Jock-at-a-Venture
IAll this happened at a Martinmas Fair in Bursley, long ago in thefifties, when everybody throughout the Five Towns pronounced Bursley"Bosley" as a matter of course; in the tedious and tragic old times,before it had been discovered that hell was a myth, and before theinvention of pleasure or even of half-holidays. Martinmas was in thosedays a very important moment in the annual life of the town, for it wasat Martinmas that potters' wages were fixed for twelve months ahead, andpotters hired themselves out for that term at the best rate they couldget. Even to the present day the housewives reckon chronology byMartinmas. They say, "It'll be seven years come Martinmas that Sal'sbabby died o' convulsions." Or, "It was that year as it rained andhailed all Martinmas." And many of them have no idea why it isMartinmas, and not Midsummer or Whitsun, that is always on the tips oftheir tongues.The Fair was one of the two great drunken sprees of the year, the otherbeing the Wakes. And it was meet that it should be so, for intoxicationwas a powerful aid to the signing of contracts. A sot would put his nameto anything, gloriously; and when he had signed he had signed. Thus thebeaver-hatted employers smiled at Martinmas drunkenness, and smacked itfamiliarly on the back; and little boys swilled themselves into thegutter with their elders, and felt intensely proud of the feat. Theseheroic old times have gone by, never to return.It was on the Friday before Martinmas, at dusk. In the centre of thetown, on the waste ground to the north of the "Shambles" (as thestone-built meat market was called), and in the space between theShambles and the as yet unfinished new Town Hall, the showmen and theshowgirls and the showboys were titivating their booths, and cookingtheir teas, and watering their horses, and polishing the brass rails oftheir vans, and brushing their fancy costumes, and hammering freshtent-pegs into the hard ground, and lighting the first flares of theevening, and yarning, and quarrelling, and washing--all under the sombrepurple sky, for the diversion of a small crowd of loafers, big andlittle, who stood obstinately with their hands in their pockets or intheir sleeves, missing naught of the promising spectacle.Now, in the midst of what in less than twenty-four hours would be theFair, was to be seen a strange and piquant sight--namely, a group ofthree white-tied, broad-brimmed dissenting ministers in earnest conversewith fat Mr Snaggs, the proprietor of Snaggs's--Snaggs's being the towntheatre, a wooden erection, generally called by patrons the "Blood Tub,"on account of its sanguinary programmes. On this occasion Mr Snaggs andthe dissenting ministers were for once in a way agreed. They allobjected to a certain feature of the Fair. It was not the roundabouts,so crude that even an infant of to-day would despise them. It wasnot the shooting-galleries, nor the cocoanut shies. It was not thearrangements of the beersellers, which were formidably Bacchic.It was not the boxing-booths, where adventurous youths could haveteeth knocked out and eyes smashed in free of charge. It was not themonstrosity-booths, where misshapen and maimed creatures of both sexeswere displayed all alive and nearly nude to anybody with a penny tospare. What Mr Snaggs and the ministers of religion objected to was thetheatre-booths, in which the mirror, more or less cracked and tarnished,was held up to nature.Mr Snaggs's objection was professional. He considered that he alone wasauthorized to purvey drama to the town; he considered that among allpurveyors of drama he alone was respectable, the rest being upstarts,poachers, and lewd fellows. And as the dissenting ministers gazed at MrSnaggs's superb moleskin waistcoat, and listened to his positive brazenvoice, they were almost convinced that the hated institution of thetheatre could be made respectable and that Mr Snaggs had so made it. Atany rate, by comparison with these flashy and flimsy booths, the BloodTub, rooted in the antiquity of thirty years, had a dignified, even areputable air--and did not Mr Snaggs give frequent performances ofCruickshanks' The Bottle, a sermon against intemperance moreimpressive than any sermon delivered from a pulpit in a chapel? Thedissenting ministers listened with deference as Mr Snaggs explained tothem exactly what they ought to have done, and what they had failed todo, in order to ensure the success of their campaign against play-actingin the Fair; a campaign which now for several years past had beenabortive--largely (it was