The Earth Children, etc

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THE EARTH CHILDREN THE LEISURE LIBRARY ov Comspfe*. 3ffu0.r<xfeb (JlovC.e. Paper, 2. . ; Cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. EACH VOLUME With Coloured Frontispiece and Title- Page, and with original Full-Page Illustrations, Head-Pieces, and Initials. EARLY VOLUMES. By W. PETT RIDGE. THE SECOND OPPORTUNITY OF MR. STAPLEHURST. By a New Author. THE FLAW IN THE MARBLE. By NORA YYNNE. THE STORY OF A FOOL AND HIS FOLLY. By MRS. H. M. BATSON. EARTH CHILDREN. London : HUTCHINSON & CO., Paternoster Row. I

Chapter I

the child Repentance," murmured the dying woman. " She be wanderin' ' again ; oh, Lor' ! what a treat ! " cried Mrs. Goodeve, with disgust. " I be pretty nigh tired o' this here job." " Hush ! " said her companion in a low voice; " she ain't wanderin' — be you, Lyddy ? You knows us, my dear, don't you. "Yes — I know you," came almost inaudibly from the pale lips. " I know you ; you be Chrissy Jennin's, an' there be mother over beyond. Hark to me, Chrissy " " Well, my dear " " Call the child Repentance." " What, your child ? Your little baby ? " " Ah ! " in a long-drawn sigh of assent. " But that ain't no Christian name ; it be summat heathenish as you've picked up. Are you sure you ain't wanderin', Lyddy ? " The dying girl raised herself up in her bed, and fixed her companions with a glassy stare.

The light of earth was fading from her, and her eyes searched in the gathering darkness for the two women who stood beside the bed. Above all else she wanted them to listen, and to obey her. " Hark ! " she said, and there were great gaps between the words that followed, " I ain't wanderin' ; I be Lydia Goodeve, and you be mother, and you be Mrs. Jennin's, and this be my baby as I've bore in sorrow and shame. God do so to you, and more also, if you fail to mind my wishes. Call her Repent ance, and bring her up to take warnin' by me, an' to repent afore 'tis too late. Mother, will you promise me ? " " 'Tain't no Christian name," said Mrs. Goodeve doggedly. " What'd folks say if I named one of my fam'ly such a word. Lor' ! there's disgrace in the very sound on't." " Mother — promise me ! " " You'll be gone soon, my dear," said Mrs. Goodeve, in soothing tones, an' wun't trouble in that blessed world above about your baby's name.

Don't 'ee trouble no more in this-un neither, so long as you be here. 'Twun't be long now." " Don't you fret, Lyddy," cried the younger woman in pity and compunction, as the girl sank back hopelessly on her pillow. " Don't you fret ; we'll call her what you wishes ; I promise you faithful, an' your mother '11 agree to it after a bit, I'll warrant. Anyhow, I'll call her Repentance, if I have to christen her myself." " Thank you," murmured Lydia Goodeve ; and then she turned her face to the wall and died. " Summat ought to be done about christenin'," said Mrs. Goodeve, a little later ; " I don't believe the child be goin' to live neither." " Best send for Mr. Sutton, or the rector." " Well, I don't know as I shan't, afore the day's done. Half-baptised she ought to be, an' that's certain. 'Twould be an economy if the same coffin sarved fer the both on 'em."

"She've got to be called what her mother wished," said Mrs. Jennings, with an unusual touch of obstinacy ; for she was a soft and yielding woman. " I give my word to poor Lyddy, and I means to stick to it." " Oh, Lor' ! I don't keer what she be called, so long as she be on'y half-baptised in a private way. Call her what you pleases. But if the child lives, an' if us takes her to church to be finished, there wun't be no Repentance tacked on to my fam'ly name, an' so I warns you, Chrissy Jennin's. Repentance Lydia you can call her now, but plain Lydia she'll be when she goes to chuich, an' I stands up wi' her afore the congregation. I be on'y a pore widder as swings fer a livin', but nobody shan't say as I brought one o' my fam'ly up to call herself a sinner. So now you understand me, Chrissy Jennin's." So little Repentance Lydia was made half a Christian.

