Where Highways Cross

Front matter

WHERE·HIGHWAYS·CROSS BY J·S·FLETCHER AVTHOR OF "WHEN•CHARLES THE·FIRST·WAS·KING"

WITH ILLVSTRATIONS BY J AYTON SYMINGTON

MACMILLAN AND CO. AND LONDON 1895

Part 1

PART THE FIRST

ELISABETH

AuxTOC|

I. Chapter 1

CHAPTER I

THE STATUTE HIRING FAIR

Outside the town of Sicaster, going north-by-north-west, the high-road leads through a somewhat level country, mainly concerned with coal-mining, towards the great city of Clothford, thirteen miles away. On this side of Sicaster the land has few features of interest or beauty. Here and there stands an ancient mansion, embowered in trees and shielded from contact with the unlovely colliery villages by carefully-fenced parks and enclosures. In the villages themselves the observant traveller often finds traces of old houses which were no doubt picturesque and countrified in the days when agriculture was preferred to coal-mining. The greater part of the district, however, is somewhat dingy and dark, and the lover of nature sees little to admire in it. But within two miles of Sicaster the scenery shows signs of change for the better. The high-road becomes suddenly. straight, and, leaving the coal-district in the rear, runs along the side of Sicaster Park, a vast enclosure where race-meetings are held twice a year. It rises a little at this point, and in the far distance stands Sicaster itself, a mass of red roofs and grey walls, with the quaint steeple of St. Giles's Church overtopping the irregular gables and chimneys. Beyond Sicaster there are no more coal-mines. The town once passed, the traveller sees before him the long, rolling meadows and wide cornfields which make Osgoldcross one of the most fertile and beautiful divisions of Yorkshire.

Along that portion of the high-road which runs parallel with Sicaster Park there walked, one November afternoon, some twenty years ago, a woman who was obviously wearied to the verge of extreme fatigue. The day was cold and slightly wet. A thin, intermittent rain came with the gusts of wind that blew fitfully across the park, and the woman, as she walked on, drew her shawl more closely about her shoulders, as if to protect herself from the weather. Coming to one of the bridle-gates opening into the park, she paused and leaned against it. A waggon, drawn by two stout horses, was following her from the direction of Clothford, and she looked back along the road and watched it draw nearer. The waggoner whistled as he came along, and his merry tune was accompanied by the jingle of the brass bells that hung from the head-gear of his horses. As he came abreast of her he cast his eye on the woman by the wayside.

"Will you ride in, missis?" he called across the road. Tisn't far, but it's better riding than walking to-day."

The woman looked at him doubtfully for a moment, and then, persuaded by his cheery face, or coaxed by the comparative luxury of the canvas-topped tilt under which he sat, she crossed the road with a word of thanks. The waggoner pulled up his team with a jerk, gave her a hand, and helped her to a seat at his side.

"You are very kind," she said. "I am tired."

"Aye, I daresay, missis," he answered. "T' road's wet, and bad for walking."

He started his horses again with a chirruping sound from his pursed-up mouth. The road began to rise thereabouts, and they went slowly. The waggoner resumed his whistling, but twisted his head round to take stock of his companion. At the first sight of her, resting against the bridle-gate, he took her for a tramp, but when she crossed the road and faced him he saw that he had been mistaken. He now saw, on such examination as he could make by surreptitious glances out of his eye-corners, that she was neatly if scantily attired in garments that had obviously been good and of somewhat fashionable style, and that her whole appearance showed unmistakable traces of personal care. She wore gloves and a veil, and beneath the latter the waggoner saw a face that was young and attractive, with delicate features and pathetic eyes, and a mouth that drooped a little at the corners as if with anxiety or grief. He whistled more softly on making these discoveries, but his companion apparently took no heed of the music which he made. Her eyes were fixed on the red roofs that shut in the vanishing point of the long, straight high-road; her hands lay in her lap, the fingers lacing and interlacing each other.

"Nasty day," said the waggoner at length. "Both for man and beast, as the saying is."

The woman half turned towards him. Something in the movement suggested to him that she had until then forgotten his presence.

"Yes," she answered. She turned from him again, and looked once more along the road. "What place is that we're coming to?" she enquired.

"That, missis? That's Sicaster."

She gave a little sigh of relief.

"I'm glad of that," she said. "It's a long way from Clothford, isn't it, when you walk all the way?"

"On such a day as this, missis, why, yes, it is," answered the waggoner. "A long way indeed."

He cast further glances at her from his eye-corners, and being of an inquisitive nature, would have liked to ask her why she had walked, seeing that the railway was near and trains were plentiful. The woman, however, showed no further disposition to talk, and he took to whistling again and stirred his horses into a slow trot.

The road now crossed a railway bridge, and after dipping slightly, began to ascend through rows of ancient houses towards the heart of the town. The horses slowed down their pace, and as the jangling noise of their bells became fainter, the waggoner and his companion became aware of the sound of such harsh music as may be made by the beating of drums and cymbals and the blowing of horns and trumpets.