rumoured) owing to the secret jealousy of theChurch of England."If ony on ye had had any gumption," Mr Snaggs was saying fearlessly tothe parsons, "ye'd ha' gone straight to th' Chief Bailiff and ye'dha'--Houch!" He made the peculiar exclamatory noise roughly indicated bythe last word, and spat in disgust; and without the slightest ceremonyof adieu walked ponderously away up the slope, leaving his sentenceunfinished."It is remarkable how Mr Snaggs flees from before my face," said a neat,alert, pleasant voice from behind the three parsons. "And yet save thatin my unregenerate day I once knocked him off a stool in front of hisown theayter, I never did him harm nor wished him anything but good....Gentlemen!"A rather small, slight man of about forty, with tiny feet and hands,and "very quick on his pins," saluted the three parsons gravely."Mr Smith!" one parson stiffly inclined."Mr Smith!" from the second."Brother Smith!" from the third, who was Jock Smith's own parson, beingin charge of the Bethesda in Trafalgar Road where Jock Smith worshippedand where he had recently begun to preach as a local preacher.Jock Smith, herbalist, shook hands with vivacity but also withself-consciousness. He was self-conscious because he knew himself to beone of the chief characters and attractions of the town, because he waswell aware that wherever he went people stared at him and pointed himout to each other. And he was half proud and half ashamed of hisnotoriety.Even now a little band of ragged children had wandered after him, and,undeterred by the presence of the parsons, were repeating amongthemselves, in a low audacious monotone:"Jock-at-a-Venture! Jock-at-a-Venture!"
IIHe was the youngest of fourteen children, and when he was a month oldhis mother took him to church to be christened. The rector was thecelebrated Rappey, sportsman, who (it is said) once pawned the churchBible in order to get up a bear-baiting. Rappey asked the name of thechild, and was told by the mother that she had come to the end of herknowledge of names, and would be obliged for a suggestion. WhereuponRappey began to cite all the most ludicrous names in the Bible, such asAholibamah, Kenaz, Iram, Baalhanan, Abiasaph, Amram, Mushi, Libni,Nepheg, Abihu. And the mother laughed, shaking her head. And Rappey wenton: Shimi, Carmi, Jochebed. And at Jochebed the mother becamehysterical with laughter. "Jock-at-a-Venture," she had sniggered, andRappey, mischievously taking her at her word, christened the infantJock-at-a-Venture before she could protest; and the infant was stampedfor ever as peculiar.He lived up to his name. He ran away twice, and after having been both asailor and a soldier, he returned home with the accomplishment offlourishing a razor, and settled in Bursley as a barber. Immediately hebecame the most notorious barber in the Five Towns, on account of hisgab and his fisticuffs. It was he who shaved the left side of the faceof an insulting lieutenant of dragoons (after the great riots of '45,which two thousand military had not quelled), and then pitched him outof the shop, soapsuds and all, and fought him to a finish in the CockYard and flung him through the archway into the market-place with justhalf a magnificent beard and moustache. It was he who introducedhair-dyeing into Bursley. Hair-dyeing might have grown popular in thetown if one night, owing to some confusion with red ink, the Chairman ofthe Bursley Burial Board had not emerged from Jock-at-a-Venture's with avermilion top-knot and been greeted on the pavement by his waiting wifewith the bitter words: "Thou foo!"A little later Jock-at-a-Venture abandoned barbering and took up music,for which he had always shown a mighty gift. He was really musical andperformed on both the piano and the cornet, not merely with his handsand mouth, but with the whole of his agile expressive body. He made agood living out of public-houses and tea-meetings, for none could playthe piano like Jock, were it hymns or were it jigs. His cornet wasemployed in a band at Moorthorne, the mining village to the east ofBursley, and on his nocturnal journeys to and from Moorthorne with thebeloved instrument he had had many a set-to with the marauding collierswho made the road dangerous for cowards. One result of this connectionwith Moorthorne was that a boxing club had been formed in Bursley, withJock as chief, for the upholding of Bursley's honour against visitingMoorthorne colliers in Bursley's market-place.Then came Jock's conversion to religion, a blazing affair, and hisabandonment of public-houses. As