She did not share her mother's coffin. As the days went on she fought her way into life bravely ; it was a hard fight, for she had np one on her side, and the odds were against her. To her grand mother it was a small thing whether a baby lived or died ; and at that early age one does not enlist sympathy, save through pity. No one pitied her, except Mrs. Jennings, who lived next door, and had a family of her own to see to. But naturally Mrs. Jennings' sense of propriety forbade interference with another woman's grandchild, and Repentance Lydia had to fight her own battle, and live or die as fate might befall her. She insisted on living, and no one took sufficient interest in her to interfere with her determination. When she was able to toddle about the garden court Chrissy Jennings began to show her kindness.

The baby face was often dirty, and Chrissy washed it ; the baby stomach was not uncommonly empty, and Chrissy filled it ; the small garments that she wore were crawled into holes, and Chrissy surreptitiously darned them. When Repentance Lydia made her first appearance in the infants' room at the National School it was Mrs. Jennings' eldest boy, Dick, who guided her tottering footsteps to the door. Dick would not consent to stand by her when she entered, for he was a man of full seven years, and the position was an unbecoming one to him. But, though he escaped round the corner, he waited till she had been safely welcomed by the teacher before he entered the main building which was devoted to the education of big fellows such as he was. She was not entirely without pro tectors, though they were not her natural ones.

From the first she had taken a line of her own, and she maintained this policy with regard to her name. Of course no one ever dreamt of calling her Repentance ; the very word, as Mrs. Goodeve had said, implied a reproach. It was a name to be ignored, and eventually to be quietly dropped. They called her Lydia, which had been her mother's name, when they had occasion to call her anything. But this was before the baby was old enough to state her wishes on the subject. From the time that her little tongue found itself able to frame any articulate sound she called herself Lil ; and as no one cared much about it one way or the other, and Lil was decided less troublesome for busy people to shout than Lydia, they gave in to her without demur, and the child had her way as usual. She was not exactly a good child.

Nobody had ever tried to make her good, though more than one had attempted to make her quiet when she was noisy, or sleepy when she was wakeful, or punctual at school when she meant to play truant. What they wanted was to silence her or to get rid of her. But when she was six years old her grand mother took it into her head that Lil ought to be learning to make herself useful, and a certain amount of home education was attempted to this end. But Lil resisted stoutly. " Come yer, Lil, an' draw me some water from the well," would be heard down the garden court, while Lil lay in the sunshine near the brook which ran past the potato patch, and watched the minnows as they chased each other. " Lil, come yer ! Doesn't hear me r But Lil would not stir. "If thou doesn't come drecly minnit I'll cut thy dratted head off, an' send fer bogey to run away wi't. Come yer, thou misbegotten limb, or I'll chastise thee till thou casn't stir a finger."

Presently Lil would turn lazily on her side, and glance at her grandmother through the currant-bushes. " Bawl away, gran'mother, bawl away ; the more you bawls the more I shain't come," she would answer. She was a naughty little girl. Always in July, between the times of hay and corn harvest, there was a grand treat given to the school-children by the rector. There were cakes and figs and games and races, and Mrs. Goodeve's swing boats were in requisition for the occasion ; for she supplied all the feasts for miles round, being the proud pro prietress of the only swing boats in the district. Lil looked forward to her first treat with much inward satisfaction, but it seemed to her unfair that Mrs. Jen nings' baby girl was to be debarred from the happiness she was to take part in. She looked in casually on Mrs. Jennings on the morning of the treat, and mentioned the subject in the most natural way in the world.

