Bone Street/Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
MR. NEWCOME, FARMER
The following Sunday broke fine, and after partaking of dinner they prepared for the walk as arranged. Baby Mary was gently laid in her perambulator, attired in her prettiest dress, and warmly covered with a dainty covering Mary had made. She did indeed look sweet, lying there quietly sleeping, her tiny hands clenched, and her little head covered with a bonnet, under which the stray curls of auburn were escaping. So they set out, Mrs. Thompson waving them adieu, and promising them to have a meal ready for five o’clock. Away they went down the road, Jack pushing baby along. They proceeded down the main road, and then took the road to the right as directed; this brought them in sight of the square tower of the church indicated by Mrs. Thompson. Jack looked about him curiously. Surely, he thought, he knew this road. He had previously seen this same tower from the same angle, and as they drew closer and a turn in the road revealed the village, he realised where he was.
This was the village where he had purchased his cake which the old farmer had discovered him eating. He told Mary, and both she and Marthalice were soon as interested as he. Yes, he was right. For there on the left was the shop where he had made his purchase. He peered through the window. Yes, everything was just the same. “I wonder if the old chap is still alive?” he asked himself. “He was a fine old man.” Now they were opposite the old church.
“Shall we go in?” asked Mary.
“Aye,” he said, “let’s have a look round.”
Baby was still sleeping, so they wandered round the churchyard, reading the various inscriptions on the tombstones.
“See, Jack,” said Mary, “here’s someone with your mother’s name;” and she read the inscription relating to the burial of Alice Newcome, the beloved wife of Henry Newcome, age thirty.
“Yes,” Jack replied, “I remember that the woman at Gainsborough told me there were lots of Newcomes round these parts.”
“I wonder if this is one of them,” said Mary reflectively. But nothing further was said, and as baby was still asleep, they decided to look round the inside of the church.
On coming out of the church, and returning to the baby, Jack saw his old acquaintance, the farmer, coming from the direction of the church burial-ground. They looked at each other a moment, then Jack impulsively put out his hand.
“Perhaps you don’t remember me, sir.”
“Yes, I do,” replied the old man with a smile, “but you look rather better off than when I saw you last.” The old man cast an enquiring look at Mary and Marthalice. Jack turned to them proudly, saying:
“This is my wife and baby, and a very dear friend of mine. Mary,” he said, “this is the gentleman I told you about who insisted on me having a second breakfast,” and he smiled pleasantly at the recollection.
The old man acknowledged the introduction with a slight softening of the features. Mary and Marthalice were as equally interested as Jack. What a fine old man, thought Mary, while Marthalice thought she wouldn’t like to “fratch” (quarrel) with him. The eyes of the old man softened as he looked at the sleeping babe, and with a half-smothered sigh he turned to the gate, Jack following him.
“You’ve really mended yourself since I saw you last,” said the old man.
“Yes,” was the reply, “I had a rough passage for a time, and very nearly went under, but this good soul here pulled me out (indicating Marthalice) and set me on my feet.” And apparently unconscious that he was talking to a stranger, related how she had found him in the lodging-house. They all instinctively turned to the right to go through the village. The farmer nodded as Jack concluded his talk.
“Aye,” he said, “I nearly called you back that morning.”
“Did you,” asked Jack. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” was the reply; “but I remember as plain as if it was yesterday, and even now I cannot say why I refrained.”
Jack nodded. “Aye,” he said, “that’s how I felt.”
By now they were through the village. The old man looked anxiously at the sky. “I’m afraid we’re going to have some rain,” he said. And indeed the clouds were gathering ominously. Mary too was afraid they were going to be caught in it, while the old man was obviously concerned, for he kept glancing at the still sleeping child. At last he said: “I think you’d better make for my place. We can reach there before the storm comes.” And without waiting for them to express their agreement, set off in that direction. They arrived at the farm just as the rain was commencing, but they were safely installed in the big kitchen by now, and the old man had ordered the housekeeper (the same who had prepared Jack his breakfast many years ago) to take their things, and prepare tea for them all. “You will all be my guests for tea,” he added. And they thankfully agreed.
Marthalice was plainly interested in their host, for she kept looking at him in a puzzled manner, as though there was something about him she could not understand, and as her eyes rested on the stern face she thought again, “No. I wouldn’t like to fratch wi’ him, I’ll bet he’s a hot ’un when he’s wrong side out.” The old man opened a door leading into another room and invited his guests to follow. “Please make yourselves comfortable,” he said. “It’s raining hard, and it won’t be tea time for nearly an hour.”
