A Town's Memory

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

　　

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A PENDANT TO THE FOREGOINGThe returned Emigrant was not one of those who sometimes creep back toTregarrick and scan the folk wistfully and the names over the shops tillthey bethink themselves of stepping up the hill to take a look at thecemetery, and there find all they sought. This man stood under thearchway of the Pack-horse Inn (by A. Walters), with his soft hat tiltedover his nose, a cigar in his mouth, hands in his trouser pockets, andlegs a-straddle, and smoked and eyed the passers-by with a twinkle ofhumour.He knew them all again, or nearly all. He had quitted Tregarrick forthe Cape at the age of fifteen, under the wing of a cousin from theMining District, had made money out there, and meant to return to makemore, and was home just now on a holiday, with gold in his pocket andthe merest trace of silver in his hair. He watched the people passing,and it all seemed very queer to him and amusing.They were one and all acting and behaving just as they had used to actand behave. Some were a trifle greyer, perhaps, and others stooped abit; but they went about their business in the old fashion, and theiroccupations had not changed. It was just as if he had wound up aclockwork toy before leaving England, and had returned after many yearsto find it still working. Here came old Dymond, the postman, with theusual midday delivery, light as ever, and the well-remembereddot-and-go-one gait. The maids who came out to take the letters weredifferent; in one of them the Emigrant recognised a little girl who hadonce sat facing him in the Wesleyan day-school; but the bells thatfetched them out were those on which he had sounded runaway peals informer days, and with his eyes shut he could have sworn to old Dymond'sdouble-knock. The cart that rattled its load of empty cans up thestreet belonged to Nicholas Retallack ("Old Nick"), the milkman, andthat was Retallack beside it, returning from his morning round. TheEmigrant took the cigar from his mouth and blew a lazy cloud. But forRetallack he might never have seen South Africa or known Johannesburg.Retallack had caught him surreptitiously milking the Alderney into abattered straw hat, and had threatened a summons. There had been aprevious summons with a conviction, and the Mayor had hinted at theReformatory, so the Emigrant had been packed off. And here he was, backagain; and here was Retallack trudging around, the same as ever.In the window across the road a saddler sat cutting out a strap, andreminding the Emigrant of a certain First of April when he had venturedin and inquired for half a pint of strap-oil. It might almost be thesame strap, as it certainly was the same saddler.Down at the street corner, by the clock, a couple of Town Councillorsstood chatting. While the Emigrant looked there came round the corner aruck of boys from school chivvying and shouting after an ungainly man,who turned twice and threatened them with a stick. The TownCouncillors did not interfere, and the rabble passed bawling by thePack-horse. Long before it came the Emigrant had recognised theungainly man. It was Dicky Loony, the town butt. He had chivvied theimbecile a hundred times in just the same fashion, yelling "Black Cat!"after him as these young imps were yelling--though why "Black Cat"neither he nor the imps could have told. But Dicky had always resentedit as he resented it now, wheeling round, shaking his stick, andsputtering maledictions. A stone or two flew harmlessly by.The Emigrant did not interfere.As yet no one had recognised him. He had arrived the night before, andtaken a room at the Pack-horse, nobody asking his name; had sat aftersupper in a corner of the smoking-room and listened to the gossip there,saying nothing."Who's he travellin' for?" somebody had asked of Abel Walters, thelandlord. "He ain't a commercial. He han't got the trunks, only akit-bag. By the soft hat he wears I should say a agent in advance.Likely we'll have a circus before long."His father and mother were dead these ten years. He had sent home moneyto pay the funeral expenses and buy a substantial headstone. But he hadnot been up to the cemetery yet. He was not a sentimental man.Still, he had expected his return to make some little stir inTregarrick, and now a shade of disappointment began to creep over hishumour.He flung away the end of his cigar and strolled up the sunny pavement toa sweetshop where he had once bought ha'porths of liquorice andcinnamon-rock. The legend, "E. Hosking, Maker of Cheesecakes to QueenVictoria," still decorated the window. He entered and demanded a poundof best "fairing," smiling at the magnificence of the order.Mrs. Hosking--her white mob--cap and apron clean as ever--offered him amacaroon for luck, and weighed out the sweets. Her hand shook more thanof old."You don't remember me, Mrs. Hosking?""What is it you say? You must speak a little louder, please, I'm deaf.""You don't remember me?""No, I don't," she said composedly. "I'm gone terrible blind this lastyear or two."The Emigrant paid for his sweets and walked out. He had bought themwith a purpose, and now bent his steps down Market Street. At the footof the hill he