" I forgot to tell 'ee, Mrs. Jennin's," she said airily, " Teacher said yesterday as I was to bring Cissy along to-day. I'll cahl in fer she as I goes to rectory." " Lar, Lil, how can Cissy go ? She don't belong to school yet." " I've a-made that right wi' Teacher," responded Lil, with decision. " I'll cahl in fer Cis, Mrs. Jennin's. I'm just gwine now to put on my best dress, an' then I'll cahl in fer she. That be ahl right, Mrs. Jennin's." " Lil, Lil ! " came her grandmother's voice from the adjoining cottage ; " where be that dratted child now ? Come yer, an' get thy dinner, or I'll cut thy head off." " I ain't gwine to eat narn o' your muck-vittles," shouted Lil from Mrs. Jennings' doorway. " I be a savin' my self fer the school feast." " Be you sure as Cissy be to go ? " asked Mrs. Jennings again, anxiously.

" It don't sound a likely story, Lil ? " " Teacher said so," answered Lil un blushingly. " ' Bring little Cissy Jennin's,' her said ; s'help me, her did, Mrs. Jennin's." And naughty Lil was still unabashed when, a couple of hours later, the teacher rated her soundly for her wicked false hood. She was certainly not a good little girl, and she had no sense of moral responsibility. But perhaps this was partly owing to her up-bringing, which was not inspiring. " 'Tis no wonder," Mrs. Jennings would say with a sigh to Mrs. Goodeve; " 'tis nothing to be wondered at when you consider that the child was on'y half baptised. 'Tain't too late to take her to church now, an' I'd do't, if she were mine, sooner'n let her grow up as she be a-growin'. What can you expect, when she were on'y half done ? " " I've a good mind to't, even now ; drat the child, I'd take her in a minute, on'y I know her wouldn't go."

" No, I don't believe for a moment as she would," assented Mrs. Jennings with a sigh. When Lil put her foot down there was no appeal from her decision, and already she was the arbitress of her own destiny, though she was only six years old. Grandmother Goodeve was a widow, and she lived with Lil and her two sons in a three-roomed cottage abutting on the one street of Holworthy. There was a good-sized garden against the side of the house, but the greater part of it was given up to the swing boats, and was not properly available for cultural purposes. There were the four large boats, all swinging from a strong beam, in the middle of the potato patch ; and the three smaller boats, which were generally hired for quite unimportant festivities, striding over the cabbage ground. Or rather the framework was ordinarily there, though the boats were housed for shelter in the woodshed, greatly to the detriment of their gaily painted sides.

It was by these boats that Mrs. Goodeve gained her living and Lil's, and indeed her sons' living too, in part ; for it did not often suit these two young men to work with their hands. One or other of them was always needed to help with the setting up of the boats, and very frequently they found it pleasanter not to return to their employment after the early part of the day had been broken into. This feelings not infrequently extended over several of the following days ; for it was only in summer time that the boats were in requisition, and the discomfort of working in the heat is naturally very great. In the winter there was often no work to be had, and then the whole family lived on the credit of the coming summer. Mrs. Goodeve was confidently believed to be the possessor of a substantial stocking ; but as this belief, in common with some others, was quite beyond the possibility of proof, it was no great factor in her grocer's or her baker's dealings with her.

Grandmother Goodeve was still in the youth of old age, for she had been con siderably under fifty when Lil was added to her responsibilities. She was tall and thin and weather-beaten, and full of energy when energy was required of her. She could swing from morning to night without fatigue, and then help to take the boats down, and tramp beside the hired horse's head for a ten-mile walk home. Lil used to accompany her grandmother until school life began ; for the child was less likely to get into mis chief amongst strangers than at home. But a pitched battle was the usual result of the first few attempts to leave her with Mrs. Jennings, in order that she might carry on her studies at school. The boats went off in Mrs. Goodeve's charge, and Lil was forcibly detained by the obliging Chrissy ; but neither Chrissy nor Teacher could make the baby girl repeat one verse, nor count a single row of gaily coloured balls on a frame.

