Baring-Gould Sabine
Cheap Jack Zita
CHAPTER XVII
A CRAWL ABROAD
NO country in the world is so subject to variations in the climate as England, and in no part of England are the variations so felt as in the Fens. No hills, no belts of trees there break the force of the wind. The gales rush over the plains unresisted from every quarter. Elsewhere there are hedgerows, on the sunny side of which appear the celandine and primrose in early spring, then the red-robin, the bluebell, our lady's smock, and the gorgeous spires of foxglove later still. There are no hedgeflowers in the Fens, for there are no hedges. Elsewhere the landscape is variegated with coppice that is brown in autumn and pine woods that are dark green all the year. It is not so in the Fens. There are no trees. When the snow falls, it envelops the entire surface in white.
The frost had passed away, and the waters had been released. With the thaw the mills had been set again in motion, and the sails flew fast to make up for lost time. Now again a single night had altered the complexion of the fen-land. All was white that had been black. The snow had filled the ruts, and, consolidating, had formed a comparatively smooth surface. Rivers and dykes were not frozen, only a little cat ice had formed among the reeds.
Zita was in the farmyard. She had gone there to put her van to rights. The van demanded her attention. The fowls had taken to roosting on the top, and had made it untidy. There was no keeping them away. They could be, and they were, excluded from the interior of the van, but not from the shed in which the van stood. Formerly, they had been satisfied with rafters and manger; now, whether out of perversity or love of variety, or because the van satisfied their ideal, they deserted their ancient roosting-places and crowded the van roof.
This was a source of incessant annoyance to Zita, who could not endure the degradation to which the van was subjected. Every few days she visited the shed, pail and scrubbing-brush in hand, and thoroughly cleansed the conveyance.
She had been thus engaged, and had flung the dirty water at a clucking hen that sauntered up with purpose to resume its perch on the van top, when a pair of hands was laid on her shoulders, and, looking round, she saw Mark.
'What has brought you here?' she asked in surprise.
'What but your own sweet self. I have not seen you for some days. As you were not outside the farmyard, I have come into it to seek you.'
'You ought not to have done so. The master will be angry.'
'He is from home. I saw him ride to Ely.'
'But if he hears that you have been here?'
'You need not tell him.'
'I will not tell him, but others may—mischief-makers. Then I shall suffer.'
'You can take care of yourself, I warrant.'
'You are right, I can protect myself. I am not a servant, but a lodger. I pay for everything I receive and consume here—even for this soap and the use of this pail.'
'And this is the van?'
'Yes, that is my old home. I was born in it. I have lived in it all my life. Whatever I know I have learned in it. It is a fine thing to crawl over the world like a snail, with one's house on one's back.'
'The snail-crawling is over with you now. You refused to let me go with you.'
'Yes; it is over for the winter. What I may do when the spring comes, I cannot say. My blood runs, my feet tingle. When the white butterflies are about, I daresay I shall spread my wings also. I mean my red and gold curtains.'
'And I may go with you?' mischievously.
'No; if I go, I go alone.'
'Let me walk round and admire your house on wheels.'
'You do not see it to advantage,' said Zita regretfully. 'It is not dressed out. The pans and brushes and mats are stowed away, that make it glitter just like a lifeguardsman. The inside is taken out. The curtains are unhung. And then those dratted fowls are a nuisance. They have taken a fancy to the van. If Master Drownlands and I were on better terms, I'd ax him to have the fowls killed, or the shed boarded up, that they might not come in.'
'What? you are not on good terms with old Ki?'
'Only middling. I have had to teach him to keep his distance.'
'Oh! he wanted to come to too close quarters—small blame to him,' said Mark, laughing.
'He and I could not agree about terms—that was it,' said Zita, with an impatient and annoyed toss of her head.
'Let the van come to my place,' said Runham. 'Then I will stow it away out of reach of all fowls.'
Zita shook her head. 'I like to look at my van every day.'
'Well, that is no reason against sending it to Crumbland. If you come to look at it twice a day, so much the better pleased I shall be.'
'I cannot send the van anywhere where I am not living, and this is my lodging for the winter,' said Zita.
'And how goes the horse?' asked Mark.