tea-meetings alone would not keep him,he had started again in life, for the fifth or sixth time--as aherbalist now. It was a vocation which suited his delicate hands and hisenthusiasm for humanity. At last, and quite lately, he had risen to be alocal preacher. His first two sermons had impassioned the congregations,though there were critics to accuse him of theatricality. Accidentshappened to him sometimes. On this very afternoon of the Friday beforeMartinmas an accident had happened to him. He had been playing the pianoat the rehearsal of the Grand Annual Evening Concert of the Bursley MaleGlee-Singers. The Bursley Male Glee-Singers, determined to beat records,had got a soprano with a foreign name down from Manchester. On seeingthe shabby perky little man who was to accompany her songs the sopranohad had a moment of terrible misgiving. But as soon as Jock, with acareful-careless glance at the music, which he had never seen before,had played the first chords (with a "How's that for time, missis?"), shewas reassured. At the end of the song her enthusiasm for the musicalgifts of the local artist was such that she had sprung from the platformand simply but cordially kissed him. She was a stout, feverish lady. Heliked a lady to be stout; and the kiss was pleasant and the complimentenormous. But what a calamity for a local preacher with a naughty pastto be kissed in full rehearsal by a soprano from Manchester! He knewthat he had to live that kiss down, and to live down also the charge oftheatricality.Here was a reason, and a very good one, why he deliberately sought thecompany of parsons in the middle of the Fair-ground. He had to protecthimself against tongues.
III"I don't know," said Jock-at-a-Venture to the parsons, gesturing withhis hands and twisting his small, elegant feet, "I don't know as I'm infavour of stopping these play-acting folk from making a living; stopping'em by force, that is."He knew that he had said something shocking, something that when hejoined the group he had not in the least meant to say. He knew thatinstead of protecting himself he was exposing himself to danger. But hedid not care. When, as now, he was carried away by an idea, he cared fornaught. And, moreover, he had the consciousness of being cleverer,acuter, than any of these ministers of religion, than anybody in thetown! His sheer skill and resourcefulness in life had always borne himsafely through every difficulty--from a prize-fight to a soprano'sembrace."A strange doctrine, Brother Smith!" said Jock's own pastor.The other two hummed and hawed, and brought the tips of their fingerstogether."Nay!" said Jock, persuasively smiling. "'Stead o' bringing 'em tostarvation, bring 'em to the House o' God! Preach the gospel to 'em, andthen when ye've preached the gospel to 'em, happen they'll change theirways o' their own accord. Or happen they'll put their play-acting to theservice o' God. If there's plays agen drink, why shouldna' there beplays agen the devil, and for Jesus Christ, our Blessed Redeemer?""Good day to you, brethren," said one of the parsons, and departed. Thusonly could he express his horror of Jock's sentiments.In those days churches and chapels were not so empty that parsons hadto go forth beating up congregations. A pew was a privilege. And thosewho did not frequent the means of grace had at any rate the grace to beashamed of not doing so. And, further, strolling players, in spite ofJohn Wesley's exhortations, were not considered salvable. The notion oftrying to rescue them from merited perdition was too fantastic to beseriously entertained by serious Christians. Finally, the suggestedconnection between Jesus Christ and a stage-play was really tooappalling! None but Jock-at-a-Venture would have been capable of such anidea."I think, my friend--" began the second remaining minister."Look at that good woman there!" cried Jock-at-a-Venture, interruptinghim with a dramatic out-stretching of the right arm, as he pointed to avery stout but comely dame, who, seated on a three-legged stool, wascalmly peeling potatoes in front of one of the more resplendent booths."Look at that face! Is there no virtue in it? Is there no hope forsalvation in it?""None," Jock's pastor replied mournfully. "That woman--her name isClowes--is notorious. She has eight children, and she has brought themall up to her trade. I have made inquiries. The elder daughters areactresses and married to play-actors, and even the youngest child istaught to strut on the boards. Her troupe is the largest in theMidlands."Jock-at-a-Venture was