She was deaf to musical exercises, and blind to the allurements of the Kindergarten system. " I didn't want to come to school to-day, an' I ain't gwine to say nothin', nor do nothin'," she would say to the teacher as she entered the infants' room. " Oh, aren't you indeed ? " the teacher would remark scornfully. " We'll soon see about that : you'll be singing a different tune presendy." But no tune at all would Lil sing, and no word whatever would Lil speak. There was no punishment which would exactly meet the case ; for it was useless to keep a child in after hours when that child was determinedly silent and calmly unmoved. The only thing to do was to complain to Mrs. Goodeve, who always took the part of the teacher in the one-sided struggle. " An' I'll cut thy head off", see if I don't. Such a trouble as you be to a pore widder as has to swing fer her livin' !

" Mrs. Goodeve would declare after wasting many words in denuncia tion of her grandchild's wickedness ; " an' I'll take a carvin' knife and slit thy wizzen, an' they'll put 'ee in a dark hole wi' thy mother, an' I don't care if I do hang for't." " Lor, gran'mother, you talks so silly," Lil would say with a little air of weariness. <u 15

Chapter II Ome

children be good, an' some children be pretty ; but Lil Goodeve be neither the one nor the t'other on't," Chrissy Jennings said to her husband. "Pretty is as pretty does, and there ain't no pretty to act pretty in this yer case," said John Jennings. Chrissy laughed appreciatively at his remark, for her husband was known throughout the parishes a dry wit. Whenever she saw the twinkle in his eye as he spoke, she knew that he was giving her a specimen of his wit, and she laughed accordingly. Reputation can not lie, and Chrissy never doubted for a moment that she was a dull-minded woman, unable fully to understand her husband's brilliant sallies ; neither did she ever for a moment doubt their brilliance. It was her aim in life to preserve John from a full realisation of her stupidity, and to show him that her appreciation of his humour was quite equal to that of his public-house com panions.

" She is main ugly ; that's what Lil be," said Mr. Jennings presently ; " that there fuzzy red wig be enough to frowten the Old Man. 'Tis that as gives her her temper ; tantrums is nothin' to it, as the old sow said when the roof give in." The twinkle in John's eye warned dutiful Chrissy of the occasion for a smile, and her good-tempered face was con torted for a moment in response. " There ain't no one as has any hold over the child, without 'tis our Dick." " A fellow like him ain't got no call to werrit over a little come-by-chanst like she," said Jennings. " But he be so kind-hearted ; he allus doos what he can for the child, on the sly, like. Look at 'em now, comin' over at hill ; he be carryin' her dinner bag, fer all the world like a gentleman." Down the precipitous slope ofthe hill, which was used only for a short cut by the school-children, came Dick Jennings and Lil Goodeve.

The other children had passed and gone home, as they generally did, before these two gained the village. Dick never carried her bag until the rest had disappeared ; for he was a boy, and she was only a girl. " Gimme the bag, Dick," said Lil mischievously. " Why ? ' ' said Dick, as he stopped to pick a tempting blackberry from the hedge. " 'Cause Tom Birch ain't gone by yet. He'll see you a-carryin' on't, an' shame you before all the school, fer carryin' a iady's dinner-bag." " Lady ! " cried Dick, in infinite con tempt, " lady ! — little gurl you means." " Ain't I a lady, Dick ? " "No, you ain't." " Not a little bit ofa lady, Dick." " Not a morsel." "Not to you, Dick? " pleadingly. " Nary," said Dick, picking a fatter blackberry than the last. " Not even as good as a lady ? " and the red lips trembled, and the brown eyes grew misty.

" Well, p'raps to me, nigha'most as good," said Dick half relenting ; " but there, I don't take much 'count o' ladies." " Oh, Dick, you be so cross ; I hates you when you looks like that." " You be on'y a woman-child, an' you don't understand things." " What don't I understand ? Oh, Dick, let me understand ! " " You don't understand about men ; I be pretty nigh a man now, an' I've a-got a lot o' things to think of; but you can't never think of arrathing but sweet hearts." " No I don't ; I don't think o' sweethearts." " Well, Fanny Brown says you doos." " Says I doos what ? " " Talk o' sweethearts." " Did Fanny Brown say I talked o' you fer a sweetheart ? " " Ah, her did." " Then I'll slap Fanny Brown's dirty face. I don't never talk o' you fer a sweetheart ; I don't want no sweetheart ; I don't know arra boy as is good enough fer a sweetheart.

