The Tale of a Surprise.
by Fred C. Barry.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.3 #14 (May 1906).
Showing that it does not do to take too much for granted where a woman is concerned.
"Peter!" quoth Mr. Hardcastle, to his general utility man.
"Well, what's the matter?" lazily responded Peter Horn, with a half-masticated straw between his teeth, as he looked up from the bit of harness he was mending.
"The Widow Lawson has taken the cottage at the foot of the lane."
"Tell me something I didn't know afore," said Peter, with more freedom than reverence in his manner.
"And if she sends up to borrow the rake, or the hoe, or the spade—"
"Well, what then?"
"Tell her she can't have 'em. Women are always borrowing. I knew Lawson when he was alive; he was a chronic borrower. I don't want to have anything to do with his widow."
"All right," observed Peter philosophically, and his master resumed the perusal of his newspaper once more.
"Peter!" said Mr. Hardcastle, about ten days afterwards, as he came in heated and out of breath from a walk. (Mr. Hardcastle wasn't so active as he had been before his forty-fifth birthday.)
"Well, what now?"
"I wonder if that was the Widow Lawson I saw gatherin' blackberries on the hedge of the cottage garden?"
"Sort o' slim and tall?"
"Yes."
"Blue eyes, and hair as shiny as satin?"
"Yes."
"And a little white parasol, lined with pink?"
"Yes."
"Werry likely it was," said Peter.
"But," persisted the puzzled farmer, "she doesn't look at all like a widow."
"There's as much difference in widows as there is in other folks," observed Peter drily.
Mr. Hardcastle was silent for a minute or two.
"Peter!" he finally said.
"Well?"
"Has she sent to borrow anything?"
"Sent yesterday forenoon—asked if we had a screwdriver to lend—the hinge was comin' loose on the garden gate."
"And what did you tell her?"
"Said my order was contrariwise to lending or borrowin'."
"Peter, you are a fool!"
"'Tain't the first time you've said so, and 'tain't the first time you've been wrong," said Peter, with a calmness of demeanour that was beautiful to behold. "Hard words is considered in the wages, and I ain't the man to find fault. I only did as you told me."
"Yes, but, Peter, never mind; the next time she sends, let her have whatever she wants."
"Said somethin' about wantin a man to come and hoe them early potatoes. Be I to go?"
"Certainly—of course. Neighbours should act like neighbours, especially in the country.'
And Mr. Hardcastle sighed and wished that he were not too corpulent and unused to work to hoe the Widow Lawson's early potatoes himself. But he did the next best thing; he went over to look at the field after Peter had hoed it, and gave the widow good advice concerning a certain rocky, uphill bit of land that belonged to the cottage.
"I'd lay that down in winter rye, if I were you," said Mr. Hardcastle.
"I am so much obliged to you, said the widow sweetly. "Since poor dear John was taken away, I have no one to advise me on these subjects." And Mr. Hardcastle thought how soft and pretty her blue eyes looked as she spoke.
"Oh, pshaw!" said Peter, leaning on the handle of his hoe, "winter rye ain't the sort o' crop for that spot. Spring wheat's the only thing to grow there."
"Hold your tongue, Peter:" cried his employer testily.
"Yes, sir, I will," said Peter, with a broad grin over Mr. Hardcastle's bald head.
"And about these hyacinth beds," said the latter, recovering his equanimity. "I'll come over this evening, if you will allow me—"
"I shall be delighted," interrupted the widow, with a smile that showed a set of teeth as white and regular as pearls. "This evening, madam," repeated Mr. Hardcastle, with a bow, "an we'll sketch a diagram. Hyacinths have to be humoured, Mrs. Lawson."
"So I have always heard," said the widow.
That evening, after Mr. Hardcastle had returned from discussing the momentous question of sandy soil, bulbous roots, and crescents and circles, he found Peter sitting in front of the house contentedly breathing the flower-scented air.
"A very pretty woman, that Mrs. Lawson, Peter," said the employer, not because there was any special congeniality of soul between himself and his farm hand, but because he could have talked to the gate posts if Peter hadn't happened to be there.
"Well, nobody doubts that, as I ever heard on," said Peter, with his elbows on his knees and his face turned complacently towards the full moon.
"And she can't be over thirty."
"So I should ha' said myself," assented Peter.
"I'm glad she has taken the cottage on a long lease, Peter," pursued Mr. Hardcastle. "I like good neighbours."
"Most folks does," observed Peter.
And he got up, shaking himself like a great Newfoundland dog, leaving Mr. Hardcastle to the companionship of his own cogitations. There are times when solitude is said to be the best company; perhaps this was one of the special occasions, in the estimation of Peter Horn.
The summer went by; the great chestnut in front of Mr. Hardcastle's house began to glow as if its leaves had been dipped in gold; the asters reared their heads along the stone wall by the cottage under the hill, and any acute observer might have perceived that Mrs. Lawson had laid down the rocky bit of uphill ground in spring wheat instead of winter rye.
"Peter!" said Mr. Hardcastle to his man one evening; it was the first time they had had a fire on the wide, old-fashioned hearth.
"Well?"
"I have concluded it's best for you not to live in this house any longer."
"What's goin' to happen?" said Peter. "You ain't goin' to get another man, be you?"
"No, certainly not. You suit me admirably, Peter, only—" and Mr. Hardcastle shot the words out with an effort, "I am thinking of getting married."
"Oh!"
"It's rather late in life, to be sure," said Mr. Hardcastle, conscious of looking extremely sheepish, "but you know, Peter, it's never too late to do a good thing."
"Certainly not."
"You ought to get married, Peter," added his employer, speaking in rather a rapid and embarrassed manner.
"Think so?"
"Certainly. You might live in the little house beyond the orchard; it wouldn't take much to do it up nicely, now that paint and paper are so cheap."
Peter stared reflectively at the fire.
"And your wife could look after the cream and butter for us. It isn't likely Mrs. L— ahem!—it isn't likely, I mean, that my wife will care to do such things."
"Humph!"
"I'd advise you to turn the thing over in your mind, Peter," said Mr. Hardcastle.
"Yes, I will," said Peter, with a little cough.
The next morning Mr. Hardcastle attired himself in his best suit and went to the cottage.
Mrs. Lawson received him with a charming manner.
Mr. Hardcastle wasted no time in useless preliminary chit-chat.
"Mrs. Lawson," he began, a little nervously, "I have concluded to change my condition."
"Indeed!" said the widow, smiling, like an opening rose. "I am so glad to hear it."
"And I am here this morning to ask you to be my wife!" pursued our hero boldly.
"You are kind, sir," said Mrs. Lawson, blushing, and looking prettier than ever, "but I—I really couldn't."
"And why not?" demanded Mr. Hardcastle, fairly taken aback by this unexpected answer.
"I am engaged!" owned up the charming widow, playing with the ribbons at her belt.
"Might I dare to ask—that is—"
"Oh, certainly. It's Peter Horn."
Mr. Hardcastle stammered out a sentence or two of congratulation, and took his leave.
And when the spring wheat reared its green tassels on the hillside Peter married the pretty young widow, and Mr. Hardcastle is single yet. He always felt as if he had been ill-treated, but he never could tell exactly how.