A Complicated Courtship

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLII, Issue 11, 17 March 1909, Page 44

A Complicated Courtship

By

John Ackworth

TWO loom-jobbers sat with their backs to the warm engine-house wall, taking their nooning pipes. “Ay, lad, they’re teazers, women is; them's t’best off as has nowt to do wi’ cm/’ murmured Oates, the young widower. “You never know where you have ’em; some on 'em's fawse, some on ’em» awkerd, and they're all slippery,” responded bachelor Enoch. Oates hitched over and crossed his legs. “An’ brass! A woman can throw more away wi’ a spoon nor a man can bring in wi’ a shovel.” Enoch reflected sleepily upon this aphorism, wagged his head in solemn endorsement, and added: “Ay, a chap knows what meyl is a pound when he gets wed. Women think about nowt but gettin’ wed,” he went on, and Oates endorsed the sentiment with a slumbrous drawl. “They'd wed -wheelbarrows afore they'd stop single.” Just then a demure little person of about- twenty-six passed on her way to the mill. "That’s a consatted little besom if thou likes,” observed Oates. Enoch sighed. Oates studied him sideways a while, and then, as he crammed his little finger into the bowl of his pipe, he asked: “Let's see, she used to Is settin’ her cap at thee, hadn’t she?” "They-said so,” admitted Enoch shyly; “she's a quiet sort is Sarah,”—and then he added hastily to save his face—“for a woman.” Oates leaned backward and surveyed the mill flagpole, and then muttered, “The quieter the craftier —thee mind thvsel' ” The buzzer went off at this moment, announcing five minutes to starting time, and Enoch was glad not to be compelled to answer. . W hen the noise ceased, however—for he could neither bear the subject nor let it alone, he put on a look iff injured protest, and replied: “What's t'use of talking', I can marry nobody.’’ * Oates’s glance began in lazy comprehension, and ended in a thought that brought sudden light to his eyes: “It’s your Nan Tit can wed nobody if I know owt’’—and there was quite as much inquiry as surprise in his tone. Enoch’s face softened a little, but he was not to be robbed of his grievance. “Dur Nan’s right eiiuff—but a sister's jmbbut a sister.” Oates was absorbed in the flagpole again, ami his eyes blinked rapidly; but as he did not respond Enoch added: “It ’ml be worth a dacent chap’s while if he'd tak her off my hands.” Oates Ashbury went about his work that afternoon with a preoccupied air which led to various absent-minded blunders. and long before half-past 5 he had come to a great resolve. He had long fdnee decided that blue-eyed, blonde Nancy Bradburn was the woman to take thi* late Mrs Ashbury's place, but she had never encouraged him, and he knew, as all Spenclough know, that she was keeping single for Enoch’s sake. Now, if Enoch did care for Sarah Stones, the girl who had suggested their after dinner chat, and he could bring them together—he was reckoned a great hand with the girls — why, then, the way might be open to him. Three days Were spent in studying Sarah’s after-work habits, and on the evening of the fourth he overtook the young lady, “quite accidentally,” in Four Stoops Lane. To his astonishjment and pride they were soon “as thick as thieves.” Sarah not merely approachable, she was inviting, even gushing; and when at Silly (Woinau’s corner ho paused at a low gate

she stood leaning over the rail and talking with manifest eagerness. Silence fell upon them presently, and Oates, beginning to understand why Enoch was so “gone” on her, prepared for action. “Hey, lass! that pink hood does suit thee! Thou’rt fair bonny!” “Now then! Now then!” but she did not move away. “A lass like thee owt to ha’ been wed long sin. How is it thou hasna?” Sarah laughed, and the eyes she turned upon him were dancing with flattered delight. “1” right man hasn’t axed me, that’s why.” “I know one as ’ud ax thee ony minute.” Sarah had dropped her face into her hands which were propped on the gate, but he could see she was blushing with happy shame. "He’s been wantin’ to ax thee many a month.” lie was gazing eagerly at her wonderful dark brown hair, and leaned a little towards her, and from out the hands that hid her features came a protest more stimulating than a direct invitation. "For shame, Oates—dunnat!” “Dunnat! It’s true, woman! as true as gospel.” "(Hi, dunnat” —why was she shaking the gate so—“it’s so suddin—I —I never t bought—dunna t! ” “Thought?”—and Oates had a twinge of odd uncertainty. “Never thought what?” “Never, thought—oh, it’s so suddin—gi’ me time, lad.” "Suddin? Time? Why, I’ve never told thee nowt yet; he’s a—■ —” “Oh, dunnat —I’m that mazed—-give me time! ” "Time? What for? Why, woman, I don’t mean —I ” “Ay. ay! but I didn’t know—give me a week”—and this time she raised a face which, though red and uneasy, was perfectly serious. For a moment she looked at him, and then, giving way again, covered her face, crying, “Oh, it is suddin. it makes me fair tremble.” “But. Sarah, thou’rt mista’en. I wasn’t meanin’ —it was for—E——” “Oh, dunnat—go away —give me a week—oh, my father’s coming!” It was not her father—Oates saw that even in his amazement, but she had vanished round the corner, and he could still hear the flutter of her skirts. Oates glared at the old ragman, who was the actual disturber, until he passed, and then stood there in the old lane -thunder-struck. "Why, the silly creature wanted him! What a mess he had made of it!» and what a fix he had got himself into!” But really he had never noticed what a ravishing little creature Sarah was before, and she must have a nice little nest egg somewhere. Before he had been at his work an hour the following day a little "tenter” brought him a note, scribbled on brown paper, and written in a very neat hand, which exhorted him not to think ill of the writer, and promising that if he would give her time —nobody knew what might happen. Oates was immensely flattered—and frightened—and after much dubitation squared his conscience by urging Enoch to try his chance with Sarah once more and without delay-, Enoch understood with surprising acuteness, and overcame his suggestion that Nancy’s state of mind should be ascertained first, by a winking assurance that that would be all right, and a dear hint that somebody else was “after” Sarah. But old Blinder-the ragman’s business depended largely upon his