'He don't go at all,' replied the girl. 'He eats and thinks and gets bloated. He hasn't enough to do. I'm afraid he'll be out of health.'
'Let us have him into the shafts and trot him out a bit.'
'What? in the van?'
'Of course, in the van.'
Zita flushed with pleasure. 'I shall love it above all things—but trot he won't. He never trotted in his life but once, and that was on the fifth of November. A gipsy had tied a Roman candle to his tail. He trotted then. After every flare and pop he went on at a run, then he stopped and looked behind him for an explanation. Then away went the Roman candle again, and a great globe of fire shot away high over the roof of the van. At that Jewel trembled and trotted on once more. Father was away. I was younger then by some years, and it frightened me. I did not dare to touch the Roman candle. Jewel ran about two miles, and when the firework was exhausted, he stood still, and, with thinking about it, and trying to understand and unable, fell asleep in the middle of the road. Father found us there, and he tried to persuade Jewel to return the two miles, but he was obstinate—tremenjous—and wouldn't move. At last father was forced to tie a Roman candle to his nose, and that drove him backwards the two miles. But I don't think Jewel ever quite got over the surprise of that fifth of November.'
When Mark had done laughing at Zita's story,—and Zita laughed as she told it, and laughed when it was over, because Mark's laugh was irresistible,—then the young fellow said, 'It will be fun for me, pleasure to you, it will exercise the horse, and freshen and sweeten the van. We will go a drive, in preparation for the grand tour in the spring. Where is the harness? I'll rig the grey up.'
'You do not know how to set about it,' said Zita.
'What? not know how to harness a horse?'
'You do not know Jewel. He has to be talked to, and his reason convinced. He has his fancies, and they must be humoured. He knows my voice and the touch of my hand, whereas you are a stranger.'
Zita went to find Jewel and put the horse in the shafts. Whilst thus engaged, she talked to Mark.
'The master had him out one day, and put him in the plough. It offended Jewel, who was not accustomed to that sort of thing. He set his feet straight down, stiffened his legs, back went his ears, he curled his under lip, and looked out at the corners of his eyes. Not a step would he take; it hurt his self-respect. Now, wait here by Jewel's head whilst I go indoors after the crimson curtains and gold tassels. I could not drive without them; it would not be showing proper regard for the van, and it might hurt Jewel's feelings. It won't take five minutes to rig up the curtains, and whilst I am after them, you can make friends with the horse. Go in front of him and speak flattering words; say how shapely are his legs, and how silken is his hair; but, whatever you do, not a word about the Roman candles, or he'll never take kindly to you.'
'All right, Zita. Where is the whip?'
'Whip? bless you! he don't want a whip. Why, the crack of a whip would so frighten him that he would sit down. He'd suppose it was fifth of November again. He'd curl his tail under him, and lay his nose between his legs, and set back his ears, but keep an eye open, watching you and winking.'
Eventually, the van was considered by Zita to be sufficiently decorated to be got under way, and Jewel was induced, by flattery and caresses, to start along the drove.
The van was lighter than Jewel had ever known it to be, and he might have been expected to take this into consideration, and accelerate his pace; but, under the supposition that by so doing he would be establishing a precedent that might be quoted on a future occasion, he adopted his wonted pace, as when drawing the van laden with its many and multifarious contents.
'The thing jolts—rather,' said Mark, laughing. 'What would become of the goods, were they here?'
'They would be thrown all over the shop,' answered Zita. 'That is why I am at Prickwillow. I cannot get away. Jewel could not pull the laden van along the drove; and if other horses were attached to it, everything would be shaken to pieces.'
Presently Jewel came to a halt.
'Shall I jump out and urge him on?' asked Mark.
'No; he is breathing. He will go on again presently.'
'And whilst he is breathing, we will talk. Conversation is impossible when we are bumping into ruts and bouncing over clods. If this be travelling when there is snow half-choking the wheelruts and levelling the clods, what must it be at other times?'
'You see I am a prisoner at Prickwillow. I cannot get away without the loss of all my possessions.'
'I see that now.'
Presently Mark said, 'Zita, why were you on the river with Pip Beamish the other day?'
'I hired him with half a pound of bird's eye to punt me up stream. He behaved unfair; he went off and left me.'