"What's that?" asked the woman.

"It's the stattits, missis," said the waggoner. "Sicaster stattits, and that's the music of the shows and the wild beasts and such like."

"What are the stattits?"

"Lord love us, why, the stattits is when all the country-folk come to be hired! There's rare doings in the Market-Place, I'll lay a penny. Fat women, and real giants, and men turned to stone, and such things as them. But here we are at the Cross-Keys, and I'm going no further at present, missis," said the waggoner.

He helped his companion to alight at the door of a little inn which stood at the entrance to a large open space filled at that moment by a bustling throng of people who elbowed and jostled each other as they moved from one show to another. The woman stood on the pavement and looked somewhat helplessly about her. The waggoner tied up his reins to the cart-head, keeping his eye on her the while.

"Can you tell me where the Market-Place is?" she asked him. "I want to find somebody there, and I've never been here before."

"You can't miss it, missis," answered the waggoner. "Go straight down—there past the shows—that's the Corn-market—and through the Beast-fair—and there you are in the Market-Place."

The woman thanked him for his kindness, and went away in the direction of the noisy crowd. In the Corn-market every available inch of space was occupied by the shows and the people thronging about them. One side of the square was filled up by a menagerie of wild animals. On the platform outside it sat the bandsmen whose drums and trumpets made blaring music that failed to drown the roaring and shrill cries of the beasts inside the vans. The people crowded with a steady persistence up the steps leading to the entrance. Those who had already been inside and who had emerged with faces expressive of wonder, grouped themselves about the entrances of smaller shows, one of which held a wild man, and another a lamb with three heads. Outside each of these frail erections of sail-cloth and canvas there stood a barrel-organ or a gong, and these being continuously ground or beaten, added fresh discord to the babel of sound that arose on all sides. The whole scene was one of noise and hubbub, of jostling and horse-play, and the blowing of the trumpets and beating of the gongs tended to produce a feeling of confusion in anyone who had not previously attended similar gatherings.

The young woman who had ridden into the town with the friendly waggoner made her way along the skirts of the crowd until she came to the Market-Place. Here the scene was even noisier and more perplexing than in the wider Corn-market, for the pavement was lined with stalls at which small hucksters sold sweet-stuffs and cheap commodities, and the space beyond was filled with more shows, round-abouts, and canvas booths. Here, also, the people were more crowded together and seemed to be waiting for something to happen. A row of farm-labourers, some of whom carried whips in their hands, stood on the curb; a crowd of young women, dressed in their best, sheltered under the low roof of the old Butter-Cross. Farmers in stout driving coats and leggings walked about in the throng or chatted in groups at the shop-doors, while young folks and children clustered about the stalls or pushed their way to the fronts of the shows. Arrived there they stood in open-mouthed admiration of the gorgeous paintings that placarded the wonders to be seen inside. At all these things the stranger scarcely looked; her eyes were busily engaged in studying the signs over the shop-doors in the Market-Place. She went along one side of it without finding what she wanted, which was a dressmaker's establishment in which there was a vacant situation that she had hopes of filling. She found it at length on the direction of a friendly countrywoman, but diffidence or anxiety prevented her from entering it for a moment or two. At last she summoned sufficient courage to open the door and walk into the shop. She came out again in a few minutes with disappointment visibly expressed on her pale face. The vacant situation had been filled up that morning.

The young woman withdrew from the crowd into a quiet alley opening out of the Market-Place, and after making sure that she was unobserved, drew out a shabby leather purse from her pocket and examined the contents. Upon counting the coppers which it contained she found that she had but tenpence. She replaced the purse, and went back into the Market-Place, feeling sick at heart. She had walked from Clothford in the hope of getting the situation for which she had just made application, and her errand being fruitless, she was now in a difficult position.

Wandering aimlessly through the throng she came along the north side of the Market-Place until she reached the Butter-Cross. Here she stood looking hopelessly about her until her attention was arrested by the group of girls and young women who stood on the steps of the Cross, laughing and talking together. She noticed that now and then a farmer and his wife would step up to one or other of these and hold a conversation which seemed to partake of the nature of a bargain. Out of sheer curiosity the stranger enquired of a woman what the girls stood there for. The woman regarded her curiously.

"Why, to be hired, of course," she answered. "They're looking out for situations, and they're mighty particular, too, some on 'em, for servants are scarce to-day."

The stranger hesitated a moment, and then she made her way through the throng and took her place on the Butter-Cross.

I. Chapter 2

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 curi , 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— 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.

I. Chapter 3

CHAPTER III

THE HOME FARM

When Elisabeth entered the inn-yard she found Hepworth waiting for her. His horse was already yoked to the gig, and he himself was superintending the bestowal of various parcels under the seat. He assisted Elisabeth to climb into the gig, and gave her a rug to wrap about her knees before he got in beside her. Then he drove out of the yard by a back way that escaped the noise and bustle of the fair, and presently turned into a road that led away from Sicaster in the opposite direction to that by which Elisabeth had entered the town. By that time the light rain that had fallen with more or less persistency during the afternoon had ceased, and given place to a clear evening and a starlit sky. Elisabeth, unused to riding at a rapid pace in an open conveyance, shivered a little as the gig emerged upon the unsheltered road.

