A Story in Light Relief.
by Victor L. Whitechurch.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #12 (Mar 1906).
The mirthful matrimonial manœuvres of an old village cobbler.
Farmer Stubbings walked in at the open door of Joseph Gumm's cottage and stood tapping his yellow leggings with his stick.
"Mornin', Joe!"
"Good mornin', Muster Stubbings," replied Joe, shifting his gaze from the farmer's face to his boots, which he studied attentively for some moments, after which he went on with his occupation of hammering in hobnails.
"Busy, Joe?" went on the farmer, with a view to preliminary conversation.
"Middlin'—pretty middlin', Muster Stubbings. Do ye want a job done?"
"No, thankee, Joe."
"Them boots o' yourn wouldn't be no worse for solein' and heelin'," remarked Joe, again critically regarding the other's foot-wear.
"They can bide a bit yet, I reckon," answered the farmer.
"Umph!" replied the cobbler, recommencing the hammering.
Two more minutes passed. They transacted business leisurely at Little Marplethorpe.
"Got it ready, Joe?" asked the farmer presently; "'tis due to-day, you know."
"I knows, right enough—trust you for remindin' on me if I'd forgot," replied Joe, putting down his hammer and drawing a leather bag out of his pocket. "I've never been behind yet, have I?"
"You ain't," said Stubbings, as he carefully counted the quarter's rent, "but I wish you wouldn't always put in so many threepenny-bits—they're plaguey awkward little coins."
"I gets 'em together a-purpose," replied Joe.
"Why?"
"Handy for you for church collections, Muster Stubbings."
The farmer reddened. It was proverbial that whenever the bag came round in church his eyes were glued to his hymn book and he could see naught else. He receipted the amount in the cobbler's rent book, and then the latter remarked:
"The wet comes in at the back when the wind be in the south, the chimbley smokes, and a smart bit o' the roof wants tilin'. When be goin' to see to 'un, Muster Stubbings?"
The farmer paused a long time before replying. When he spoke it was no answer to the question that he gave, but a startling announcement.
"I want this cottage at Michaelmas, Joe. So you must take a quarter's notice and quit."
Joe slowly laid down the hammer he had resumed and gazed steadily at the other's face.
"What do 'ee mean, Muster Stubbings?" he ejaculated.
"What I say. Tom Allen's cottage is falling to pieces and 'twon't pay me to patch it up. 'Tis gone too far. So I'm going to put him in here."
Tom Allen was the farmer's head carter.
"And where be I to go, Muster Stubbings?"
"That's your look out."
"Why, I've lived here these thutty-five year and more—long afore you was master o' Gray's farm. I've payed my rent reg'lar—you knows I has—and you ain't got no right to turn me out."
"Can't help it, Joe. The cottage is mine and I must have it by Michaelmas. You've got three clear months to look out for another. I thought you might get talking nonsense about your rights, so I've put it on paper. 'Tis quite legal. Here you are. Good-morning."
He laid down an envelope on the last, turned on his heel, and departed. The old cobbler slowly took the paper from the envelope and read it. It took him some time before he fairly digested the contents and the remainder of the hobnails by no means showed in straight lines on the sole of the boot he was mending.
For old Joe Gumm was sore of heart and puzzled of mind. He was without relatives in the world—a confirmed old bachelor, living by himself in the little cottage. A neighbour came in to help him with his cooking and to "tidy up" occasionally, for the remuneration of a shilling a week. He earned enough money at his cobbling to make both ends meet, and, very occasionally, a windfall came in the shape of an order for a pair of boots. His life was a fairly contented one, for his wants were few and simple.
But this was a thunderbolt from the blue. Certainly he had three months in which to make his preparations, but he foresaw the difficulty. Cottages in Little Marplethorpe were scarcely ever to let.
At the end of a month the difficulty was as black as ever. He had made inquiries, but had heard of nothing. One day the Vicar, an exceedingly mild old gentleman, called to see him.