certainly dashed by this information."The more reason," said he, obstinately, "for saving her!... And allhers!"The two ministers did not want her to be saved. They liked to think ofthe theatre as being beyond the pale. They remembered the time, beforethey were ordained, and after, when they had hotly desired to see theinside of a theatre and to rub shoulders with wickedness. And they tookpleasure in the knowledge that the theatre was always there, and thewickedness thereof, and the lost souls therein. But Jock-at-a-Venturegenuinely longed, in that ecstasy of his, for the total abolition of allforms of sin."And what would you do to save her, brother?" Jock's pastor inquiredcoldly."What would I do? I'd go and axe her to come to chapel Sunday, her andhers. I'd axe her kindly, and I'd crack a joke with her. And I'd getround her for the Lord's sake."Both ministers sighed. The same thought was in their hearts, namely,that brands plucked from the burning (such as Jock) had a disagreeabletendency to carry piety, as they had carried sin, to the most ridiculousand inconvenient lengths.
IV"Those are bonny potatoes, missis!""Ay!" The stout woman, the upper part of whose shabby dress seemed to besubjected to considerable strains, looked at Jock carelessly, and then,attracted perhaps by his eager face, smiled with a certain facileamiability."But by th' time they're cooked your supper'll be late, I'm reckoning.""Them potatoes have naught to do with our supper," said Mrs Clowes."They're for to-morrow's dinner. There'll be no time for peelingpotatoes to-morrow. Kezia!" She shrilled the name.A slim little girl showed herself between the heavy curtains of the maintent of Mrs Clowes's caravanserai."Bring Sapphira, too!""Those yours?" asked Jock."They're mine," said Mrs Clowes. "And I've six more, not countinggrandchildren and sons-in-law like.""No wonder you want a pailful of potatoes!" said Jock.Kezia and Sapphira appeared in the gloom. They might have countedsixteen years together. They were dirty, tousled, graceful and lovely."Twins," Jock suggested.Mrs Clowes nodded. "Off with this pail, now! And mind you don't spillthe water. Here, Kezia! Take the knife. And bring me the other pail."The children bore away the heavy pail, staggering, eagerly obedient. MrsClowes lifted her mighty form from the stool, shook peelings from thesecret places of her endless apron, and calmly sat down again."Ye rule 'em with a rod of iron, missis," said Jock.She smiled good-humouredly and shrugged her vast shoulders--no meanphysical feat."I keep 'em lively," she said. "There's twelve of 'em in my lot, withoutth' two babbies. Someone's got to be after 'em all the time.""And you not thirty-five, I swear!""Nay! Ye're wrong."Sapphira brought the other pail, swinging it. She put it down with aclatter of the falling handle and scurried off."Am I now?" Jock murmured, interested; and, as it were out of sheerabsent-mindedness, he turned the pail wrong side up, and seated himselfon it with a calm that equalled the calm of Mrs Clowes.It was now nearly dark. The flares of the showmen were answering eachother across the Fair-ground; and presently a young man came and hungone out above the railed platform of Mrs Clowes's booth; and Mrs Clowesblinked. From behind the booth floated the sounds of the confusedchatter of men, girls and youngsters, together with the complaint of aninfant. A few yards away from Mrs Clowes was a truss of hay; a ponysidled from somewhere with false innocence up to this truss, nosed itcautiously, and then began to bite wisps from it. Occasionally a loudbut mysterious cry swept across the ground. The sky was full of mystery.Against the sky to the west stood black and clear the silhouette of thenew Town Hall spire, a wondrous erection; and sticking out from it atone side was the form of a gigantic angel. It was the gold angel which,from the summit of the spire, has now watched over Bursley for half acentury, but which on that particular Friday had been lifted onlytwo-thirds of the way to its final home.Jock-at-a-Venture felt deeply all the influences of the scene and of thewoman. He was one of your romantic creatures; and for him the woman wasmagnificent. Her magnificence thrilled."And what are you going to say?" she quizzed him. "Sitting on my pail!"Now to quiz Jock was to challenge him."Sitting on your pail, missis," he replied, "I'm going for to say thatyou're much too handsome a woman to go down to hell in eternaldamnation."She was taken aback, but her profession had taught her the art of quickrecovery."You belong