THE WEATHERCOCK

Lydia French had a shop opposite the church. The little town or overgrown village had no market, but there were fairs held in the space before the church on one side and Lydia French’s shop on the other twice in the year. Both were cattle fairs, frequented by farmers. On such occasions bullocks ran about with tails lifted, yelling men and barking dogs behind and before them, and made either for the churchyard wall or for Lydia French’s shop window. The Oddfellows, moreover, held their annual feast there, and processionised behind a band, and waved banners and wore sashes, and ate and drank heartily at the “Peal of Bells.” On such occasions stalls were erected in the open space, where nuts were shot for, and barley-sugar-sticks and twisted peppermint rods and brandy-balls were sold, also ginger-pop and lemonade. On all these occasions Lydia French’s shop was full of customers. She, moreover, had a good clientÈle in the entire parish, but experienced less difficulty in disposing of her goods than in getting her little bills paid.

But though there were defaulters, yet those who liquidated were in the majority, or Lydia French would not have been the prosperous woman she was. Her aspect breathed a fulness of purse and flush of comfort that were convincing. She could afford herself, on occasion, a silk gown. She made weekly expeditions to the bank to pay in hebdomadal profits. She had recently repapered her little parlour, and the paper was white and gold.

She was generous. When children put down their pennies for acid drops or almond rock, she always made the balance incline in their favour, to their great admiration; when their mothers bought calico, she was not particular to a quarter of a yard; and she was large-hearted—she subscribed equally to the missionaries of Church and Chapel.

Lydia French was a widow. She had been married but for a twelvemonth to a commercial traveller, who had in the brief year tried her forbearance and strained her means, and she had now been a widow of three years, and was without encumbrance.

Several had made advances to her, but she soon let commercial travellers understand that none of them need apply. There was one who trafficked in a “Life of Wellington,” with magnificent steel engravings, issued in parts, who laid siege to her; and when he would not take a “No” she refused to receive any more numbers of the series. Whereupon he threatened her with legal proceedings, averring that she had bound herself to Wellington from the cradle to the grave when she received the first part. She paid up rather than go into court, and nursed bitterness of heart against travellers thenceforth. The man whom she had married was bad enough; this Wellingtonian man was “wusser,” as she expressed it. It really was preposterous that such a woman, plump, prosperous, comely, should not find her man.

But, indeed, there were plenty of men who wanted her, only she was hard to please. A young farmer—she did not relish farm-work; she did not wish to give up the shop. The blooming butcher—she had an aversion for the trade. A handsome drover—he tippled. A Methodist class-leader—he was a teetotaller, and she liked her drop of mild ale.

But, finally she seemed to hesitate between two—John Newbold, the mason, and Jack Westcott—or, as the children called him, Jackie Waistcoat, the sailor.

Both were fine men, and both had good characters; the first was somewhat too heavy, the latter somewhat too lively. But where is perfection to be found? In woman, perhaps—nay, certainly—not in man.

There was this advantage to whichsoever she cast the kerchief, that he would not require her to give up the shop. To the shop she was attached. The shop made her a power in the parish, brought her into relation with all, gave her consequence, and drew to her a good deal of money. This, then, was a sine qu non—that she should keep the shop after marriage as before. Besides, she did not desire to have a husband always hanging about her, like a fly in hot weather, that will not be driven away. She was accustomed to independence. A man on the premises all day implied interference, and that she was determined not to tolerate.

Lydia French sat in her shop; no business was doing this day. She had made up her account to midsummer, and the balance was good; it made her feel good—like a bracing sermon or a melting hymn. She had taken stock—roughly. Everything was satisfactory. The little house was in excellent condition, she owned it; that is to say, on three lives, and she had paid Newbold’s bill for putting it in thorough repair. The chimney had smoked; that was cured by the new revolving cowl. The drain from the sink had emitted smells; that was rectified—Newbold had put down a stink-trap. Newbold was a useful man when any masoning work was required. Could she put up with him for always—for better, for worse?

She looked up, and looked out at her little window between the bottles of pink and pallid drops, and the withered oranges that would no longer sell, and the stay-laces, and the ginger-beer bottles, and the can of mustard, and the tin of biscuits. And she saw that which was to her a constant worry—the weathercock on the church spire.

