Haworth's/Chapter XII
CHAPTER XII.
GRANNY DIXON.
The next time Janey brought her fathers dinner to the Yard she sought out Murdoch in a dejected mood. She found him reading over his lunch in the sunshine, and she sat down opposite to him, folding her arms on her lap.
"We're i' trouble again at our house," she said. "We're allus i' trouble. If it is na one thing, it's another."
Murdoch shut his book and leaned back upon his pile of lumber to listen. He always listened.
"What is it this time?"
"This toime?" querulously. "This is th' worst o' th' lot. Granny Dixon's come back."
"Granny Dixon?"
Janey shook her head.
"Tha knows nowt about her," she said. "I nivver towd thee nowt. She's my feyther's grandmother an' she's ower ninety years owd, an' she's getten money. If it wur na fur that no one ud stond her, but"—with a sigh—"foak conna turn away brass,"
Having relieved herself of this sentiment she plunged into the subject with fresh asperity.
"Theer's no knowin' how to tak' her," she said. "Yo' mun shout at th' top o' yore voice to mak' her hear. An' she wunnot let nowt go by. She mun hear aw as is goin'. She's out wi' Mester Hixon at th' chapel because she says she conna hear him an' he does it a-purpose. When she wur out wi' ivverybody else she used to say she wur goin' to leave her brass to him, an' she invited him to tea ivvery neet fur a week, an' had him set by her chair an' talk. It wur summer toime an' I've seed him set an' shout wi' th' sweat a-pourin' down his face an' his necktie aw o' one soide, an' at th' eend o' a week he had a quinsy, as wur nigh bein' th' eend o' him. An' she nivver forgive him. She said as he wur an impident chap as thowt hissen too good fur his betters."
Murdoch expressed his sympathy promptly.
"I wish tha'd coom up an' talk to her some day thysen," said Janey. "It ud rest us a bit," candidly. "Yo'n getten th' kind o' voice to mak' folk hear, though yo' dunnot speak so loud, an' if yo' get close up to her ear an' say things slow, yo'd get used to it i' toime."
"I'll come some day," answered Murdoch, speculating with some doubt as to the possible result of the visit. Her mind relieved, Janey rose to take her departure. Suddenly, however, a new idea presented itself to her active mind.
"Has tha seen Miss Ffrench yet?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered.
"What does tha think on her?"
He picked up his book and re-opened it.
"I only saw her for an instant," he said. "I hadn't time to think anything."
On his way from his work a few days later, he stopped at the Briarley cottage. It was swept and garnished; there were no traces of the children about. Before he reached the house, there had been borne to him the sound of a voice reading at its highest and shrillest pitch, and he had recognized it as Janey's.
As he entered, that young person rose panting from her seat, in her eagerness almost dropping the graphically illustrated paper she held in her hand.
"Eh!" she exclaimed. "I am glad to see thee! I could na ha' stood it mich longer. She would ha' me read the 'To-be-continyerd' one, an' I've bin at it nigh an hour."
Granny Dixon turned on her sharply.
"What art tha stoppin' fur?" she demanded. "What's th' matter wi' thee?"
Murdoch gave a slight start. The sound was so tremendous that it seemed almost impossible that it should proceed from the small and shriveled figure in the armchair.
"What art tha stoppin' fur?" she repeated. "Get on wi' thee."
Janey drew near and spoke in her ear.
"It's Mester Murdoch," she proclaimed; "him as I towd yo' on."
The little bent figure turned slowly and Murdoch felt himself transfixed by the gaze of a pair of large keen eyes. They had been handsome eyes half a century before, and the wrinkled and seamed face had had its comeliness too.
"Tha said he wur a workin' mon," she cried, after a pause. "What did tha tell me that theer fur?"
"He is a workin' mon," said Janey. "He's getten his work-cloas on now. Does na tha see 'em?"
"Cloas!" announced the Voice again. "Cloas i'deed! A mon is na made out o' cloas. I've seed workin' men afore i' my day, an' I know 'em."
Then she extended her hand, crooking the forefinger like a claw, in a beckoning gesture.
"Coom tha here," she commanded, "an set thysen down to talk to me."
She gave the order in the manner of a female potentate, and Murdoch obeyed her with a sense of overpowering fascination.
"Wheer art tha fro'?" she demanded.
He made his reply, "From America," as distinct as possible, and was relieved to find that it reached her at once.
"'Merica?" she repeated. "I've heerd o' 'Merica often enow. That's wheer th' blacks live, an' th' Indians. I knowed a young chap as went theer, an' th' Indians scalped him. He went theer because I would na ha' him. It wur when I wur a lass."
She paused a moment and then said the last words over again, nodding her head with a touch of grim satisfaction.