to that Methody lot," she mildly sneered. "I thought I seedyou talking to them white-chokers.""I do," said Jock."And I make no doubt you think yourself very clever.""Well," he vouchsafed, "I can splice a rope, shave a head, cure a wartor a boil, and tell a fine woman with any man in this town. Not tomention boxing, as I've given up on account of my religion.""I was handsome once," said Mrs Clowes, with apparent, but not real,inconsequence. "But I'm all run to fat, like. I've played Portia in mytime. But now it's as much as I can do to get through with Maria Martinor Belladonna.""Fat!" Jock protested. "Fat! I wouldn't have an ounce taken off ye forfifty guineas."He was so enthusiastic that Mrs Clowes blushed."What's this about hell-fire?" she questioned. "I often think of it--I'ma lonely woman, and I often think of it.""You lonely!" Jock protested again. "With all them childer?""Ay!"There was a silence."See thee here, missis!" he exploded, jumping up from the pail. "Ye mustcome to th' Bethesda down yon, on Sunday morning, and hear the word o'God. It'll be the making on ye."Mrs Clowes shook her head."Nay!""And bring yer children," he persisted."If it was you as was going to preach like!" she said, looking away."It is me as is going to preach," he answered loudly and proudly. "AndI'll preach agen any man in this town for a dollar!"Jock was forgetting himself: an accident which often happened to him.
VThe Bethesda was crowded on Sunday morning; partly because it wasMartinmas Sunday, and partly because the preacher was Jock-at-a-Venture.That Jock should have been appointed on the "plan" [rota of preachers]to discourse in the principal local chapel of the Connexion at such animportant feast showed what extraordinary progress he had already madein the appreciation of that small public of experts which aided theparson in drawing up the quarterly plan. At the hands of the largerpublic his reception was sure. Some sixteen hundred of the larger publichad crammed themselves into the chapel, and there was not an empty placeeither on the ground floor or in the galleries. Even the "orchestra" (asthe "singing-seat" was then called) had visitors in addition to thechoir and the double-bass players. And not a window was open. At thatdate it had not occurred to people that fresh air was not a menace toexistence. The whole congregation was sweltering, and rather enjoyingit; for in some strangely subtle manner perspiration seemed to be a helpto religious emotion. Scores of women were fanning themselves; and amongthese was a very stout peony-faced woman of about forty in a gorgeousyellow dress and a red-and-black bonnet, with a large boy and a smallgirl under one arm, and a large boy and a small girl under the otherarm. The splendour of the group appeared somewhat at odds with thepenury of the "Free Seats," whither it had been conducted by a steward.In the pulpit, dominating all, was Jock-at-a-Venture, who sweated likethe rest. He presented a rather noble aspect in his broadcloth, sodifferent from his careless, shabby week-day attire. His eye waslighted; his arm raised in a compelling gesture. Pausing effectively, helifted a glass with his left hand and sipped. It was the signal that hehad arrived at his peroration. His perorations were famous. And thismorning everybody felt, and he himself knew, that all previousperorations were to be surpassed. His subject was the wrath to come, andthe transient quality of human life on earth. "Yea," he announced, ingradually-increasing thunder, "all shall go. And loike the baselessfabric o' a vision, the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, thesolemn temples, the great globe itself--Yea, I say, all which it inheritshall dissolve, and, like this insubstantial payjent faded, leave not arack behind."His voice had fallen for the last words. After a dramatic silence, hefinished, in a whisper almost, and with eyebrows raised and staring gazedirected straight at the vast woman in yellow: "We are such stuff asdrames are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep. May Godhave mercy on us. Hymn 442."The effect was terrific. Men sighed and women wept, in relief that thestrain was past. Jock was an orator; he wielded the orator's dominion.Well he knew, and well they all knew, that not a professional preacherin the Five Towns could play on a congregation as he did. For when Jockwas roused you could nigh see the waves of emotion sweeping across theupturned faces of his hearers like waves across a wheatfield on a windyday.And this morning he had been roused.