'And I had to bring you back—and mighty cross you were. Was that because Beamish had left you?'
'I had cause to be cross when Beamish took the bird's eye and did not half do the job. Now cling hard; Jewel is moving forward, and we must hold to our seats to save being tumbled about and broken to bits.'
Mark was on one side of the van, Zita on the other. He put out his hand to the curtains at one lurch, and roused Zita to remonstrance.
'The curtains are for ornament, and are not to be touched. They are of velvet plush. I don't want to have your great hand marking them. Lay hold of a rail. No! not a gold tassel; you would pull that down, and maybe bring away the whole concern. Oh!'
This exclamation was provoked by the off wheel sinking into a rut, the depth of which seemed unfathomable. The movement of the van was like that of the mail steamer that runs from Dover to Calais, in a chopping sea. At one bound Zita was propelled forward, and, had she not clung to the ribs of the vehicle, would have been shot head foremost against the opposite side of the van, with the result of either perforating that side or of flattening her skull against it.
Then, at the recoil lurch, Mark was projected in the opposite direction, and was nearly cast into Zita's lap.
'I say, Zita, the exertion is prodigious!' exclaimed the lad. 'I think I should prefer to walk.'
'But the honour is so great,' gasped Zita. 'It is not every day you can ride in such a conveyance as this, and have velvet curtains flapping, and gold tassels bobbing about your head.'
'I'll try to think of it in that light.'
'Besides,' pursued Zita, 'a shake up is as good as medicine to the insides. It puts them on their good behaviour. They are so tremenjous afraid of having it again.'
'But surely progress in this affair is not always like this.'
'Of course not. It is only in the Fens there are droves. It was bad at times where a highway had been new stoned. Then father and I clung to the perishables.'
'How do you mean?'
'We took them in our arms, or held them. If we were bruised, it did not matter; we mend up according to nature; but pots and pans don't. We always lost something, though. There was that tea-kettle that troubled father's last hours—it got a hole in it going over a bit of new road.'
This conversation took place in fits and starts, between the joltings of the van. Presently Jewel thought he had sufficiently exerted himself; he heaved a long sigh, looked back over his shoulder, and stood still.
'There, now,' said Runham, pulling a large red, white-spotted kerchief from his pocket and mopping his brow, 'Jewel is breathing, and so may we. This is agonies.'
'I call it pleasure,' said Zita. 'It must be, because it isn't business.'
'What did the horse mean by looking back at us, as he did just now when he sighed?'
'Oh, he thinks it is his duty, now father's gone, to keep an eye on us.'
'I suppose, if I were to square accounts, as the other day'—
'He'd have an apoplexy. For goodness' sake don't.'
'I say, why did you go with Pip Beamish when you would not go with me?'
'I did not go with Beamish. He came with me because I hired him. Tell me what took you to Red Wings? Had you an account to serve there?'
Mark became grave. He fidgeted on his seat. He was an honest, open-hearted fellow, and disliked prevarication, but there was hesitation, there was evasion in his reply.
'I have business of all sorts with all kinds of people.'
'That is no answer. I want to know why you went to the mill to see Kainie.'
Mark rested his chin in his hand and considered.
'I don't mind saying so much,' he answered, 'but let it be between us alone. There is a sort of a tie between her and me—a sort of a tie, you know.'
'I know nothing.'
'I can't give you particulars. It's all right,—if you knew, you would say so too,—but I can't tell you more about it; and it's a tie can't be got rid of.'
Further explanation was interrupted, for a head and pair of shoulders appeared in front between the curtains.
'Oh! you, Runham—and that Cheap Jack girl! Which is it to be—she or Kainie? It shall not be both.'
Pip Beamish was there, glowering at Mark from under his bushy eyebrows.
'Take care!' said Beamish, thrusting a long arm into the van. 'Take care what you are about. If you hurt one hair of the head of Kainie, I'll shoot you through the heart. I've time on my hands now. I'm turned out of my mill by the Commissioners, and can choose my occasion. I shall watch you. One or other—leave my Kainie alone and stick to her.' He indicated Zita with one hand.
'Pip,' said Mark, flushing very red, 'do not talk nonsense!'
