God's Good Man by Marie Corelli (speld decodable readers txt) 📕

it’s a matter of six-an’-twenty ‘ear agone since ‘e came to me where I was a-workin’ in ‘is fields, and he pinted out to me the nurse wot was walkin’ up and down near the edge of the pasture carryin’ his baby all in long clothes. ‘See that, Josey!’ he sez, an’ ‘is eyes were all wild-like an’ ‘is lips was a’ tremblin’; ‘That little white thing is all I’ve got left of the wife I was bringin’ ‘ome to be the sunshine of the old Manor. I felt like killin’ that child, Josey, when it was born, because its comin’ into this wurrld killed its mother. That was an unnat’ral thing, Josey,’ sez he—‘There was no God in it, only a devil!’ and ‘is lips trembled more’n ever—‘no woman ought to die in givin’ birth to a child—it’s jes’ wicked an’ cruel! I would say that to God Himself, if I knew Him!’ An’ he clenched ‘is fist ‘ard, an’ then ‘e went on— ‘But though I wanted to kill the little creature, I couldn’t do it, Josey, I couldn’t! It’s eyes were like those of my Dearest. So I let it live; an’ I’ll do my best by it, Josey,’—yes, them’s the words ‘e said—‘I’ll do my best by it!’”

Here Josey broke off in his narrative, and resumed his crawling pace.

“You ain’t finished, ‘ave ye, Josey?” said Roger Buggins propitiatingly, drawing closer to the old man. “It’s powerful interestin’, all this ‘ere!”

Josey halted again.

“Powerful interestin’? O’ course it is! There ain’t nobody’s story wot ain’t interestin’, if ye onny knows it. An’ it’s all six-an’- twenty year agone now; but I can see th’ owld Squire still, an’ the nurse walkin’ slow up an’ down by the border of the field, hushin’ the baby to sleep. And ‘twas a good sound baby, too, an’ thrived fine; an’ ‘fore we knew where we was, instid of a baby there was a little gel runnin’ wild all over the place, climbin’ trees, swannin’ up hay-stacks an’ up to all sorts of mischief—Lord, Lord!” And Josey began to chuckle with a kind of inward merriment; “I’ll never forget the day that child sat down on a wopses’ nest an’ got all ‘er little legs stung;—she was about five ‘ear old then, an’ she never cried—not she!—the little proud spitfire that she was, she jes’ stamped ‘er mite of a foot an’ she sez, sez she: ‘Did God make the wopses?’ An’ ‘er nurse sez to ‘er: ‘Yes, o’ course, lovey, God made ‘em.’ ‘Then I don’t think much of Him!’ sez she. Lord, Lord! We larfed nigh to split ourselves that arternoon;—we was all makin’ ‘ay an’ th’ owld Squire was workin’ wi’ us for fun-like. ‘I don’t think much o’ God, father!’—sez Miss Maryllia, runnin’ up to ‘im, an’ liftin’ up all ‘er petticuts an’ shewin’ the purtiest little legs ye ever seed; ‘Nurse sez He made the wopses!’ He-ee-ee-hor-hor- hor!”

A slow smile was reflected on the faces of the persons who heard this story,—a smile that implied lurking doubt as to whether it was quite the correct or respectful thing to find entertainment in an anecdote which included a description of ‘the purtiest little legs’ of the lady of the Manor whose return to her native home was so soon expected,—but Josey Letherbarrow was a privileged personage, and he might say what others dared not. As philosopher, general moralist and purveyor of copy-book maxims, he was looked upon in the village as the Nestor of the community, and in all discussions or disputations was referred to as final arbitrator and judge. Born in St. Rest, he had never been out of it, except on an occasional jaunt to Riversford in the carrier’s cart. He had married a lass of the village, who had been his playmate in childhood, and who, after giving him four children, had died when she was forty,—the four children had grown up and in their turn had married and died; but he, like a hardy old tree, had still lived on, with firm roots well fixed in the soil that had bred him. Life had now become a series of dream pictures with him, representing every episode of his experience. His mind was clear, and his perception keen; he seldom failed to recollect every detail of a circumstance when once the clue was given, and the right little cell in his brain was stirred. To these qualities he added a stock of good sound common sense, with a great equableness of temperament, though he could be cynical, and even severe, when occasion demanded. Just now, however, his venerable countenance was radiant,—his few remaining tufts of white hair glistened in the sun like spun silver,—his figure in its homely smock, leaning on the rough ash stick, expressed in its very attitude benevolence and good-humour, and ‘the purtiest little legs’ had evidently conjured up a vision of childish grace and innocence before his eyes, which he was loth to let go.

“She was took away arter the old Squire was killed, worn’t she?” asked Bainton, who was drinking in all the information he could, in order to have something to talk about to his master, when the opportunity offered itself.

“Ay! ay! She was took away,” replied Josey, his smile darkening into a shadow of weariness; “The Squire’s neck was broke with Firefly— every man, woman and child knows that about here—an’ then ‘is brother came along, ‘im wot ‘ad married a ‘Merican wife wi’ millions, an’ ‘adn’t got no children of their own. An’ they took the gel away with ‘em—a purty little slip of about fifteen then, with great big eyes and a lot of bright ‘air;—don’t none of ye remember ‘er?”

Mr. Buggins shook his head.

“‘Twas afore my time,” he said. “I ain’t had the ‘Mother Huff’ more’n eight years.”

“I seed ‘er once,” said Bainton—“but onny once—that was when I was workin’ for the Squire as extra ‘and. But I disremember ‘er face.’’