"What's the matter, Joe?" he asked. "You look troubled!"
"'Es—I be troubled, sir," and he laid the facts before him.
"It'll end in my havin' to clear out o' the village, and then I dunno where to go. And all my trade lies in Little Marplethorpe."
"Dear, dear!" said the Vicar, "isn't there any way out of it! Couldn't you go somewhere to lodge? Why, Mrs. Simmons was telling me only yesterday that she had a spare bedroom."
"'Twon't do, sir. I seen her. She don't want a lodger what has his work at home—that's where it comes in."
"Of course—of course. Yes; I see. What a pity! If only Widow Higgs would do as I've suggested to her several times the problem would be solved."
"What be that, sir?"
"Why, I've often pointed out to her that with her attacks of rheumatism it isn't safe for her to live alone. I want her to make an arrangement with Jane Piper. I'm sure the two old ladies could get along far more comfortably if they lived together, and it would set one of their cottages free."
Joe Gumm laughed.
"They'd kill each other afore a week was out. Why, the two winmen hates each other like pison—allus has. Old Sally Higgs, it 'pears she married Jane Piper's young man forty year ago or more. And Jane ain't never forgiven her—no—not though she married herself two year arter. And when Sam Piper fell in the brook when he were drunk and got drownded—ah, these fifteen year come Easter (that was afore you come here, sir), Sally Higgs, she said Jane druv him to 't, and that she'd saved her own husband's life a-marrying on him as she did. Arter a bit, he died—was laid up with roomatics for eight or nine months first—and then Jane said as how 'twas Sally's tongue as wore him out, he bein' obliged to bide at home and listen to it. Oh, no, there ain't no love lost atween 'em, I can tell 'ee, sir."
"Dear me—dear me! This is very sad. And to think that they both attend church with all this malice in their hearts: I really—yes—I ought to try to reconcile them."
In answer, Joe Gumm took up a heavy labourer's boot and a child's shoe.
"'Twould be easier to make these two into a pair than to get Sally Higgs and Jane Piper to agree, I reckon, sir," he said, "and as to 'em a-livin' together, well, there!"
For words failed him to describe the consequences.
"I might ha' got drawed into the row myself," he went on reminiscently. "When I were a young chap they both on 'em set their caps at me—ah, they did! They was fine young wimmen, too, but I wasn't never a marryin' man, sir."
"Well, Joe, if you had been you'd not be wanting for a home to-day, perhaps," said the Vicar. "Well, if I hear of a cottage I'll bear you in mind. Good-afternoon!"
Joe Gumm bid the Vicar "Good-day" and fell to work again. The conversation had recalled old times.
"Now," he said to himself, "I wonder which on 'em I'd ha' took if I had a-married. Sally, she were a bouncin' gal! I minds a-kissin' on her once! Lor', to think o' what I might ha' done!"
Then he remembered how Sally had come in for the cottage before she married—it had belonged to her father—and how that was the final inducement for Higgs to break off with Jane.
"Ah," he muttered, "and 'tis a very nice little place, too. There's that room what she uses to store taters and things in—'twould ha' made a reg'lar nice shop—side door and all."
Then his thoughts turned on Jane.
"She as good as told me I might have her," he said; "'twas one night as I were a-walkin' out with her and she asked me why I never put my arm round her—same as other chaps wanted to do–said, o' course, she never let them do it. Only I was always a bit shy with the gals, and I didn't know how far it might ha' led. She made that drunken husband o' hers a good wife, too. Saved enough money out o' her wages as cook up at the Vicarage afore she married, and out o' her takin' in washin' arterwards, to buy that 'ere cottage what she lives in. 'Um—'twouldn't ha' done for me quite so well—but there's the little barn. That's part o' the property. That 'ud make a cobbler's shop. Only wants a winder a-puttin' in."
After a while he laid down his work, filled his bit of a clay pipe, and puffed away at it thoughtfully.