In the great gale of the preceding November the cock had been blown on one side, the spindle on which for many years it had revolved had been bent over, so that now the poor bird lay on his back in mid-air, and could neither right himself nor turn with the wind.

Mrs. French, neat in herself, orderly in her house, above all, in the shop, could not endure to see what was out of place, inverted, useless. She had liked to know from which direction the wind blew. It had provided her with conversation with her customers. It had satisfied her sense of the fitness of things that the spindle on the spire should be upright, and that the vane should fulfil the object for which it was ordained.

Now more than six months had passed, and the cock was still reversed. She had remonstrated with the parson.

“My dear Mrs. French,” he had replied, “that is the affair of the churchwardens. I have badgered all my friends, and impoverished myself over the restoration of the church—I can do no more.”

She complained to the churchwardens. “Lor’ bless y’,” said they, “there be no levying o’ church-rates now, what can we do?”

“It really is a scandal,” said Lydia. “And now the village feast is coming on, and the Oddfellows will march about, and the cock will——”

“Be an odd fellow, too, turned upside down, like many of the heads after ale and punch.”

“I don’t like it,” said Lydia. “I sees it with its blessed feet turned up and its comb down—helpless. It is real unchristian and inhuman to let it bide so.”

The churchwardens said, “Meddlin’ with aught on the steeple is darned expensive. Beside, ’tain’t everywhere you can find a steeplejack.”

So Lydia fidgeted and mused and schemed: that vane became the trouble of her life.

In at the shop door came simultaneously, from opposite directions, the builder and the mariner.

They had a curious knack, these men, of spying on each other, and of denying each other the opportunity of having a few words in private with the widow.

In this, however, the sailor had the advantage over the mason, for he was not daily engaged, as was the other. But Newbold so contrived that when he was absent, should Westcott endeavour to steal a march on him, his mother or his sister should invade the shop and so prevent privacy.

Which was the favoured swain neither could decide; but that was not wonderful, for Lydia had not decided for herself.

“Good-morning, mem,” said the mason. “I’ll just trouble you for an ounce of bird’s-eye.”

“And I’ll have same of Virginia shag,” said the sailor.

“Fine day, mem,” said Newbold.

“Which way is the wind?” asked the widow.

“East by nor’-east,” answered Westcott.

“Ah! then we shall have fine weather, and lasting for the revel.”

“Hope so,” said the mason.

“It is really distressing—I can now never tell the way of the wind. It is as bad as having a kitchen clock as won’t work. That there church stag——”

Mrs. French never spoke of the weathercock, but used the local term for a cock, which throughout Devon is invariably—a stag.

“Ah!” said Newbold.

“Well, now,” said Westcott.

“It really do seem a burnin’ shame to have the poor unfort’nate bird lyin’ on his back and kickin’ at the clouds, and that, too, on the day of the parish feast. What will folk say of us? That we’ve no public spirit left. The farmers might get up a subscription. Would it be so amazin’ expensive? Would they have to scaffold all the tower up, and to the top of the spire?”

“That’s the way masons ’ud set about it,” said Jack Westcott contemptuously.

“And pray how ’ud sailors do it?”

“Swarm up,” said Jack.

“Get along! That wouldn’t do it.”

“Yes, it would, I bet a guinea. I might, but you——” The sailor shrugged his shoulders.

“For the matter of that,” observed the builder, after musing a while, “I don’t see but what it might be done, and done at no terrible cost. There’s a sort of a window on each side of the spire, and I suppose it would be possible to run out planks and make a sort of a platform and set up a ladder agin the steeple.”

“Would it not be dangerous?”

“Oh, of course there’s nothing in that way without danger. But if it has to be done, it can be done.”

“I warrant I’d get up without any of your arrangements,” said the mariner.

“I daresay you might,” responded the builder slowly; “but what good would that be? You’ve more to do than spike a Jacky Tar at the top; you’ve got to remove the spindle, and that must be roped and let down with caution. There’s a deal of things belonging to all things,” said Newbold sententiously, “and that’s what escapes the likes of you.”

“I bet I’d do it!” said the sailor.

“I bet so would I!” said the mason.