"You'll feel the cold, I daresay," said Hepworth. "I'm used to it, and it makes no difference to me. Now, there's a spare rug behind—how would it be if you put it about your shoulders?"

He pulled up the horse as he spoke, and reaching the rug from the back seat, assisted his companion in somewhat clumsy fashion, as if he were not used to the task, to wrap herself in it. Elisabeth thanked him, and was glad of the rug—the cold was keen, and her garments were ill-fitted to withstand it.

Hepworth drove on through the darkness, speaking little to Elisabeth, save to enquire now and then if she felt the cold. They passed through a village, the windows of which showed faint gleams of lamp-light, and went onward along a bleak portion of the road over which an ancient corn-mill, faintly de against the dark sky, stood sentry-like. Then came another village, larger and more straggling than the first, a mere collection of lamp-lighted windows seen fitfully in the darkness. When it was passed the road dipped into a country thickly covered by deep woods, the tree-tops of which showed in tremulous shapes against the sky. Suddenly the horse turned out of the highway into a narrow lane, shadowed on one side by the wood, and after following this for a hundred yards or so, stopped at a gate. Hepworth handed the reins to Elisabeth, and got down from the gig. Having led the horse through the gate and closed it behind them, he regained his seat, and drove forward at a walking pace. Elisabeth perceived that they were traversing the outside of a paddock thickly planted with huge trees whose branches swept the ground. Presently the lights of the house shone out through the darkness, and the gig stopped at the gate of the fold. The kitchen door opened, and a broad stream of light revealed the figures of a man carrying a lantern, and of a woman who stood behind him in the doorway. Hepworth got down from the gig, and assisted Elisabeth to alight. She stood waiting while he gave some directions to the man as to the disposal of the horse. At his bidding she then followed her new master into the kitchen. A middle-aged woman of a somewhat grim, but not unpleasant countenance, stood by the great fireplace when they entered, evidently superintending certain cooking operations which gave forth an inviting odour. She looked questioningly from Hepworth to Elisabeth.

"Now, Mally," said Hepworth. "I've found a young woman to do the bit of work we talked about. Elisabeth's her name—I'm sure you'll get on together. I daresay you'll tell her all that she wants to know, but she'll be tired to-night, so we won't ask her to do anything."

"There's nowt to do," said Mally, triumphantly. She looked at Elisabeth, and nodded. "Sit you down, lass—come to the fire. I lay it's cowd as Christmas outside, and drivin's a cowd job at t' best o' times. Now maister, if you'll nobbut go into t' parlour, I'll see 'at all's reight—I can't do wi' men about me when I'm busy."

Hepworth laughed, and disappeared into the parlour through a double door. Mally presently carried there a tray loaded with food, and shut the inner door behind her. Elisabeth heard her voice and Hepworth's in conversation. She looked round her. The kitchen in which she sat was a pattern of tidiness. The big table in the side window-place had been scrubbed to the whiteness of snow; the hearthstone was elaborately decorated with designs in potter-mould; the brass candlesticks on the mantelpiece shone like burnished gold. Elisabeth, strange as the place was to her, felt a sense of peace and security in these evidences of the old servant's orderliness.

Mally presently returned from the parlour, again closing both the doors behind her. She approached Elisabeth, and laid her hand not unkindly upon the young woman's shoulder.

"Your jacket's damp, my lass," said she. "Off wi' it, and hang it up ower th' hearth-stone. You shall hev' a drop o' tea, scaldin' hot, to tak' the cowd out o' you."

Elisabeth protested that she had already had tea at Sicaster, but she hastened to follow Mally's advice as to the jacket.

"A drop o' good tea, made as I mak' it," said Mally, "weern't hurt nobody. Down wi' it, lass, while it's hot. If you've hed your tea at Sicaster, you weern't be wantin' owt to ate just now, but happen you'll do wi' a bit o' supper later on. There's no stint in this house for onnybody."

Elisabeth drank the tea which Mally gave her. It was strong and good, and of an infinitely superior taste and quality to that which she had tasted in the Sicaster eating-house. She said as much to Mally, who sat on the opposite side of the hearth, and drank her own tea out of a pint bowl. Mally wagged her head wisely.

"I tak' no notice o' them ateing-houses and their tea," said she. "It's nobbut poor wishy-washy stuff at t' best o' times, and their bread's sad, and t' butter's sour. I'd rather pine thro' here to Sicaster and back, and hev' my own when I get home again, than depend o' them ateing-houses."

She then said that as the master would want nothing for a while, she would show Elisabeth the house, so that she might know her way about next morning. Elisabeth assented with alacrity, and followed Mally through various chambers, upstairs and downstairs, all scrupulously clean and old-fashioned, and redolent of soap and water. Before a great chest on the staircase Mally paused and looked at her companion with a significant expression.