paused before a row of white-washed cottages. A greenfence ran along their front, and a pebbled path; and here he found astout, matronly woman bent over a wash-tub."Does Mrs. Best live here?" he asked.The woman withdrew about a dozen pins from her mouth and answered all inone breath:--"She isn't called Best any longer; she married agen five year ago;second husbing, he died too; she doesn' live here any more."With this she stuck the pins very deliberately, one by one, in the bosomof her print gown, and plunged her hands into the wash-tub again.The Emigrant stood nonplussed for a moment and scratched the back of hishead, tilting his soft hat still further forward on his nose."She used to be very fond of me when I was a boy," he said lamely."Yes?" The tone seemed to ask what business that could be of hers."She came as nurse to my mother when I was born. I suppose that madeher take a fancy to me.""Ah, no doubt," replied the woman vaguely, and added, while she soapeda long black stocking, "she did a lot o' that, one time and another.""She had a little girl of her own before I left Tregarrick," theEmigrant persisted, not because she appeared interested--she did not, atall--but with some vague hope of making himself appear a little lesstrivial. "Lizzie she called her. I suppose you don't know what hasbecome of the old woman?""Well, considerin' that I'm her daughter Elizabeth"--she lengthened thename with an implied reproof--"I reckon I ought to know."The Emigrant's hand sought and crushed the big packet of sweets wellinto his pocket. He flushed scarlet. At the same time he could hardlykeep back a smile at his absurd mistake. To be here with lollipops fora woman of thirty and more!"You haven't any little ones of your own?""No, I haven't. Why?""Oh, well; only a question. My name is Peter Jago--Pete, I used to becalled.""Yes?"He took notice that she had said nothing of her mother's whereabouts;and concluded, rightly, that the old woman must be in the workhouse."Well, I'm sorry," he said. "I thought I might be able to do somethingfor her."The woman became attentive at last."Any small trifle you might think o' leavin' with me, sir, it shouldduly reach her. She've failed a lot, lately.""Thank you; I'll think it over. Good-day."He strolled back to the Pack-horse and ate his dinner. Abel Walters,coming in after with a pint of port to his order, found the Emigrantwith a great packet of sugared almonds and angelica spread open besidehis cheese."I suppose, sir," said Mr. Walters, eyeing the heap, "you've travelled agreat deal in foreign parts."Two days passed. The Emigrant visited the cemetery, inspected hisparents' tombstone, and found about it a number of tombstones belongingto people whose faces he had not hitherto missed. But after hisexperiment upon Elizabeth Best he had not declared himself a secondtime. Indeed, his humour by this had turned sour, and his mind was madeup that, if no one recognised him spontaneously, he would leave hisnative town as quietly as he had come--would go back without revealinghimself to a soul. It would be unfair to say that he felt aggrieved;but he certainly dismissed a project, with which he had often played inSouth Africa, of erecting a public drinking-fountain on Mount Folly, asthe citizens of Tregarrick call the slope in front of the County AssizeHall.The third day was Sunday, and he went to church in the morning.The Vicar who preached was a stranger to him; but in the sidesman whocame down the aisle afterwards with the offertory-plate he recognisedone Billy Smithers, who had been a crony of his some twenty years ago;who had, in fact, helped him more than once to milk Retallack'sAlderney. He felt in his pocket and dropped a sovereign into the plate.The sidesman halted and rubbed his chin."Han't you made a mistake?" he asked in a stage whisper.The Emigrant waved his hand in rather a lordly manner, and WilliamSmithers, sidesman, proceeded down the aisle, wondering, but notsuspecting.The Vicar recited the prayer for the whole state of Christ's Churchmilitant here on earth, and the Emigrant joined the crowd trooping outby the western door.But in the press just outside the door two hands suddenly seized hisright hand and shook it violently. He turned and faced--Dicky Loony."Me know, eh? Pete--Mas'r Pete!" The idiot bent over his hand andmumbled it with his wry mouth, then shook it again, peering up in hisface. "Eh? Pete--Pete. Yes. All right!"The Emigrant looked down on this poor creature at whom he had flungscores of stones, but never a kind word. And the idiot ran on:--"Dicky, eh?"--tapping his chest. "You know--Dicky. Pete--Pete, eh?"--and he made the gesture of one flinging a stone. "Often, ha, ha!So high." He spread his hand, palm downward, about five feet from theground."Well I'm blest!" said the Emigrant softly. They stood now on the greentogether, a little apart from the crowd."So high, eh? Li'l boy, eh? Fling--me know!" He took the emigrant'shand again and shook it, smiling and looking him straight in the eyeswith innocent gaiety. "These boys--no good; no good now. Pete, hefling so. Li'l boy--quite li'l boy. Me know, eh? Dicky know!""Well," repeated the Emigrant; "I'm blest, but this is funny!"

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