“But,” added the latter, “I ain’t going to risk my precious life and sacrifice time and labour for nothin’.”

“Now look here,” said Westcott, “there be you and me hoverin’ round about this here lovely creetur, each sunnin’ of ourselves in her beamin’ eyes and neither on us gettin’ no closer, and both of us lusty fellows, one accustomed to masts and other to scaffold-poles——”

“I take you,” interrupted the mason; “we between us is to set the weathercock to rights out of love to this adorable female.”

“Not just precisely that,” said the mariner. “Between us won’t do. What if we each went up the steeple simultaneous, and from opposite sides? Wouldn’t the distance atween us be every foot of ascent lessenin’ and lessenin’, till our faces met at the top? And I bet a guinea we wouldn’t kiss there; we’d come to a grapple.”

“Really,” said the widow, with a shudder, “this is startling. A contest on the pinnacle of the spire between you—and all for me. I ain’t worth it.”

“Not worth it!” exclaimed the mason, and was about to fall on his knees, when the sailor pointed to his boot, and brandished his foot menacingly. “I can’t allow that—not in my presence.”

“We will draw lots who is to go up and attempt it,” said the mason.

“And who is to have fair field and no interference for courtin’,” said the mariner.

“Done! It shall be so!” said Newbold.

“I agrees,” said Westcott.

“Now there is one thing I bargain for,” observed the builder. “If he who first attempts it fails and falls, and gets squelched, don’t let the other take advantage, and shirk doing of it in his turn. Let him also venture like a man.”

“Like a man!” echoed the tar. “‘England expects every man to do his dooty.’”

“Come, shall we draw matches?”

“Matches! It’s a match for one alone.”

“Then toss up.”

“Toss up you are. And the winner has fair field and no just cause or impediment why these two should not be joined together in holy matrimony.”

“Here is a penny,” said Newbold.

“A penny! You ought to blush the colour of the copper to suggest it. I will toss only gold for such a bloomin’ and lovely lady. Here is a sovereign. Heads or Royal Arms—which?”

“Heads for me!” said Newbold.

“And arms—them extended arms for me,” said Jack Westcott, with a leer at the widow.

The sailor tossed the sovereign.

“Heads!” he exclaimed.

“Best of three,” said the mason condescendingly.

“Tails!” said Jack, after the second toss.

Now all paused and looked at each other. The widow’s face expressed anxiety.

Up went the gold piece once more, whisking high, and Westcott caught it, but paused a moment before opening his palms.

“Come, man! Let us see our fate,” said Newbold.

The sailor raised his right hand, and the sovereign in his left disclosed the reverse of the coin uppermost.

“I’ve won!” said the builder. “It is I who am to have the first shot at the weathercock.”

“And I bide below with the lady,” said the mariner.

“Let me consider,” mused Newbold. “I have a little job on hand for Squire Theobald; it will take me about a week, and my ladders be all engaged. But I’ll tell you what. Monday week will suit me, and that will be time enough before the feast.”

“Oh, Mr. Newbold, do not be too rash,” pleaded the widow.

“Ma’am, I would dare anything for you,” he answered gravely.

The tidings that John Newbold was going to ascend the spire and put the vane to rights produced lively satisfaction in the breasts of the villagers, and awoke vast curiosity to know how he would set to work to accomplish it.

The day was fine—grey with occasional drifts of fog, but nothing to signify, and there was happily no wind. Nearly every parishioner was out to observe proceedings. Nearly—not all; there were exceptions. Mrs. French did not quit her shop. It neither comported with her ripe dignity to be seen among the rabble staring up at the sky, nor with her affairs, for a crowd on the green promised customers for ginger-beer and lollipops.

To her came Jack Westcott.

“Good-morning, mem. I thought, with your good favour, I’d fill my pouch with Virginia shag. And I’d like—if you have no objection—to see how that chap goes about it from within, on your premises.”

The widow bowed.

“Do you think, Mr. Westcott, there is real danger? I should never forgive myself——”

“Lord bless you. That mason chap wouldn’t do nothing that would hurt the tip of his nose. You’ll see. He’ll just run out some planks and nail a strip o’ wood across, and lash his ladders as well as lean them agin the strip. Bless your angel face and shining eyes, he’ll make all secure for himself.”