"Ah," he said, presently, "what the Vicar says was true. If I'd married either o' they widders when they was single wimmen, I shouldn't be wantin' of a home to-day."
Then, slowly—very slowly—a thought worked and wormed and twisted itself into his brain. The pipe went out as the thought grew. He forgot to replace it in his mouth, but sat, holding it at arm's length. His lips parted. His eyes opened wide. His forehead puckered.
"Lor', what a fool I be!" he exclaimed suddenly, taking up a piece of leather and cutting a bit out of it for a patch.
Tap—tap-tap.
The patch was being hammered on the sole of the boot. Once again he stopped short. Then he got up, walked across the room to the cracked looking-glass that hung over the mantelpiece, brushed his hair a bit smooth with his hand, and said:
"You was a good-lookin' chap in them days, Joe—but now you be—you be-well, but you don't look as old as you be—even now!"
He sat down again and resumed his work, only to break it off once more.
"Wonder which one on 'em was most in love with me!" he ejaculated. The visit to the looking-glass had aroused his vanity.
Tap—tap—tap.
And with every tap that subtle idea went further and further into his mind—day after day. So it came to pass that in the course of a week or two he found himself saying:
"Sally's strong enough yet, bar her roomatics. And Jane keeps on at her wash tub as good as ever."
In three weeks' time the idea had shaped itself into a definite question.
"Wonder which on 'em 'ud have me if I asked 'em now?"
Which question he finally determined to settle, for that very day the farmer put his head inside the door.
"Got a cottage, Joe?"
"No, I ain't, Muster Stubbings."
"Well, you've got to clear out, you know—there's only five more weeks."
"I knows!"
Then a perspiration broke out upon him. That meant a fortnight to settle things in, which would leave three Sundays—for the banns!
The fact that he had just mended a pair of Sally Higgs' shoes, together with the conclusion that the little room devoted to "taters" was, after all, more convenient for his purposes than the barn, went far to determine his mind as to which should be the favoured widow. Putting on his best black coat and Sunday hat, he tied the shoes up in a brown paper parcel and proceeded up the village street with an oppressive feeling on his chest.
"Come in!" said a voice, as he tapped at the door of the cottage. "Oh, it be you, Muster Gumm."
"I've brought back they shoes," began the cobbler, as he took off his hat. The widow was seated by the fire, just about to make her tea. The room was cosy and comfortable.
"You promised 'em Saturday," said Sally Higgs with some asperity.
"I knows I did—but I was out o' my best leather," replied Joe, lying manfully. "How be you to-day, Mrs. Higgs?"
"My roomatics is bad—they give me a middlin' deal o' trouble."
"Ah," said the old man sympathetically, "you didn't ought to live alone. What you wants is someone to see arter you."
"Most folks' room is better than their company, I finds," replied the widow. "I keeps myself to myself, and while I can get about at all I shall continue so to do."
It was not very encouraging, but Joe Gumm took a chair, unbidden, and went on making remarks about the weather, past, present, and future possibilities, till Sally, who was in a mind for her tea, asked him plainly:
"What do 'ee want, Muster Gumm? I can't pay ye now, but you knows I allus settles up o' Saturdays."
"That be all right, ma'am, don't you take no notice o' that. I be pleased to do ye a service, Mrs. Higgs. I don't want no pay at all—I—I was a-thinkin' the other day o' when you and me was young—Sally.
"Yes, Sally, when you and me was young, and you was a single woman. 'Tain't so very long ago—and you be a fine woman still—you be! And I minded that night as I kissed you behind the hayrick, and you says: "Don't you dare do that agen, Joe'—meanin' I was to. But I didn't, and I've allus wished I had. Who knows what might ha' happened?"
"Goodness gracious!"
"And when I says you didn't oughter live alone I means I ain't forgot that night. I'm not so young as I was, Sally, but I've been mortal fond of 'ee all these years, ah! that I have, though I ain't never said a word—and—and—"
"Lor' bless the man!" shrieked Sally, "do 'ee mean 'ee wants to marry me?"