VIBut in the vestry after the service he met enemies, in the shape andflesh of the chapel-steward and the circuit-steward, Mr Brett and MrHanks respectively. Both these important officials were local preachers,but, unfortunately, their godliness did not protect them against theravages of jealousy. Neither of them could stir a congregation, nor evenfill a country chapel."Brother Smith," said Jabez Hanks, shutting the door of the vestry. Hewas a tall man with a long, greyish beard and no moustache. "BrotherSmith, it is borne in upon me and my brother here to ask ye a question.""Ask!" said Jock."Were them yer own words--about cloud-capped towers and baselessfabrics and the like? I ask ye civilly.""And I answer ye civilly, they were," replied Jock."Because I have here," said Jabez Hanks, maliciously, "Dod's Beautieso' Shakspere, where I find them very same words, taken from astage-play called The Tempest."Jock went a little pale as Jabez Hanks opened the book."They may be Shakspere's words too," said Jock, lightly."A fortnight ago, at Moorthorne Chapel, I suspected it," said Jabez."Suspected what?""Suspected ye o' quoting Shakspere in our pulpits.""And cannot a man quote in a sermon? Why, Jabez Hanks, I've heard yequote Matthew Henry by the fathom.""Ye've never heard me quote a stage-play in a pulpit, Brother Smith,"said Jabez Hanks, majestically. "And as long as I'm chapel-steward itwunna' be tolerated in this chapel.""Wunna it?" Jock put in defiantly."It's a defiling of the Lord's temple; that's what it is!" Jabez Hankscontinued. "Ye make out as ye're against stage-plays at the Fair, andyet ye come here and mouth 'em in a Christian pulpit. You agenstage-plays! Weren't ye seen talking by the hour to one o' them trulls,Friday night--? And weren't ye seen peeping through th' canvas lastnight? And now--""Now what?" Jock inquired, approaching Jabez on his springy toes, andlooking up at Jabez's great height.Jabez took breath. "Now ye bring yer fancy women into the House o' God!You--a servant o' Christ, you--"Jock-at-a-Venture interrupted the sentence with his daring fist, whichseemed to lift Jabez from the ground by his chin, and then to let himfall in a heap, as though his clothes had been a sack containing loosebones."A good-day to ye, Brother Brett," said Jock, reaching for his hat, anddeparting with a slam of the vestry door.He emerged at the back of the chapel and got by "back-entries" intoAboukir Street, up which he strolled with a fine show of tranquillity,as far as the corner of Trafalgar Road, where stood and stands the greatDragon Hotel. The congregations of several chapels were dispersingslowly round about this famous corner, and Jock had to salute several ofhis own audience. Then suddenly he saw Mrs Clowes and her four childrenenter the tap-room door of the Dragon.He hesitated one second and followed the variegated flotilla and itsconvoy.The tap-room was fairly full of both sexes. But among them Jock and MrsClowes and her children were the only persons who had been to church orchapel."Here's preacher, mother!" Kezia whispered, blushing, to Mrs Clowes."Eh," said Mrs Clowes, turning very amiably. "It's never you, mester! Itwas that hot in that chapel we're all on us dying of thirst.... Fourgills and a pint, please!" (This to the tapster.)"And give me a pint," said Jock, desperately.They all sat down familiarly. That a mother should take her childreninto a public-house and give them beer, and on a Sunday of all days, andimmediately after a sermon! That a local preacher should go direct fromthe vestry to the gin-palace and there drink ale with a strollingplayer! These phenomena were simply and totally inconceivable! And yetJock was in presence of them, assisting at them, positively acting inthem! And in spite of her enormities, Mrs Clowes still struck him as amost agreeable, decent, kindly, motherly woman--quite apart from herhandsomeness. And her offspring, each hidden to the eyes behind a mug,were a very well-behaved lot of children."It does me