“Then ye never looked at it,” said Josey, with a chuckle; “or bein’ made man ye wouldn’t ‘ave forgot it. Howsomever, it’s ‘ears ago an’ she’s a woman growed—she ain’t been near the place all this time, which shows as ‘ow she don’t care about it, bein’ took up with ‘er ‘Merican aunt and the millions. An’ she’d got a nice little penny of ‘er own, too, for the old Squire left ‘er all he ‘ad, an’ she was to come into it all when she was of age. An’ now she’s past bein’ of age, a woman of six-an’twenty,-an’ ‘er rich uncle’s dead, they say, so I suppose she an’ the ‘Merican aunt can’t work it out together. Eh, dear! Well, well! Changes there must be, and changes there will be, and if the Five Sisters is a-comin’ down, then there’s ill-luck brewin’ for the village, an’ for every man, woman and child in it! Mark my wurrd!”

And he resumed his hobbling trudge, shaking his head dolefully.

“Don’t say that, Josey!” murmured one of the women with a little shudder; “You didn’t ought to talk about ill-luck. Don’t ye know it’s onlucky to talk about ill-luck?”

“No, I don’t know nothin’ o’ the sort,” replied Josey, “Luck there is, and ill-luck,—an’ ye can talk as ye like about one or t’other, it don’t make no difference. An’ there’s some things as comes straight from the Lord, and there’s others what comes straight from the devil, an’ ye’ve got to take them as they comes. ‘Tain’t no use floppin’ on yer knees an’ cryin’ on either the Lord or the devil,— they’s outside of ye an’ jest amusin’ theirselves as they likes. Mussy on me! D’ye think I don’t know when the Lord ‘ides ‘is face behind the clouds playin’ peep-bo for a bit, and lets the devil ‘ave it all ‘is own way? An’ don’t I know ‘ow, when old Nick is jes’ in the thick o’ the fun ‘avin’ a fine time with the poor silly souls o’ men, the Lord suddenly comes out o’ the cloud and sez, sez He: ‘Now ‘nuff o’ this ‘ere; get thee behind me!’ An’ then—an’ then—,” here Josey paused and struck his staff violently into the earth,—“an’ then there’s a noise as of a mighty wind rushin’, an’ the angels all falls to trumpetin’ an’ cries; ‘Alleluia! Lift up your ‘eads ye everlasting gates that the King of Glory may come in’!”

The various village loafers sauntering beside their venerable prophet, listened to this outburst with respectful awe.

“He’s meanderin’,” said Bainton in a low tone to the portly proprietor of the ‘Mother Huff’; “It’s wonderful wot poltry there is in ‘im, when ‘e gives way to it!”

‘Poltry’ was the general term among the frequenters of the ‘Mother Huff’ for ‘poetry.’

“Ay, ay!” replied Buggins, somewhat condescendingly, as one who bore in mind that he was addressing a creditor; “I don’t understan’ poltry myself, but Josey speaks fine when he has a mind to—there’s no doubt of that. Look ‘ee ‘ere, now; there’s Ipsie Frost runnin’ to ‘im!”

And they all turned their eyes on a flying bundle of curls, rosy cheeks, fat legs and clean pinafore, that came speeding towards old Josey, with another young feminine creature scampering after it crying:

“Ipsie! Hip-po-ly-ta! Baby! Come back to your dinner!”

But Hippolyta was a person evidently accustomed to have her own way, and she ran straight up to Josey Letherbarrow as though he were the one choice hero picked out of a world.

“Zozey!” she screamed, stretching out a pair of short, mottled arms; “My own bootiful Zozey-posey! Tum and pick fowers!”

With an ecstatic shriek at nothing in particular, she caught the edge of the old man’s smock.

“My Zozey,” she said purringly, “‘Oo vezy old, but I loves ‘oo!”

A smile and then a laugh went the round of the group. They were all accustomed to Ipsie’s enthusiasms. Josey Letherbarrow paused a minute to allow his small admirer to take firm hold of his garments, and patted her little head with his brown wrinkled hand.

“We’se goin’ sweetheartin’, ain’t we, Ipsie,” he said gently, the beautiful smile that made his venerable face so fine and lovable, again lighting up his sunken eyes. “Come along, little lass! Come along!”

“She ain’t finished her dinner!” breathlessly proclaimed a long- legged girl of about ten, who had run after the child, being one of her numerous sisters; “Mother said she was to come back straight.”

“I s’ant go back!” declared Ipsie defiantly; “Zozey and me’s sweetheartin’!”

Old Josey chuckled.

“That’s so! So we be!” he said tranquilly; “Come along little lass! Come along!” And to the panting sister of the tiny autocrat, he said: “You go on, my gel! I’ll bring the baby, ‘oldin’ on jest as she is now to my smock. She won’t stir more’n a fond bird wot’s stickin’ its little claws into ye for shelter. I’ll bring ‘er along ‘ome, an’ she’ll finish ‘er dinner fine, like a real good baby! Come along, little lass! Come along!”

So murmuring, the old man and young child went on together, and the group of villagers dispersed. Roger Buggins, however, paused a moment before turning up the lane which led to the ‘Mother Huff.’

“You tell Passon,” he said addressing Bainton, “You tell him as ‘ow the Five Sisters be chalked for layin’ low on Wednesday marnin’!”

“Never fear!” responded Bainton; “I’ll tell ‘im. If ‘tworn’t Sunday, I’d tell ‘im now, but it’s onny fair he should ‘ave a bit o’ peace on the seventh day like the rest of us. He’ll be fair mazed like when he knows it,—ay! and I shouldn’t wonder if he gave Oliver Leach a bit of ‘is mind. For all that he’s so quiet, there’s a real devil