Henry Wood - Johnny Ludlow, Fourth Series

Never a night when he went to bed, never a morning when he got up, but Stephen Radcliffe’s hungry heart gave a dismal groan to that three hundred a-year he had been deprived of. In truth, his own poor three hundred was not enough for him. And then, he had expected that the six would all be his! He had, he said, to work like a slave to keep up the Torr, and make both ends meet. His two children were for ever tugging at his purse-strings. Tom, quitting the sea, had settled in a farm in Canada; but he was always writing home for help. Lizzy would make her appearance at home at all kinds of unseasonable times; and tell pitiful stories of the wants of her scanty ménage at Birmingham, and of her little children, and of the poor health and short pay of her husband the curate. Doubtless Stephen had rather a hard life of it and could very well have done with a doubled income. To hear that Frank was going to settle down to a sober existence and to marry a wife, was the worst news of all to Stephen, for it lessened his good chances finely.

But he had only the will to hinder it, not the power. And matters and the year went swimmingly on. Francis entered into possession of the farm; and just a week before Midsummer Day, he married Annet Skate and took her home.

The red June sunset fell full on Pitchley’s Farm, staining the windows a glowing crimson. Pitchley’s Farm lay in a dell, about a mile from Dyke Manor, on the opposite side to Sandstone Torr. It was a pretty little homestead, with jessamine on the porch, and roses creeping up the frames of the parlour-windows. Just a year had gone by since the wedding, and to-morrow would be the anniversary of the wedding-day. Mr. and Mrs. Francis Radcliffe were intending to keep it, and had bidden their friends to an entertainment. He had carried out his resolution to be steady, and they had prospered fairly well. David Skate, one of Annet’s brothers, a thorough, practical farmer, was ever ready to come over, if wanted, and help Francis with work and counsel.

Completely tired with her day’s exertions, was Annet, for she had been making good things for the morrow, and now sat down for the first time that day in the parlour—a low room, with its windows open to the clustering roses, and the furniture bright and tasty. Annet was of middle height, light and active, with a delicate colour on her cheeks, soft brown eyes, and small features. She had just changed her cotton gown for one of pink summer muslin, and looked as fresh as a daisy.

“How tired I am!” she exclaimed to herself, with a smile. “Frank would scold me if he knew it.”

“Be you ready for supper, ma’am?” asked a servant, putting in her head at the door. The only maid kept: for both Frank and his wife knew that their best help to getting on was economy.

“Not yet, Sally. I shall wait for your master.”

“Well, I’ve put it on the table, ma’am; and I’m just going to step across now to Hester Bitton’s, and tell her she’ll be wanted here to-morrow.”

Annet went into the porch, and stood there looking out for her husband, shading her eyes with her hand from the red glare. Some business connected with stock took him to Worcester that day, and he had started in the early morning; but Annet had expected him home earlier than this.

There he was, riding down the road at a sharpish trot; Annet heard the horse’s hoofs before she saw him. He waved his hand to her in the distance, and she fluttered her white handkerchief back again. Thorpe, the indoor man, appeared to take the horse.

Francis Radcliffe had been changing for the better during the past twelvemonth. Regular habits and regular hours, and a mind healthily occupied, had done great things for him. His face was bright, his blue eyes were clear, and his smile and his voice were alike cheering as he got off the horse and greeted his wife.

“You are late, Frank! It is ever so much past eight.”

“Our clocks are fast: I’ve found that out to-day, Annet, But I could not get back before.”

He had gone into the parlour, had kissed her, and was disincumbering his pockets of various parcels: she helping him. Both were laughing, for there seemed to be no end to them. They contained articles wanted for the morrow: macaroons, and potted lampreys, and lots of good things.

“Don’t say again that I forget your commissions, Annet.”

“Never again, Frank. How good you are! But what is in this one? it feels soft.”

“That’s for yourself,” said Frank. “Open it.”

Cutting the string, the paper flew apart, disclosing a baby’s cloak of white braided cashmere. Annet laughed and blushed.

“Oh, Frank! How could you?”

“Why, I heard you say you must get one.”

“Yes—but—not just yet. It may not be wanted, you know.”

“Stuff! The thing was in Mrs. What’s-her-name’s window in High Street, staring passers-by in the face; so I went in, and bought it.”

“It’s too beautiful,” murmured Annet, putting it reverently into the paper, as if she mistook it for a baby. “And how has the day gone, Frank? Could you buy the sheep?”

“Yes; all right. The sheep—Annet, who do you think is coming here to-morrow? Going to honour us as one of the guests?”

At the break in the sentence, Frank had flung himself into a chair, and thrown his head back, laughing. Annet wondered.

“Stephen! It’s true. He had gone to Worcester after some sheep himself. I asked whether we should have the pleasure of seeing them here, and he curtly said that he was coming, but couldn’t answer for Mrs. Radcliffe. Had the Pope of Rome told me he was coming, I should not have been more surprised.”

“Stephen’s wife took no notice of the invitation.”

“Writing is not in her line: or in his either. Something must be in the wind, Annet: neither he nor his wife has been inside our doors yet.”

They sat down to supper, full of chat: as genial married folks always are, after a day’s separation. And it was only when the house was at rest, and Annet was lighting the bed-candle, that she remembered a letter lying on the mantel-piece.

“Oh, Frank, I ought to have given it to you at once; I quite forgot it. This letter came for you by this morning’s post.”

Frank sat down again, drew the candle to him, and read it. It was from one of his former friends, a Mr. Briarly; offering on his own part and on that of another former friend, one Pratt, a visit to Pitchley’s Farm.

Instincts arise to all of us: instincts that it might be well to trust to oftener than we do. A powerful instinct, against the offered visit, rushed into the mind of Francis Radcliffe. But the chances are, that, in the obligations of hospitality, it would not have prevailed, even had the chance been afforded him.

“Cool, I must say!” said Frank, with a laugh. “Look here, Annet; these two fellows are going to take us by storm to-morrow. If I don’t want them, says Briarly, I must just shut the door in their faces.”

“But you’ll be glad to see them, won’t you, Frank?” she remarked in her innocence.

“Yes. I shall like well enough to see them again. It’s our busy time, though: they might have put it off till after harvest.”

As many friends went to this entertainment at Pitchley’s Farm as liked to go. Mr. Brandon was one of them: he walked over with us—with me, and Tod, and the Squire, and the mater. Stephen Radcliffe and his wife were there, Becca in a black silk with straps of rusty velvet across it. Stephen mostly sat still and said nothing, but Becca’s sly eyes were everywhere. Frank and his wife, well dressed and hospitable, welcomed us all; and the board was well spread with cold meats and dainties.

Old Brandon had a quiet talk with Annet in a corner of the porch. He told her he was glad to find Frank seemed likely to do well at the farm.