good," said Mrs Clowes, quaffing. "And ye need summat tokeep ye up in these days! We did Belphegor and The Witch and aharlequinade last night. And not one of these children got to bed beforehalf after midnight. But I was determined to have 'em at chapel thismorning. And not sorry I am I went! Eh, mester, what a Virginius you'dha' made! I never heard preaching like it--not as I've heard much!""And you'll never hear anything like it again, missis," said Jock, "forI've preached my last sermon.""Nay, nay!" Mrs Clowes deprecated."I've preached my last sermon," said Jock again. "And if I've saved asoul wi' it, missis...!" He looked at her steadily and then drank."I won't say as ye haven't," said Mrs Clowes, lowering her eyes.
VIIRather less than a week later, on a darkening night, a van left the townof Bursley by the Moorthorne Road on its way to Axe-in-the-Moors, whichis the metropolis of the wild wastes that cut off northern Staffordshirefrom Derbyshire. This van was the last of Mrs Clowes's caravanserai, andalmost the last to leave the Fair. Owing to popular interest in theevents of Jock-at-a-Venture's public career, in whose meshes Mrs Cloweshad somehow got caught, the booth of Mrs Clowes had succeeded beyond anyother booth, and had kept open longer and burned more naphtha and takenfar more money. The other vans of the stout lady's enterprise (therewere three in all) had gone forward in advance, with all her elderchildren and her children-in-law and her grandchildren, and the heavywood and canvas of the booth. Mrs Clowes, transacting her own businessherself, from habit, invariably brought up the rear of her processionout of a town; and sometimes her leisurely manner of settling with thetown authorities for water, ground-space and other necessarycom-modities, left her several miles behind her tribe.The mistress's van, though it would not compare with the gloriousvehicles that showmen put upon the road in these days, was a roomy anddignified specimen, and about as good as money could then buy. The frontportion consisted of a parlour and kitchen combined, and at the back wasa dormitory. In the dormitory Kezia, Sapphira and the youngest of theirbrothers were sleeping hard. In the parlour and kitchen sat Mrs Clowes,warmly enveloped, holding the reins with her right hand and a shabby,paper-covered book in her left hand. The book was the celebrated play,The Gamester, and Mrs Clowes was studying therein the role ofDulcibel. Not a role for which Mrs Clowes was physically fitted; but herprolific daughter, Hephzibah, to whom it appertained by prescription,could not possibly play it any longer, and would, indeed, beincapacitated from any role whatever for at least a month. And theseason was not yet over; for folk were hardier in those days.The reins stretched out from the careless hand of Mrs Clowes andvanished through a slit between the double doors, which had been fixedslightly open. Mrs Clowes's gaze, penetrating now and then the slit,could see the gleam of her lamp's ray on a horse's flank. The onlysounds were the hoof-falls of the horse, the crunching of the wheels onthe wet road, the occasional rattle of a vessel in the racks when thevan happened to descend violently into a rut, and the steady murmur ofMrs Clowes's voice rehearsing the grandiloquence of the part ofDulcibel.And then there was another sound, which Mrs Clowes did not notice untilit had been repeated several times; the cry of a human voice out on theroad:"Missis!"She opened wide the doors of the van and looked prudently forth.Naturally, inevitably, Jock-at-a-Venture was trudging alongside, levelwith the horse's tail! He stepped nimbly--he was a fine walker--but nonethe less his breath came short and quick, for he had been making hasteup a steepish hill in order to overtake the van. And he carried a bundleand a stick in his hands, and on his head a superb but heavy beaver hat."I'm going your way, missis," said Jock."Seemingly," agreed Mrs Clowes, with due caution."Canst gi' us a lift?" he