"That's it," said Joe, suddenly brought to the scratch. "I come this arternoon a purpose to ask ye—will ye have me, Sally?"
He mopped his face with his bandana handkerchief and turned his eyes on her. For a moment or two she held her breath in astonishment. Then she gave her answer.
"You come a-courtin'! What do 'ee mean? I knows. You wants a home, that's what you wants. If ye'd wanted me why didn't ye come years ago arter Higgs was took away? It's because you has to turn out o' your cottage, that's what 'tis. Marry an old bow-legged cobbler like you! Why, if I was to have roomatiz all over me body and be crippled in me arms as well as me legs I wouldn't take ye—no more would no one else, I reckon."
"I'm not so sure of that," replied Joe, fired to desperation and departing from his love-sick tones, "I knows who'd have me if I was to ask her—she allus was sweet on me."
"Who's that?" asked the widow.
"Mrs. Piper," replied Joe dogmatically.
The old lady gave a contemptuous sniff, while a vicious look came into her face.
"Jane Piper! A shrivelled-up old cat like that! Sweet on ye, was she? Ho!"
"She was," replied Joe, a terrible lie taking root in his mind as he went on solemnly, "and do you know why I broke off with her when I was a young man?"
"Well?"
"'Twas because of her vanity. She wouldn't allow as you was the handsomest young woman in Little Marplethorpe. That's the rock as we split on. I wouldn't walk out with her no more, tho' I was the fust as ever she had. And I knows she ain't never forgot them days."
"Go 'long," snapped the widow, "go and ask Jane Piper to marry you if you're so sure on her!"
"I shall ask her—outer desperation—if you says no."
"Well, I does say no, d'yer hear? I never heerd tell o' such a thing—I won't say another word. You be an old fool, Muster Gumm."
It was useless arguing, and the cobbler had to beat an ignominious retreat. The whole of that evening he sat, smoking his pipe, and thinking over the situation. And he determined the following morning to put the question to widow Piper.
"'Tis the only chance," he said to himself. "It's a thing as has to be done. Lor', how I wish 'twas over. When a man's kept away from the wimmen all his life 'tis terr'ble orkad to propose to 'em two days runnin'!"
On his way to Jane Piper he had to pass Sally's cottage. He happened to look over his shoulder when he had gone by. Sally had come to the door and was watching him as he went up the village. She stood there, watching him still, as he disappeared through the gate of Jane's garden. The sight of her fired his courage.
Jane was at her wash-tub, and, after the preliminaries, stood with arms akimbo and soapy hands listening to Joe's offer. He was a little more self-possessed than the previous evening and pointed out that he was in receipt of a more or less regular income, and that a comfortable settlement of affairs might result.
"Why ain't you never a-married afore?" asked Jane, eyeing him intently.
"Because the only woman as I ever cared for was took from me by Samuel Piper," rejoined Joe, "and I hadn't never the heart to take up with no other."
"You hadn't never the heart to take up with me, if I rec'lect rightly," answered Jane with fine scorn. "And what makes you come a-askin' on me now!"
"Because I can't keep back my feelin's no longer."
"Your feelin's! 'Ow you must a-suffered all these years!"
"I has, Jane—oh, I has!"
"I believe yer! Got to turn out at Michaelmas, ain't yer?"
"Oh, 'tain't that, Jane—'tain't that."
"Ho, no! 'Course it ain't. Now, let me give yer a bit o' my mind, Joe Gumm. I've had one man to do with, and he were trouble enough, goodness knows! And if you thinks I'm a-goin' to give you a home free gratis and for nothink, you're downright mistook. A lazy lot o' idle warmints what wants a pore woman to toil and slave for 'em. That's what the men are. You oughter be ashamed o' yourself, Joseph Gumm, an old man like you a-tryin' to take in a widder. Go and ask someone else what's more fool than I be. I won't have naught to do with yer!"
Joe's reply was haughty and peculiar.