'Nonsense?' repeated Beamish; 'that is how you rich men treat these matters—sport and nonsense; but to us it is heartbreak and despair. What have I but my one ewe lamb? I have been expelled my mill because you Commissioners think I'm a dangerous chap. You ain't far wrong there. I'm dangerous to such as you who are evil-doers. Take care, you Cheap Jack girl, and make not yourself cheap to such as Runham. He is free in his wealth to do as he pleases. If he be the ruin of you, trusting in him, will he lose his Commissioner's place? If he destroy my happiness by bringing harm on my Kainie, will the laws touch him? I may not take a straw from his stables, but he may rob me of my Kainie. He is rich—I am poor.'
'Pip! you are the man I desire to see. I will speak to you of this matter. Judge nothing before you hear me; and you, Zita, do not you place any weight on his words—they are bitter and false.'
'Bitter,' repeated Pip, 'but not false. Nothing that you can say will change my mind. Nothing will alter my purpose. I warn you against an injury to Kainie. You rich men of the Fens do not seek a poor girl to raise her head and set her up on high among yourselves, but to humble her in the dust.'
He laughed a fierce, scornful laugh.
'I cannot say—you Cheap Jack Zita. They report that you have money and goods. Have you told him how much? If it be worth his while, he will be honourable towards you. It is all a matter of calculation. If you ain't worth much, he'll throw you over, as he would throw over Kainie when tired of her. Best take care! If you dare!'
The man's eyes glared with white heat, and he thrust his long arm towards Mark with clenched fist.
'Pip,' exclaimed Mark, 'you are the man I have been wanting to see. I will come out to you.'
He jumped out of the van. 'Your words are folly.' Then, 'You drive home without me, Zita. I told you I had business with all sorts of persons; now I have business with Ephraim—business of much consequence. May you get safe back in that rattletrap, and not be shaken to bits!'
'Rattletrap? Oh, if Jewel heard you!' She spoke as laughing, to disguise her inward trouble.
No sooner, however, was Mark gone than she broke down and cried.
But her tears did not last long.
'He's venomous. He don't know all. I do trust Mark. Besides—I've the van and money.'
CHAPTER XVIII
A DROP OF GALL
WHAT did Mark Runham mean by his conduct?
He had left Zita to go after that fellow, Pip Beamish, and they were together on the embankment in close confabulation. The girl looked after them from between the red curtains, and could see Beamish gesticulating with his long arms. He was excited, he was speaking with vehemence, and at intervals Mark interrupted him.
Something that Mark had said seemed to have struck the orator with surprise. He dropped his arms and stood like a figure of wood. He let Mark lay his hand on his shoulder and draw him along, speaking rapidly into his ear.
What this meant was plain to Zita. The two men were rivals for Kainie of Red Wings. They had been disputing; Beamish hot and impatient, and unwilling to listen to the other. What was Kainie? A she-miller, as Zita put it, and ineligible as a wife to such as Runham. Among fen-farmers no one marries for mere love; money or land is the substance for which they crave. If a little love be sprinkled on the morsel, so much the better, but it is no essential—it is a condiment. Zita tossed her head. She was not a beggarly miller! She had the van and its contents, red curtains and gold tassels. She had money as well—the profits of fair-days at Swaffham, Huntingdon, Wisbeach, Cambridge, and Ely. She had a good deal of money in her box—none suspected how much. Of course her wealth would not compare with that of a fen-farmer, but it was enough to place her immeasurably above Kainie, and within reach of Mark if he chose to stoop a little—just a little.
Zita turned the head of Jewel homewards. Mark did not follow her to say farewell. He had given her no thanks for the jolting and jumbling in the conveyance to which she had treated him, though 'good as medicine to his insides.'
Zita was angry with the young man. She did not relish the thought that he came to see her one day and went to Kainie the next—nay, that he visited both in the same afternoon.
It was true that he had made no overtures to Zita—said nothing definite relative to his condition of heart; but he had kissed her, and would have done so again had she not warned him that it would give the horse an apoplectic fit. He had shown her plainly that he liked her company, and that he was unhappy if he did not see her daily.
His attentions had been noticed. Mrs. Tunkiss had commented on them, and the girl with St. Vitus' dance had made a joke about them.