“Oh, what a nice room,” said Mary, while the eyes of Marthalice gazed approvingly at the furnishings. And it was indeed a wonderfully comfortable room. A polished floor, and a mahogany table in the centre, comfortable chairs covered with sheep-skin, a huge rug of the same material; a small fire burned in the open hearth, and in the corner was a piano. “Do you play ? ” the old man asked Mary, pointing to the piano, while Mary looked at Jack enquiringly. The old man intercepted the glance, which evidently he understood, for with a faint smile he continued, ” Play anything you like, I’m not deeply religious, and it’s so seldom played now.” Mary thought he said that rather sadly, so she drew out the stool and commenced playing softly. Almost immediately the two men had seated themselves, and Jack was relating how he had fared since partaking of breakfast at the farm. Marthalice occupied a chair at the side of the piano, and with baby in her lap, sat crooning quietly while Mary played.
The old lady allowed her eyes to wander contentedly round the room for a while, then again they rested on the old man’s face with the same puzzled expression. “Now what is there about him I know,” she asked herself. ” It must have been Jack talking to me about him,” she thought. There they all sat, Jack talking pleasantly, not feeling in the least like a stranger, the old man listening contentedly, Mary playing, and the baby comfortably sleeping.
Marthalice noticing a photo album on the piano quietly reached it down, and without disturbing baby commenced to turn the leaves. Suddenly she gave a start, and for a few seconds looked fixedly at a small photo in the book. Mary turned, and noticing the tense expression on Marthalice’s face was about to speak, when the older woman catching her questioning eye silently handed her the album still open at the same place. Mary took the album, and she too stared, almost unbelievingly, at the picture. The two men looked up when the music stopped, and seeing the look on his wife’s face, Jack came across the room, wondering at her agitation. She handed him the album without a word, when it was his turn to gasp with astonishment. “Why,” he said, “that’s my mother.” Instinctively all eyes turned to the old man, who had been sat back in the easy chair; but at Jack’s words he started forward, his hands gripping the arm-chair tensely.
“What’s that you say?” and Jack walked slowly towards him with the album open in his hand.
“This is my mother.” He handed it to the old man who, after a long look, lifted his face to Jack and asked:
“What’s your name, young man?”
“John Newcome Bradley.”
The old man looked first at the photo, then back at Jack, and after a few tense seconds said brokenly, “God help me. That’s my daughter.”
There was a moment of silence, during which no one moved or spoke, Jack looking at Mr. Newcome with a curious expression on his face, a look which betokened wonder and perhaps sternness fighting for mastery.
Mary and Marthalice were also watching the old man, who sat gripping the chair as if for support. The album was on his knee, and it seemed as though he was speaking to the picture of his daughter, while he muttered brokenly, “You refused to do as I bid, girl, you went your own way, while I went mine. Mary, you were your mother in face and your father in spirit.
“Lad,” he cried, looking up at Jack, “if you are her son; aye, and you are,” he continued. “The first time I saw you my old heart pulled to you, although I didn’t understand why. Nay, perhaps I was afraid, but you are my Mary’s boy.”
The speaking of the word which he had not said for so many years was too much for him. With a last attempt to control himself, he sat bolt upright and turning brokenly to Jack said, “Lad, can you forgive me, can you forgive an old man’s pride?” But without waiting for an answer, asked, “Your mother, what about her, is she alive?”
“She died twenty years ago, when I was five,” replied Jack.
“Aye, something told me I should never see her again; and your father, is he alive?”
“No,” replied Jack, “he survived her by ten years, but let me tell you this, sir, he loved her to the day of his death.”
“Sir, sir, is that the name you have for me? Is there no forgiveness from you?”
But Jack was silent; he had realised what his mother suffered for his father’s sake, and they might have been happy.
“Perhaps,” said the old man, “if I tell you the rest of the story you will understand how I was tortured for my pride. When your mother wrote from Leeds I thought she was weakening, and that if I let poverty grind farther in, she would write telling me of her repentance at disobeying my wishes; then I would recall them both. But I waited too long. I wrote to her, but my letter was returned. I then went to the address, but they were gone, leaving no trace. I tramped the streets of Leeds for hours and days, searching for my Mary, but without avail. You believe me, boy?” he asked piteously. “Lad, I can atone if you only will believe I tried.” With this his head dropped; he was broken. Jack still remained silent, the picture of his father’s death in his mind. But Mary decided to act. She picked the baby out of Marthalice’s lap, and crossing the floor swiftly, put her in Jack’s arms, then dropping to her knees put her arms gently round the old man.