asked."And welcome," she said, her face changing like a flash to suit thewords."Nay, ye needna' stop!" shouted Jock.In an instant he had leapt easily up into the van, and was seated by herside therein on the children's stool."That's a hat--to travel in!" observed Mrs Clowes.Jock removed the hat, examined it lovingly and replaced it."I couldn't ha' left it behind," said he, with a sigh, and continuedrapidly in another voice: "Missis, we'n seen a pretty good lot o' eachother this wik, and yet ye slips off o'this'n, without saying good-bye,nor a word about yer soul!"Mrs Clowes heaved her enormous breast and shook the reins."I've had my share of trouble," she remarked mysteriously."Tell me about it, missis!"And lo! in a moment, lured on by his smile, she was telling him quitefamiliarly about the ailments of her younger children, the escapades ofher unmarried daughter aged fifteen, the surliness of one of hersons-in-law, the budding dishonesty of the other, the perils of infantlife, and the need of repainting the big van and getting new picturesfor the front of the booth. Indeed, all the worries of a queen of theroad!"And I'm so fat!" she said, "and yet I'm not forty, and shan't be fortwo year--and me a grandmother!""I knowed it!" Jock exclaimed."If I wasn't such a heap o' flesh--""Ye're the grandest heap o' flesh as I ever set eyes on, and I'm tellingye!" Jock interrupted her.
VIIIThen there were disconcerting sounds out in the world beyond the van.The horse stopped. The double doors were forced open from without, and ablack figure, with white eyes in a black face, filled the doorway. Thevan had passed through the mining village of Moorthorne, and this wasone of the marauding colliers on the outskirts thereof. When thecolliers had highroad business in the night they did not trouble to washtheir faces after work. The coal-dust was a positive aid to them, for itgave them a most useful resemblance to the devil.Jock-at-a-Venture sprang up as though launched from a catapult."Is it thou, Jock?" cried the collier, astounded."Ay, lad!" said Jock, briefly.And caught the collier a blow under the chin that sent him flying intothe obscurity of the night. Other voices sounded in the road. Jockrushed to the doorway, taking a pistol from his pocket. And Mrs Clowes,all dithering like a jelly, heard shots. The horse started into agallop. The reins escaped from the hands of the mistress, but Jocksecured them, and lashed the horse to greater speed with the loose endsof them."I've saved thee, missis!" he said later. "I give him a regular lifterunder the gob, same as I give Jabez, Sunday. But where's the sense of alone woman wandering about dark roads of a night wi' a pack ofchilder?... Them childer 'ud ha' slept through th' battle o' Trafalgar,"he added.Mrs Clowes wept."Well may you say it!" she murmured. "And it's not the first time asI've been set on!""Thou'rt nowt but a girl, for all thy flesh and thy grandchilder!" saidJock. "Dry thy eyes, or I'll dry 'em for thee!"She smiled in her weeping. It was an invitation to him to carry out histhreat.And while he was drying her eyes for her, she asked:"How far are ye going? Axe?""Ay! And beyond! Can I act, I ask ye? Can I fight, I ask ye? Can ye dowithout me, I ask ye, you a lone woman? And yer soul, as is mine tosave?""But that business o' yours at Bursley?""Here's my bundle," he said, "and here's my best hat. And I've money anda pistol in my pocket. The only thing I've clean forgot is my cornet;but I'll send for it and I'll play it at my wedding. I'mJock-at-a-Venture."And while the van was rumbling in the dark night across the waste andsavage moorland, and while the children were sleeping hard at the backof the van, and while the crockery was restlessly clinking in the racksand the lamp swaying, and while he held the reins, the thin, lithe,greying man contrived to take into his arms the vast and amiablecreature whom he desired. And the van became a vehicle of high romance.
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