, us have kept company twenty years."

      "Are you ever going to get married?"

      Joan shook her head.

      "But how is it," asked Arminell, "that you have not been married yet, after courting so long?"

      "First the bursted gun spoiled the chance—but Lord, miss, though he's lost half his hand, he is as clever with what remains as most men with two."

      "He was unable to work for his living, I suppose?"

      "And next he were throwed down off a waggon, and he's been lame ever since. But, Lord, miss! he do get along with the bad leg, beautiful, quite beautiful."

      ​"You are not nearer your marriage than you were twenty years ago," said СКАЧАТЬ