“But, Mr. Westcott, it really looks a most perilous undertaking.”

“Not more so than this,” said the sailor, suddenly swinging himself over the counter. “Excuse me, lovely creature! But I can’t well see what goes on on the side of the shop door; there’s all them darned advertisements block it up. But here—if I may be so bold as to watch.”

“You can take a chair, Mr. Westcott.”

“Never! unless you take one as well.”

So, with a little complimenting and resistance, it was settled: the widow and the suitor seated themselves on her side of the counter on two chairs, and looked out through the shop window at the proceedings of the builder.

Now it was seen how he emerged from the lower window of the spire, and how cautiously a short ladder was set up against it, by which, when made secure, he mounted, and placed himself astride the gable. Then a larger ladder was advanced against the incline of the steeple, and set so as to reach a considerable way up. This the mason ascended, and by some means he secured the ladder.

“It’s as easy as telling lies,” said the sailor. “I believe there are iron crooks let into the steeple.”

“But it looks dreadfully insecure,” said the widow. “Do see! he is like a fly against a rod.”

“More like a bumble-bee,” said Jack.

“What if he was to lose his head?”

“Not such a risk to him as to me,” sighed the mariner.

“What do you mean, Mr. Westcott?”

“Only I never can see any man swarmin’ up a mast or so but I feel an itch in my palms to be grapplin’ of somethin’. You’ll excuse me if I put my arm round and lay hold of the back of your chair.”

“If it’s any comfort to you, Mr. Westcott.”

“I don’t think that chair-back very firm,” observed Jack.

“Oh! do, do look!” exclaimed the widow. “He is on one ladder, and thrusting up another hands over head! and, oh! if his feet were to give way! if he were to stagger! if the ladder were to slip! oh, I feel—I feel quite giddy and faint.”

“Lean on me,” said Jack; “and—drat that chair-back! it is cracked. That’s more substantial and agreeable to both parties.” He slipped his arm round her waist. “England expects every man to do his dooty.”

“I really cannot bear to see poor dear Mr. Newbold thus risk his precious life.”

“Then don’t,” said Westcott; and rising, he brought close together the bottles of mixed sweets and almond-rock in the window. “There, now you can’t see nor be seen. Are you better, my angel?”

“Rather,” responded Lydia in a faint voice. “And yet I’m all of a tremble. What if he was to fall?”

“We’d mingle our tears over his grave,” said the sailor. “Now, look you here.”

“I can’t; I’ve such a swimming in my head. O Jack! I can still see something—a fog has swept over the top of the spire; or is it that my eyes are deceived? He’s gone! He’s gone!”

“It is so—a passing drift of vapour. He’s all right. It will cool him. Now, Lydia, this won’t do. You’ll fret yourself into a brain-fever if you look at him even between the interstices of sweetie-bottles and biscuit-tins. I must convey you where you cannot see him at all; and there’s no place better than inside the church. And, by ginger! there goes the parson. I’ll call him; he will let us in. And—Lydia, I took the precaution to have a license; it cost me half-a-guinea—here it is. You’d never be so unreasonable as to have that chucked away, so come along.”

“O Jack! I wouldn’t do anything as wasn’t right and honourable. He, up there”—with her chin she indicated the top of the spire, then enveloped in fog—“he’ll expect to have me if he brings down the stag.”

“Not a bit, my dear. Nothing was set down in writing, but I call you to witness—he who had the choice was to go up the spire and leave the coast clear for the other to propose, and to offer no just cause or impediment. Was it not so?”

“I did not quite understand it in that light.”

“But I did.”

“Will Mr. Newbold, though?”

“My dear Lydia, he is up in a fog. England expects every man to do his dooty. Here’s the license. Come along.”

Two hours later, with a triumphant air and firm stride, the builder entered the shop, dragging along an immense battered weathercock detached from the spindle. It had once been gilt, it was now in a rusty, measly condition. Within he saw the widow and sailor side by side.

“Done!” shouted he. “I’ve got the cock!”

“Done!” replied the mariner. “I’ve won the hen!”

“I’ve been up in the clouds,” said Newbold.

“And I am in the seventh heaven. I’ve not been in the clouds like you. Let me introduce you to Mrs. Westcott!”