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gossiping resources, and so sunny Naney Bradburn soon heard that a strange man—Blinder was much too crafty, and doted too much on mystery to mention names—had been seen in the Four Stoops Lane with Stones’ lass; and putting this with a recent moodiness her doting eyes had detected in Enoch, she found herself once more face to face w-ith the sore old question she had hoped was at rest for ever. That nigi.v therefore after a day of brooding thought she startled her brother as they were sitting at the tea-table by remarking: "Hay, dear! it’s dull work stoppin’ at home, Enoch, I’m goin’ back to t’faetory.” “Now, then, sulky! Don’t I give thee brass enough?” and Enoch, the moody, chewed at his hot toast without even looking at her. "Keep thy owd brass! I’st go to work, and thou can shift for thysel.” A slow shy smile formed about his mouth as they looked at each other, and at last he said, “Ger out, woman! thou’rt losin’ thy wits!” Naney did not reply at once, but as she rose to collect the tea-things she said, “I mean it; the sooner thou gets somebody else in my place the better I’st like it.” Enoch was very still, joy and sweet sorrow, eagerness and odd reluctance struggling together within him, but that night he proposed to and was accepted by the laughing Sarah. .Meanwhile, Oates, unconscious of what was transpiring, was still struggling with his difficulty. Then lie heard from a reliable source that Nancy was leaving Spenelough for good, and all his old affection for her came back with double force. But if this were true he knew what Enoch would immediately do, and as that possibility shaped itself before him he fell to vigorous abuse of women, fate and self. Well, he would give him one more chanee—he was easily pumped was Nancy’s brother. But Enoch turned out to be in uncommonly good spirits, offensively so Oates felt, and quite unapproachable as to Sarah; and though he used all his craft, Oates eould get nothing out of him but a cryptic remark that, “Them ean moider wi’ women as has a moind, I’ve done my bit, I have.” Oates was getting perplexed, for the two strings to his bow were becoming rather mixed. If this was Enoch’s real mind, why the way was open for him to Sarah, and the same circumstances closed the door to Nancy. It was simply Providence!—only why was he so suspicious about Enoch? "Pluck up, man! try her again.” “I’ve tried her three times, and I’st try her no more, neither for thee nor our Nan.” That was plain enough surely; it was Providence! he was being actually pushed by fate towards the lively Sarah. Yes, everything seemed to be helping him. That very afternoon something went wrong with one of Sarah’s warps, and as he had charge of her looms this gave him the very chanee he needed. And Sarah was helping him; she smiled encouragingly to him as he commenced his inspection of the loom, but like the smart girl she was, kept away from him. He bent over his task with a swimming head and a thumping heart, and hugged himself as he thought how cunningly she was falling into his scheme. The weavers were singing, and Sarah was taking her usual contralto part. She never had looked quite as tempting before; she Was a woman all over Sarah was. Suddenly, still keeping up her singing, she came to attend to some matter close by him, dropped her head until her hair swept his