“Come, Mr. Newcome. You’re overwrought. See, lean back,” and she deftly placed a cushion behind his head. “There’s going to be no question of forgiveness. Jack, this is your grandfather, give me baby; now shake hands.”
Tremblingly the old man put out his hand, and just as nervously Jack put out his. They gripped silently, then reaching out for Mary’s hand, Mr. Newcome said brokenly:
“I’m an old, old man, not too long for this world, I fear. But you’ll stay with me, my dear, won’t you?”
The blue eyes flashed no more, this time they pleaded.
“Of course we’ll stay,” she replied, “and baby too,” she added, placing the child in his arms.
Mr. Newcome softly fondled baby’s hand silently.
“And you won’t leave me again?” he questioned.
“No,” said Mary, answering for her husband, “we won’t, at least not for long.”
And Jack, trying to ease the tension, added, “Of course I must finish my work here, the firm have been awfully good to me, and I can’t leave them in the lurch.”
“But you’ll live here now?” his grandfather persisted, and again Mary settled it. “Of course we will,” she replied. “Jack can live here as easily as in the village, and his job will only last another week or two. Mr. Harman will have ample time to get a successor.”
The old man’s eyes expressed his thanks, and gradually the three of them recovered their composure, when a muffled sob drew their attention to Marthalice. The dear old woman was weeping quietly, the deeps streaming down her cheeks.
Mary went to her and laying her cheek to the old face tenderly patted her.
“Dear soul,” she said, “we are selfish, forgetting everybody but ourselves.”
“Am I to lose mi bairns?” she sobbed; but with an effort recovered herself. “Nay, nay,” she said, “blood’s thicker nor water. Thee stick to thi grandad, Jack, ye’ve both suffered; you’ll heal one another, an’ Mary and t’baby will help, won’t yer, lass?” Which question Mary answered with another caress.
“But, Marthalice,” said Jack, “we won’t lose you altogether. My life would be very strange if I didn’t see you. Beckton is not too far away for us to visit, and you can often spend a week with us, at least if——” and he turned enquiringly to his grandfather. The old man was looking more composed now.
“Aye, lad,” was the reply. “There’s always room here for your friends.” He stood up firmly. “I’ve got you now, lad, you and your wife and baby; nothing else matters.”
By now the rain had cleared. The sun was shining.
Tea was ready, and here in their new home at the invitation of the old man Mary took her place at the foot of the table and poured out tea. Soon they were making their plans.
“But Mr. Grimshaw,” exclaimed Mary suddenly. “He’ll be lonely again.” The eyes of Mr. Newcome questioned her, and Mary explained.
“That’s easily settled,” was the reply. “I’ve an empty cottage and a bit of land to it. I can let your friend have it if he’ll come.”
“And I can milk again,” said Mary, “and churn.”
“You can?”
So Mary told the story of how she had been brought up on a farm, and by quiet questions Mr. Newcome found out that both Jack and Mary really loved the country.
“That’s better,” he said, “you won’t miss the town.”
“What with Jack and baby, and you,” she added quietly.
“And the dairy,” put in Jack, which feeble joke made them all laugh, Marthalice included.
After tea Mr. Newcome despatched a farm hand to their lodgings for their belongings, Marthalice insisting on going to pack the things up.
“Fancy him packing up t’ bairn’s clothes,” she said indignantly; and so she climbed up in the dog-cart, while the old man escorted the young folk round the farm buildings. Mary was delighted. The poultry, horses, and pigs were duly inspected; the dairy with the well-scrubbed utensils and the cool tile floor were also approved of. They deferred going further afield till later.
“There’s 100 acres,” said Mr. Newcome, “all freehold, and all my own. Some day, it will be yours, lad,” he added.
“Hush!” said Mary, gently touching his hand. “Not for many years yet, we hope, so please don’t talk like that.”
The old eyes again grew misty, and leaning heavily on his grandson, they retraced their steps to the farmhouse, to find that Marthalice had returned.
“I believe there’s a cradle in the attic,” said Mr. Newcome quietly. “Your mother’s, Jack,” he added.
“Is there?” asked Mary delightedly, and off Jack and her went to explore.
Yes, there it was, and Jack dug it out to make it ready for baby Mary, and shortly afterwards baby was asleep in it. Mr. Newcome called in his housekeeper, asking her to show Mary and Marthalice their rooms, and the three women went to inspect and prepare, while the two men silently sat before the fire looking at the sleeping babe, each thinking of the changes the day had brought.
Slowly their eyes drew to each other’s face; the old man silently thrust out his hand, which Jack shook.
“It’s home, grandad, it’s home.”
The old man nodded.
“Aye, lad, aye. Home and bairns.”
THE END