Joe’s return to Southwood—an invitation from the Vicar—what the old oak saw.

It was a long time after the circumstances mentioned in the last chapter. The jails had been “delivered” of their prisoners, and prodigious events had taken place in the world; great battles had been fought and won, great laws made for the future interpretation of judges, and for the vexation of unfortunate suitors. It seemed an age to Mr. Bumpkin since his case commenced; and Joe had been in foreign parts and won his share of the glory and renown that falls to the lot of privates who have helped to achieve victory for the honour and glory of their General and the happiness of their country. It was a very long time, measured by events, since Mr. Bumpkin’s return from town, when on a bright morning towards the end of June, a fine sunburnt soldier of Her Majesty’s regiment of the --- Hussars knocked with the butt-end of his riding whip at the old oak door in the old porch of Southwood farm-house.

“Well, I never! if that there bean’t our Joe!” exclaimed Mrs. Bumpkin, looking out of the window; and throwing down the rolling-pin which she had just been using in rolling-out the dough for a dumpling—(Mr. Bumpkin was “uncommon fond o’ dumplins”)—“well, I never!” repeated Mrs. Bumpkin, as she opened the door; “who ever would ha’ thought it? Why, how be’est thee, Joe? And bless the lad, ’ow thee’ve growed! My ’art alive, come along! The master’ll be mighty glad to see thee, and so be I, sure a ly.”

And here Mrs. Bumpkin paused to look round him, sticking her knuckles in her sides and her elbows in the air as though Joe were a piece of handiwork—a dumpling, say—which she herself had turned out, clothes and all. And then she put the corner of her apron to her eye.

“Why, Joe, I thought,” said she, “I should never see thee agin! Dear, dear, this ’ere lawsuit be the ruin on us, mark my words! But lor, don’t say as I said so to the master for the world, for he be that wropped up in un that nothing goes down night and morning, morning and night, but affidavys, and summonses, and counsellors, and jussices, and what not.”

“Well,” said the soldier, slapping his whip on his leg as was his custom, “you might be sure I should come and see yer if they left me a leg to hop with, and I should ’a wrote, but what wi’ the smoke and what with the cannon balls flying about, you haven’t got much time to think about anything; but I did think this, that if ever I got back to Old England, if it was twenty year to come, I’d go and see the old master and missus and ’ear ’ow that lawsuit wur going on.”

“And that be right, Joe—I knowed ’ee would; I said as much to master. But ’ow do thee think it’ll end? shall us win or lose?”

Now this was the first time he had ever been called upon to give a legal opinion, or rather, an opinion upon a legal matter, so he was naturally somewhat put about; and looking at the rolling-pin and the dough and then at Mrs. Bumpkin, said:

“Well, it’s like this: a man med win or a man med lose, there’s no telling about the case; but I be dang’d well sure o’ this, missus, he’ll lose his money: I wish master had chucked her up long agoo.”

This opinion was not encouraging; and perceiving that the subject troubled Mrs. Bumpkin more than she liked to confess, he asked a question which was of more immediate importance to himself, and that was in reference to Polly Sweetlove.

“Why, thee’ll make her look at thee now, I’ll warrant; thy clothes fit thee as though they growed on thee.”

“Do she walk with the baker?” inquired Joe, with trembling accents.

“I never heeard so, an’ it’s my belief she never looked at un wi’ any meaning. I’ve seen her many a time comin’ down the Green Lane by herself and peepin’ over th’ gate.”

“Now look at that!” said Joe; “and when I was here I couldn’t get Polly to come near the farm—allays some excuse—did you ever speak to her about me, missus?”

“I ain’t going to tell tales out of school, Joe, so there.”

“Now look at that,” said Joe; “here’s a chap comes all this way and you won’t tell him anything.”

Mrs. Bumpkin laughed, and went on rolling the dough, and told him what a nice dumpling she was making, and how he would like it, and asked how long he was going to stop, and hoped it would be a month, and was telling him all about the sheep and the cows and the good behaviour of the bull, when suddenly she said:

“Here he be, Joe! lor, lor, how glad he’ll be to see thee!”