Do you know arra gurl as is good enough fer a sweetheart, Dick ? " " No, I don't," said cruel Dick. " I hates you," cried Lil, and she sped back up the path again, and into the wood at the top, among the fir trees. She threw herself down upon the dry pine needles, and wept aloud. She knew that if she wept loud enough Dick would hear her from the hillside. " Boo-hoo," she cried, " boo-hoo, hoo hoo-hoo ! " Then she lifted her face from the red pine needles and listened. There was no sound, so she began again more loudly : — " Boo-boo-hoo-hoo-hoo ! " " Lil ! " said a voice in her ear. " Boo-hoo-hoo ! " " Lil ! " " Oh, boo-hoo ! " " You be my sweetheart, Lil ; you be the on'y gurl I cares for. Don't 'ee cry so loud, Lil ; you be my own sweetheart, you knows." " I don't want you fer a sweetheart," cried untruthful Lil, burying her face still deeper in the pine needles.

" Why not, my dear ? " " Cause you belittled me to Fanny Brown. You called I ' Carrots ' to she ; — her told I so a-Monday." " I'll smack Fanny Brown's face afore school to-morrow," cried Dick stoutly ; " 'twere her as called you ' Carrots,' an not me." " But you never said ' no ' to't." " Well, Lil, you know you've a-got 'em. I likes 'em myself, if nobody else don't." "If you was a real sweetheart you wouldn't see as they was carrots. Oh, I be so mis'rable ! Oh, go away ! I don't want no boys, nor no sweethearts as ain't real sweethearts." " But I be a real 'un," said Dick softly. " Will you truly smack Fanny Brown's face afore school to-morrow ? " " Ah, I will." " An' tell her my hair be golden ? " " Yes, Lil." " An' carry my bag to school afore all of 'em, to show 'em you be my sweetheart ?

" " Yes, Lil," with an effort. Lil raised herself from the pine needles, and flung her arms round his neck. " You stupe ! " she said, " I weren't a cryin' really. I knowed you was my sweetheart all along ; I'm a-thinkin' o' takin' up wi' Jack Hedges. You bain't old enough fer me." " I be twelve ; older'n you by a year, anyhows." " An' Jack be thirteen ; but maybe I'll wait a bit, Dick, an' let you be my sweetheart awhile first. I wun't change till I be growed up." " Jack wouldn't have you at a gift ; he said so a-Sunday. He don't like car — golden-coloured hair. He did Fanny Brown's sums fer her every day last week. Fanny's hair be black, an' her eyes be like sloes, an' her cheeks be so soft " " How do you know, Dick ? " cried Lil, in a fresh agony. "Oh, Jack told me," said Dick dis ingenuously.

" Then Jack's a liar. Her cheeks be as rough as a dishclout ; don't you be lieve as her cheeks be soft ; I've felt 'em times a-many, an' they be as rough as them pine needles. All girls' cheeks be, ■ — nearly. I don't know any girl as haven't got rough cheeks. Do you Dick ? " "Ah." " Never ! Well, / don't, anyways." " I do, though." " Whose, Dick ? " Your'n." " What ! bain't 'em rough like all the other gurls' ? " " No, 'em bain't." " I don't see how you can tell," pouted Lil. " I can tell — like this here," said Dick, laying his lips upon her fresh, brown skin. " Ah ! " said Lil, with a long-drawn sigh of content. Dick carried her bag to school the next day, before the scornful eyes of a dozen boys older than himself, who jeered at him. He also took an early opportunity to smack Fanny Brown's face ; but the smack was not a hard one, for he was a kindhearted boy.