His visit that day to Prickwillow would inevitably have been seen. The unusual sight of the van out on an airing must have attracted attention. And if the van had been seen, those who saw it were certain to speak of it to those who did not. That expedition would come to the ears of Drownlands.
Knowing what she did, Zita was able to account for the dislike Drownlands showed to the presence of Mark Runham. The sight of the young man was a sting to his conscience. He would be afraid lest Zita, in conversation with him, might let drop something about the events of the night on which Jake Runham died.
But Zita was woman enough to see that there was another reason why the master of Prickwillow eyed the young fellow with dislike. He was jealous of him. Zita perceived that Drownlands liked her, at the same time that he feared her. She could discern in the expression of his eye, read in his consideration for her comfort, decipher in the quiver of his lips when Mark's name was mentioned, that his regard for her was deep, and that his dislike of Mark was due to jealousy.
Zita was accustomed to admiration; she had received a good deal of it in her public life, and regarded it with contemptuous indifference; but the admiration she had met with in market and fair had been outspoken; this of Drownlands was covert. Hitherto she had accepted it from her vantage-ground—the platform of her own habitation; now she was at a disadvantage—the inmate of the house of the man who looked on her with admiration.
She turned her thoughts again in the direction of Mark. What were the ties binding him to Kainie, of which he spoke?
On consideration, she thought she could understand. Mark had fallen in love with the girl at the mill when in hobbledehoydom, and had stupidly plunged into an engagement. Boys are fools; and he was but just emerged from boyhood. His father's death had knocked the nonsense out of his head, and brought him to the consciousness that he had made a blunder. He was now a rich farmer; Kainie had nothing of her own but the clothes she stood up in. Moreover, he had since seen Zita, and had become sincerely attached to her. So long as he was tied to that miller-girl, he could not speak of his wishes and purposes to Zita. He was in a dilemma; he was an honourable fellow, and could not break his word to Kainie. Mark was laying the case before Pip Beamish, and was inviting Pip to take Kainie off his hands, and set him free to speak out to Zita.
'Well,' thought the girl, as she put up Jewel in his stable, 'we all do foolish things; some of us do wrong things at times in our life. I have done both in one—I sold a box of paste-cutters at one and nine that cost father two shillings. I've had that threepence as hot coppers on my soul ever since. Well! I hope Pip Beamish will take Kainie. He loves her, and he's suited to her—both are millers; one has nothing and the other nought—so they are fitted for a match. I'll help matters on, or try to do so. I'll see Kainie, and have a deal with her—she is but one of the general public after all. I daresay she likes Pip quite as much as Mark, and is doubting in her mind which to have. I know what I can throw in to turn the scale.'
Accordingly, when the van had been consigned to its shed and the curtains removed to her room, Zita knitted her fingers behind her back and surveyed her goods, moving from one group of wares to another.
After some consideration, she descended the stairs and prepared to leave the house.
Mrs. Tunkiss peered out of the kitchen as she heard her step, and said—
'Going to meet the master—be you?'
A malevolent smile was on her face.
'No, Mrs. Tunkiss. I do not know in which direction he has ridden.'
'You'd like to know, would you? You'd go and meet him, and he'd jump off his horse and walk alongside of you, and say soft things. Oh my! The master! Ki Drownlands say soft things!'
The woman burst into a cackling laugh.
'What do you mean?' asked Zita, reddening with anger at the insult implied in the woman's words.
'Oh, miss, I mean nothing to offend. But I'd like to know what the master will say to your carawaning about with Mark Runham—what the master will say to your receiving visits from young men in the poultry-house.'
'That is no concern of yours; and for the matter of that, I care nothing what he thinks.'
'Oh dear no! But folks can't carry on with two at once. Two strings to a bow may be all very well in some things. I don't mean to say that you shouldn't sow clover with your corn, and so have both a harvest of wheat and one of hay; but with us poor women that don't do. If it be a saying that we should have two strings to one bow, there is another, that there's many a slip between the cup and the lip.'
Zita pushed past the insolent woman.
Mrs. Tunkiss shouted after her, 'Strange goings on—so folks say. There's Mark Runham running after two girls, sweethearting both; and there's one girl—I names no names—running after two men, and I bet she catches neither.'
Then she slammed the kitchen door.