But it wasn’t the Bull that stepped into the room; it was Mr. Bumpkin, rosy, stalwart, jolly, and artful as ever. Now Mrs. Bumpkin was very anxious to be the bearer of such good intelligence as Joe’s arrival, so, notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Bumpkin and he were face to face, the eager woman exclaimed:

“Here be our Joe, Tom, hearty and well. And bean’t he a smart fine feller? What’ll Polly think of un now?”

“Shut up thic chatter,” said Mr. Bumpkin, laughing. “Halloa! why, Joe, egad thee looks like a gineral. I’d take thee for a kernel at the wery least. Why, when did thee come, lad?”

“Just now, master.”

“That be right, an’ I be glad to see thee. I’ll warrant Nancy ain’t axed thee t’ have nothun.”

“Why, thee be welcome to the ’ouse if thee can eat un, thee knows thic,” answered Nancy; “but dinner’ll be ready at twelve, and thee best not spoil un.”

“A quart o’ ale wun’t spile un, will un, Joe?”

“Now look at that,” said the soldier. “Thankee, master, but not a quart.”

“Well, thee hasn’t got thee head snicked off yet, Joe?”

“No, master, if my head had been snicked off I couldn’t ha’ bin here.” And he laughed a loud ha! ha! ha!

And Mr. Bumpkin laughed a loud haw! haw! haw! at this tremendous witticism. It was not much of a witticism, perhaps, after all, when duly considered, but it answered the purpose as well as the very best, and produced as much pleasure as the most brilliant repartee, in the most fashionable circles. We must take people as they are.

So Joe stayed chattering away till dinner-time, and then, referring to the pudding, said he had never tasted anything like it in his life; and went on telling the old people all the wonders of the campaign: how their regiment just mowed down the enemy as he used to cut corn in the harvest-field, and how nothing could stand aginst a charge of cavalry; and how they liked their officers; and how their General, who warn’t above up to Joe’s shoulder, were a genleman, every inch on him, an’ as brave as any lion you could pick out. And so he went on, until Mr. Bumpkin said:

“An’ if I had my time over agin I’d goo for a soger too, Joe,” which made Mrs. Bumpkin laugh and ask what would become of her.

“Ha! ha! ha! look at that!” said Joe; “she’s got you there, master.”

“No she bean’t, she’d a married thic feller that wur so sweet on her afore I had ur.”

“What, Jem?” said Mrs. Bumpkin, “why I wouldn’t ha’ had un, Tom, if every ’air had been hung wi’ dimonds.”

“Now look at that,” laughed Joe.

And so they went on until it was time to take a turn round the farm. Everything seemed startled at Joe’s fine clothes, especially the bull, who snorted and pawed the earth and put out his tail, and placed his head to the ground, until Joe called him by name, and then, as he told his comrades afterwards in barracks, the bull said:

“Why danged if it bean’t our Joe!”

I must confess I did not hear this observation in my dream, but I was some distance off, and if Mr. Ricochet, Q.C., in cross-examination had said, “Will you swear, sir, upon your oath that the bull did not use those words?” I must have been bound to answer, “I will not.”

But presently they met old Tim, the Collie, and there was no need for Joe to speak to him. Up he came with a bound and caressed his old mate in the most loving manner.

The Queen’s uniform was no disguise to him.

The next day it was quite a treat to see Joe go through the village. Such a swagger he put on that you would have thought he was the whole regiment. And when he went by the Vicarage, where Polly was housemaid, it was remarkable to see the air of indifference which he assumed. Whack went his riding-whip on his leg: you could hear it a hundred yards off. He didn’t seem to care a bit whether she was staring at him out of the study window as hard as she could stare or not. Two or three times he struck the same leg, and marched on perfectly indifferent to all around.