"He went theer because I would na ha' him. It wur when I wur a lass."
He was watching her so intently that he was quite startled a second time when she turned her eyes upon him and spoke again, still nodding.
"I wur a han'some lass," she said. "I wur a han'some lass—seventy year' ago."
It was quite plain that she had been. The thing which was least pleasant about her now was a certain dead and withered suggestion of a beauty of a not altogether sinless order.
The recollection of the fact seemed to enliven her so far that she was inspired to conducting the greater part of the conversation herself. Her voice grew louder and louder, a dull red began to show itself on her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled. She had been "a han'some lass, seventy year' ago, an' had had her day—as theer wur dead folk could tell."
"She'll go on i' that rood aw neet, if summat dunnot tak' her off it," said Janey. "She loikes to talk about that theer better than owt else."
But something did happen "to tak' her off it."
"Tha'st getten some reason i' thee," she announced. "Tha does na oppen tha mouth as if tha wanted to swally folk when tha says what tha'st getten to say. Theer's no workin' men's ways about thee cloas—or no cloas."
"That's th' way she goes on," said Janey. "She canna bide folk to look soft when they're shoutin' to her. That was one o' th' things she had agen Mester Hixon. She said he getten so red i' th' face it put her out o' patience."
"I loike a mon as is na a foo'," proclaimed Granny Dixon. But there her voice changed and grew sharp and tremulous. "Wheer's that flower?" she cried. "Who's getten it?"
Janey turned toward the door and uttered a shrill little cry of excitement.
"It's Miss Ffrench," she said. "She's—she's stondin' at th' door."
It would have been impossible to judge from her expression how long she had been there. She stood upon the threshold with a faint smile on her lips, and spoke to Janey.
"I want to see your mother," she said.
"I'll—I'll go and tell her," the child faltered. "Will yo' coom in?"
She hesitated a second and then came in. Murdoch had arisen. She did not seem to see him as she passed before him to reach the chair in which she sat down. In fact she expressed scarcely a shadow of recognition of her surroundings. But upon Granny Dixon had fallen a sudden feverish tremor.
"Who did she say yo' wur?" she cried. "I did na hear her."
The visitor turned and confronted her.
"I am Rachel Ffrench," she answered in a clear, high voice.
The dull red deepened upon the old woman's cheeks, and her eyes gained new fire.
"Yo're a good un to mak' a body hear," she said. "An' I know yo'."
Miss Ffrench made no reply. She smiled incredulously at the fire.
The old woman moved restlessly.
"Ay, but I do," she cried. "I know yo'. Yo're Ffrench fro' head to foot. Wheer did yo' get that?"
She was pointing to a flower at Miss Ffrench's throat—a white, strongly fragrant, hot house flower. Miss Ffrench cast a downward glance at it.
"There are plenty to be had," she said. "I got it from home."
"I've seen 'em before," said Granny Dixon. "He used to wear 'em i' his button-hole."
Miss Ffrench made no reply and she went on, her tones increasing in volume with her excitement.
"I'm talkin' o' Will Ffrench," she said. "He wur thy gran'feyther. He wur dead afore yo' wur born."
Miss Ffrench seemed scarcely interested, but Granny Dixon had not finished.
"He wur a bad un!" she cried. "He wur a devil! He wur a devil out an' out. I knowed him an' he knowed me."
Then she bent forward and touched Miss Ffrench's arm.
"Theer wur na a worse un nor a bigger devil nowheer," she said. "An' yo're th' very moral on him."
Miss Ffrench got up and turned toward the door to speak to Mrs. Briarley, who that moment arrived in great haste carrying the baby, out of breath, and stumbling in her tremor at receiving gentle folk company.
"Your visitor has been talking to me," she remarked, her little smile showing itself again. "She says my grandfather was a devil."
She answered all Mrs. Briarley's terrified apologies with the same little smile. She had been passing by and had remembered that the housekeeper needed assistance in some matter and it had occurred to her to come in. That was all, and having explained herself, she went away as she had come.
"Eh!" fretted Mrs. Briarley, "to think o' that theer owd besom talkin' i' that rood to a lady. That's allus th' way wi' her. She'd mak' trouble anywheer. She made trouble enow when she wur young. She wur na no better than she should be then, an' she's nowt so mich better now."
"What's that tha'rt saying?" demanded the Voice. "A noice way that wur fur a lady to go out wi'out so mich as sayin' good-day to a body. She's as loike him as two peas—an' he wur a devil. Here," to Murdoch, "pick up that theer flower she's dropped."
Murdoch turned to the place she pointed out. The .jpg)
"YO'RE TH' VERY MORAL ON HIM."
"It's th' very same," she muttered. "He used to wear 'em i' his button-hole when he coom. An' she's th' very moral on him."