"Well, Jane," he said, "I'd ha' rather 'twas you—and I wanted to give you a chance. But if you won't—you won't—that's all. And I must take another woman that will."
"What d'yer mean?"
"Well, I'll tell ye the truth," said Joe, with a confidential burst of mendacity. "I was up at Sally Higgs' yesterday arternoon, and I says: 'Mrs. Higgs,' I says, 'I'm a-goin' to ask Mrs. Piper if she'll marry me. We used to be sweethearts once, and I've always blamed myself for not a-havin' on her when I were young—that's what's kep' me single all these years,' I says. Well, Mrs. Higgs, she turned as white as a sheet, and she says: 'Joe, she says, 'you bain't a-goin' to do no such thing, I hope!' "I be!' says I. Then she burst into tears, and she says, a-chokin'-like: 'And if she refuses you, Joe, ain't there no one else as you'd ask—what might say yes?' 'Lor', Mrs. Higgs,' I says, 'I dunno what you means.' 'Yes, you do,' she says, 'ain't you never thought of how you kissed me when I were a young woman?' 'I'd nigh forgot,' I says."
"And had yer kissed her?" asked Jane.
"Scores o' times. Well, she says: 'Joe,' she says, 'I never reely cared for no one but you, and I'd have yer now if you was to ask me.' 'Sally Higgs,' I says, 'I'm main sorry for you, but I ain't a-goin' to allow sentiment to trifle with my affecshuns,' I says, 'I shall ask Jane Piper first.' There, now I've told ye the truth, and I be goin' back to see her."
"Go and see the designin' old thing!" snorted Jane Piper, as she thrust her arms with a splash into her wash-tub. "I don't want to have naught to do with yer!"
Joe shook his head sadly.
"Think over what I've said, Jane. I bain't in no hurry—p'raps you'll let me know afore the week's out. I shan't go to Mrs. Higgs just yet. I'd rather 'twas you."
As he went back Sally was still at her door. She eyed him as he drew near. He stopped.
"I've been and talked it over with Jane Piper," he said.
"Humph!"
"She'd be willin' enough—I know'd she would. But I told her to think over it—so's to give you time to change your mind, Sally. 'Tis you as I wants."
For his eye caught that convenient side room at the moment. Mrs. Higgs hobbled inside her door and slammed it without a word.
For three days the old man kept indoors—assiduously mending boots. Every now and then he gave vent to a wicked little chuckle.
"'Twill be all right, I knows," he said to himself, "I've made 'em mortal jealous of each other and I'm a-givin' on 'em both time to think it over. On Monday I'll go and see Sally—'tis the most convenient cottage. If she still says no, I'll be bound the other'll say yes. Lor'—but I knows how to deal with wimmen arter all!"
So he did—to a certain extent. For there was much cogitation within the cottages of the widows, and yellow jealousy possessed them both—more strongly than it had all these forty years, and that was saying a great deal.
On Saturday afternoon widow Piper appeared at Joe's cottage with a pair of boots to be re-soled. Joe did not refer to their last meeting, but Jane evidently had something to say.
"Do ye still keep the pledge, Joe?"
"I does—never drinks nothin' stronger than tea."
"What do you make a week?"
"Sometimes eighteen or twenty shillin's—sometimes more."
"If I was to agree, you'd keep on Workin'?"
"I hates havin' nothin' to do."
"How 'bout a shop?"
"I'd pay to have a winder put in the barn."
"Well, Joe," said Jane decidedly, "I've bin a-thinkin' it over and p'raps I might do wuss."
Joe's eyes sparkled.
"I allus was fond o' ye, Jane."
"That's rubbish—we be old folk now--but, I'll have 'ee, Joe."
The bargain was struck prosaically enough when it came to the point.
"How about the banns?" asked Jane, with an eye to business.
"To-morrow week 'll be time enough—that'll make the three Sundays afore Michaelmas. I'll see parson about 'em."