Author of Clog-Shop Chronicles

cheek, and remarked, “I dunna like long eourtings, Oates, does thou?” but when he lifted h:s amazed face to look at her she was at the other eno of the loom piping out—"Ro—obi—in A—a —dair.” Was there ever such a girl! He would have her now for all the Enochs in the kingdom! and so, as she would not come near him again, but seemed utterly absorbed in her singing, he scribbled a hasty note on a bit of cop-wrapping, watched until he caught her eye, slipped it as she followed his signal into a cop skip, snatched up his tools and vanished. As he opened the shed door he glanced rour I, and noted that sire was just slipping the message into her bosom, still piping out, “R —o—obi—in A—a —dair.” The note read—“No nor I doant; I’ll come to-morrow night and wed thee in six week.” The evenings just then were long and sweet, and Oates, restless as ever mortal was, went out after work, selecting Four Stoops Lane and the direction of Sarah's home as the most soothing neighbourhood. He was not looking particularly for Sarah, and did not expect to see her; but the scenery waq nicer just there. He had done it now! but Sarah was worth it all, and if Nancy was going away Ha! what was that? and he stood suddenly still, his heart in his mouth. It came again from somewhere above him on the steep hill-side, a woman’s frightened scream. It was Sarah, she was being molested by some ruffian—and Oates was over tho hedge and crossing Poole’s pasture in an instant. Another scream? they were murdering her, —but he was very near, the sound came from just behind the far hedge. He rushed forward, took a flying leap over the fence and alighted within an ace of a wicked old ram, which had come upon and cornered a woman w’ho was gathering nettles. The terrified female had crowded herself back into the hedge-corner until the thorns had eaught in her hair and pulled it' down, whilst the frightened creature was hugging her apron of nettles so closely to her that a pair of the neatest possible ankles were visible. The woman was Nancy Bradburn, and as the old’ ram scampered off, the girl's white face suddenly flushed crimson, and a moment later she was in his arms, with her golden hair drooping on his shoulder and hiding his eyes. “Hay you do look pretty!” They sprang aside with guilty exclamations, but all they saw was the left shoulder and flying shawl of Sarah Stones, as she dashed away from the field gate a few yards higher up, and sent into the air merry peals of laughter. They both looked foolish enough, but Oates was not the man to let a woman suffer, and soon the old spell was on him again; he still soothed her, still held her up. still talked, —but as ho had never been allowed to talk before—and went home in the twilight with permission to ask Enoch for Naney as soon as he liked. Next morning he was in Sarah’s loomalley as soon as ever the noise of the machinery made it possible to talk safely. She listened with the old demureness to his explanations, and bowed her head and looked very much ashamed as he protested his innocence—but she. did not speak. He insisted that she had entirely misunderstood him on that fatal first night, and that he had gone to speak to her on quite other subjects;] and still she did not speak. He protested that he had always liked Nancy, and

intended to have her, and that he was sure Enoch was the better man, and only waited for a word. Would she never lift her head or speak. All these giddy weavers were staring at hitn. “Oates Ashbury I have it in writin', and I’ll mak’ a breach of promise case; anil I’ll show it to Nancy this very night.” Oates glared at her with helpless in* dignation, but forty pairs of women’s eyes were upon them, and he had to leave her. During the day he thought of trying Enoch, and then of making a full breast of it to Nancy. He grew desperate as he brooded, and so in defiance of public observation he visited Sarah again at her looms. This time he was humble, pleading, coaxing, but that demure face was as signless as ever. “Has thou axed Enoch for Nancy?” “No, how could I?” “Then go ax him —and come bask to me.” ■ ' Half an hour biter he stood at her loom ends again, almost shouting his denunciations: Enoch had split. Then she drew the paper from her bosom. “I’ll keep this till thou weds her, and thou leaves t'house anij furniture for us.” She smiled as she spoke like a seraph, and the crushed Oates was fain to agree. He has lost his faith in diplomacy.

She fisd dreamed that some hero might woo her (This debutante wistful and sweet), She had hoped that seine Prince Charming might sue her, And she pictured him low at her feet. And then love in a cottage would follow-, Afar from society’s whirl. From its shams and its mockeries hollow. (Just the innocent dream of a girl). But she plighted her troth at the altar To a millionaire, gouty and gray, And nobody beard bar voice fal tar,

As she promised to love and obey. Iler cheek was as pale as the lave of her veil, While the wedding chimes sounded love's knell, But the jewels she wore cost ten thousand or more. (So the world says she did very well.) Tn his fancy he cherished a vision (This gallant and debonair youth) Of a future of rapture Elysian. With some maiden all beauty and truth. Through society’s mazes he sought her, With a faith he deemed naught could destroy.

From .his heart’s pure ideal he wrough? her. (Just the passionate dream of a boy.) But he wedded a widow of fifty. Quite a well preserved beauty. Mis true. Whose first lord, by his management thrifty. Had amassed a round million or And he knelt by the side of his simper* ing bride, While the wedding chimes sounded love's knoll, But the wealth of hit wife gilds his pathway through lifo. (So the world says he did very wolL|