" I smacks you, because you said Lil Goodeve had carrots. 'Em bain't carrots ; 'em be golden. But your cheeks be soft, Fanny." " Softer'n hern ? " asked Fanny, who forgave the smack for the sake of the compliment. " Very soft, anyways," admitted Dick. " Wili you be my sweetheart, Dick ? " asked Fanny Brown softly. " Oh, bother sweethearts ! I don't want no more o' that tackle. I be tired o' sweethearts. Get along into school," said the much-tried Dick. He was getting too old to play at the game of sweethearts. In the spring of the year following this small flirtation which I have recorded Dick left school, and went out to work. He began by the occupation locally known as bird starving. It was his duty to spring rattles, and wave a willow wand, and shout from a distance, to disperse the rooks which settle on the newly sown corn.

After making a fearful and un godly noise, with voice and rattle com bined, in the north corner of the field, he would dodge round by the high hedge to frighten the marauders who were on the point of settling down comfortably on its southern extremity. Then back again quickly, and so on through the unending days. It was rough running on the plough-land, and the occupation was tiring for limbs and lungs, but it brought in three shillings every week, and made Dick feel like a man indeed. In the summer he was taken on by a farmer to do odd jobs, and then perforce he worked as hard as any man on the farm ; others had their times of rest and idleness, but Dick was expected to wait upon them all, and to make good their shortcomings. This caused him to realise that he was not quite a man yet, after all ; and he longed to be big and strong, that he might serve some other hoy as the men served him.

He had never learnt the lesson of " Do as you would be done by." Of course in Sun day School and Church this precept had been forced upon his notice, and he could answer as glibly as any of the other children to satisfy the teacher ; but in practical life he never came across it. " The simple plan That he shall take who has the power, And he shall keep who can," was the governing principle of everybody he was acquainted with. In common with most other children of his class, he would have to fight against all the un written precepts of his up-bringing, if he were ever to develop into an honest and unselfish member of the community. Those who blame the Wessex rustic for his race-failings do not always remember that every virtue in him is the result of an instinctive struggle against his early environment.

Dick's struggle had not begun yet ; perhaps it never would begin ; and all he longed for was a boy whom he could serve as the men served him. So he made haste to grow up and attain this end. He began by smoking, of course. He kept back threepence a week from his earnings, and spent them in tobacco. This made him very sick, but he felt that it was at the same time making him a man. The result was worth paying heavily for in headaches and hard cash. Then when his wages were raised, as they were in the autumn, when the farmer took him on as a hired ploughboy, he would go sometimes to the public-house of a night, and drink a single glass of beer with other men and would-be men there. His father was an habitue of the Malt Shovel, and naturally he did not attempt to control his son ; every male creature is his own master in Wessex, though it is not every woman who is her own mistress.

Old traditions die hard when the domination of the weak by the strong is a principle involved. He had nothing to learn for his purpose in the matter of language, for he had been used from his cradle to the choicest flowers of com minative speech, and was as accomplished in their application as the oldest man of them all. As the months sped by he felt that he was becoming a very big man indeed; but there was a burning grievance which was difficult to remedy. His mother still chose his clothing for him, and she did not choose stand-up collars and a blue tie for Sundays. When the second Michaelmas of his hired service came round, he withheld the sum of harvest money which he was in the habit of handing over to Chrissy, and walked into Oldborough to choose his own new suit of clothes. To it he added, with infinite satisfaction, two of the tallest collars to be bought in the town, and the brightest of blue sailor ties.

Then he was happy, for a while, at any rate. By this time he was seventeen years old, a big, bony fellow of his age, with bright brown, curly hair, and honest looking blue eyes. He held himself defiantly, as though to challenge his world to call him still a boy. And, presently, in the revolving cycle of things, he told himself that, as every other young man of his acquaintance could boast of a flame, it was his duty to revive that folly of his boyhood, and to call some young woman by the almost forgotten name of sweetheart. When Dick left the National School Lil left it also. She was only twelve years old, but she was sharp enough to have passed her standards without much difficulty ; and, as there seemed to her to be no object in remaining, she took leave one morning of her teachers, and came back no more.