Jane departed presently, and as she passed widow Higgs' open door could not refrain from crying:
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Higgs—Joe Gumm and me has just been havin' a talk—maybe he'll have somethin' to tell ye when he sees yer!"
An hour later a small child came to Joe Gumm.
"Please, Mr. Gumm, Mrs. Higgs wants to see yer at once, and I was to say 'tis very perticler."
In some trepidation the cobbler reached down his hat, and went up the village. In Mrs. Higgs' cottage tea was laid for two. Sally had her best gown on, and was toasting a slice of bread.
"Sit down and have a cup o' tea, Joe," said the old lady coyly, "I'm main glad to see you."
Over the tea widow Higgs came to the point. She was very sentimental over it. Joe sat, white with apprehension, as she told him how she had thought matters over, and how she had come to the conclusion that she would accept his offer.
"But—but," said the unfortunate Joe, "I asked Jane Piper—and—"
"You don't care for she, do 'ee?"
"N-no," admitted the unhappy Joe, "but I thought you wasn't a-goin' to have me—and she says she will—and—"
"Well, you ain't a-goin' to marry her, be yer?"
"No—no—o' course not—I means—I—"
"Come and 'ave a look at the 'tater room," said the widow insinuatingly. "'Twill make a nice shop—Joe."
Joe looked—and was once more lost.
"Now then," said the widow, "if that woman has been a-makin' o' you promise anything, you must get out on it!"
"Yes," replied Joe meekly.
"Let's see," went on Sally, who was eminently practical, "to-morrow's Sunday. You go to parson now and tell him to put up the banns."
"Won't—won't next Sunday do, Sally?"
"There ain't nothin' to wait for, be there? We be both old folk, and the sooner things is settled the better. You go to 'un now."
So the miserable Joe went to the Vicar and asked him to publish the banns the following day. The Vicar chaffed him gently on his engagement, but Joe was in no mood for humour. He went back to his shop and groaned.
"Oh, Lor', what a fool I be! What be I to do? I've told both on 'em I'd have 'em. Why did I ever try a-tamperin with wimmen's affecshuns? I've a mind to run away and drown myself. How can I tell Jane Piper?"
Later in the evening the Vicar was sorely puzzled. For Jane had been thinking things over and had determined to clinch matters in case there should be a slip. A note was brought in to the Vicar, containing half-a crown and the following:—
Rev. sir,—Pleas publish the bands of marrage between Joseph Gumm, batchler, and Jane Piper, widow, to-morrer, which we thinks it best so to do.
Yours respectfully,
Mrs. Jane Piper.
Over and over again the Vicar read these lines and compared them with the notice which he had already written out. In despair of the solution he put on his overcoat and went round to interview Gumm.
He found that worthy seated at his last. As the Vicar entered he raised his head.
"Ah," he said, "I was just a-comin' to see you, sir—about the banns."
"I cannot conceive what you mean, Joe. A couple of hours ago you gave me to understand you were going to marry Mrs. Higgs, and just now I've received a set of banns for publication between you and Mrs. Piper."
"Oh, she's been and give 'em in, too, has she?" Joe said.
"Which do you want published, then?"
"Either on 'em, or both on 'em. 'Twon't make no diff'rence. Only I forbids they banns, sir. Better not publish 'em at all."
"Joe! Have you lost your senses?"
"No, sir—but 'tis this way. You put the idea o' marryin' one on 'em into my head a month ago—when I had notice to leave. But Muster Williams, he've just been to see me. He's got a cottage to let at Michaelmas—Jim Alder's a-goin' to leave the village—and I'm a-goin' to take it. I shan't have to marry neither on 'em now!"
Sally Higgs and Jane Piper have transferred their scanty custom to a cobbler in the next village. They are more at daggers drawn than ever. Joe Gumm pursues his trade in solitary peace. Now and then he surveys himself in the glass and says:
"I s'pose I bain't so bad-lookin'—for an old 'un. But 'twas a narrer escape. Goodness knows which on 'em would ha' married me in the end!"