Francey said nothing, watching the pale day grow round the figure on
the wall. The mother kept her light tone, but her unslept eyes were red.
“It isn’t as if he hadn’t a bit of brass. Wolf’s not the sort to send
him off with his thumb in his mouth, for all his jye looks! He’s doing
well by the lad, and Lup’ll be fit to do his best back again. What, I
shouldn’t wonder if he’s home in a two-three year, as like Brack as one
pea to another! It’s a sad pity Brack didn’t hold on till Ninekyrkes
was empty. It would have been pleasant-like, having him next door.”
“Brack at Ninekyrkes!” Francey fired contemptuously. “Why, mother, he
knows nothing of farming! You should hear the tales going about him.
You should see his fences and his thistles! Mr. Lancaster will be
having a word with him, if he doesn’t mend. He knows less about crops
than I do, and I can handle a rake with him, any day!”
“Why, there’s nowt to that! Brack’s got a snack o’ yon culture you
reckon so much on. He can handle that puffin’ billy o’ his, anyhow,
an’ carry a smart coat an’ finger the banjo. Yon was a rare good tune
he give us, t’other night at Sunflatts, with his face blacked an’ all!
Lup’ll never shape for owt o’ _that_ sort, I doubt.”
On the bank Lup turned sharply without lingering or hesitation, and
dropped down into the road, the dogs springing on the instant, as
if part of him. Looking straight before him, he made off towards
Ninekyrkes, and they saw his fine, dark profile as he stooped to hasp
a gate. Then he was gone, and the waste was empty as before. And in
that moment Mrs. Dockeray forgot her daughter and forwent her methods,
pressing her working face to the cold glass. Francey heard her say:
“Good lad, Lup! God bless you; good lad!” and when she stood up beside
her, she saw the quick tears running down the kind cheek.
“He’ll come back!” she found herself saying, vaguely wondering how the
post of comforter had come to be reversed, and the elder woman nodded,
passing her hand over her eyes, her subtle diplomacy broken at last to
plain words.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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