At length came Sunday, as Sunday only comes in a country village. No such peace, no such Sabbath anywhere. You have only got to look at anything you like to know that it is Sunday. Bill’s shirt collar; the milkman; even his bright milk-can has a Sunday shine about it. The cows standing in the shallow brook have a reverent air about them. They never look like that on any other day. Why the very sunshine is Sabbath sunshine, and seems to bring more peace and more pleasantness than on any other day of the week. And all the trees seem to whisper together, “It’s Sunday morning.”

Presently you see the people straggling up to the little church, whose donging bell keeps on as much as to say, “I know I’m not much of a peal, but in my humble way I do my duty to the best of my ability; it’s not the sound but the spirit of the thing that is required; and if I’m not very musical, and can’t give you many changes, I’m sincere in what I say.” And this was an emblem of the sincerity and the simplicity of the clergyman inside. He kept on hammering away at the old truths and performing his part in God’s great work to the best of his ability; and I know with very great success. So in they all came to church; and Joe, who had been a very good Sunday-school pupil (notwithstanding his love of poaching) and was a favourite with the vicar, as the reader knows, took his old place in the free seats, not very far from the pew where the vicar’s servants sat. Who can tell what his feelings were as he wondered whether Polly would be there that morning?

The other servants came in. Ah, dear! Polly can’t come, now look at that! Just as he was thinking this in she came. Such a flutter in her heart as she saw the bright uniform and the brighter face, bronzed with a foreign clime and looking as handsome as ever a face could look. O what a flutter too in Joe’s heart! But he was determined not to care for her. So he wouldn’t look, and that was a very good way; and he certainly would have kept his word if he could.

I think if I had to choose where and how I would be admired, if ever such a luxury could come to me, I would be Joe Wurzel under present circumstances. A young hero, handsome, tall, in the uniform of the Hussars, with a loved one near and all the village girls fixing their eyes on me! That for once only, and my utmost ambition would be gratified. Life could have no greater pride for me. I don’t know whether the sermon made much impression that day, but of the two, I verily believe Joe made the most; and as they streamed out of the little church all the young faces of the congregation were turned to him: and everywhere when they got outside it was, “Halloa, Joe!” “Why, Joe, my lad, what cheer?” “Dang’d if here bean’t Joe!” and other exclamations of welcome and surprise. And then, how all the pinafored boys flocked round and gazed with wondering eyes at this conquering hero; chattering to one another and contradicting one another about what this part of his uniform was and what that part was, and so on; but all agreeing that Joe was about the finest sight that had come into Yokelton since ever it was a place.

And then the old clergyman sent for him and was as kind as ever he could be; and Joe was on the enchanted ground where the fairy Polly flitted about as noiselessly as a butterfly. Ah, and what’s this? Now let not the reader be over-anxious; for a few lines I must keep you, gentle one, in suspense; a great surprise must be duly prepared. If I told you at once what I saw, you would not think so much of it as if I kept you a little while in a state of wondering curiosity. What do you think happened in the Vicarage?

Now’s the moment to tell it in a fresh paragraph. Why in came the fairy with a little tray of cake and wine! Now pause on that before I say any more. What about their eyes? Did they swim? What about their hearts; did they flutter? Did Polly blush? Did Joe’s bronzed face shine? Ah, it all took place, and much more than I could tell in a whole volume. The vicar did not perceive it, for luckily he was looking out of the window. It only took a moment to place the tray on the table, and the fairy disappeared. But that moment, not then considered as of so much importance, exciting as it was, stamped the whole lives of two beings, and who can tell whether or no such a moment leaves its impress on Eternity?

All good and all kind was the old vicar; and how attentively he listened with Mrs. Goodheart to the eye-witness of England’s great deeds! And then—no, he did not give Joe a claptrap maudlin sermon, but treated him as a man subject to human frailties, and, only hoped in all his career he would remember some of the things he had been taught at the Sunday School.

“Ay,” said Joe, “ay, sir, and the best lesson I ever larned, and what have done me most good, be the kindness I always had from you.”

So they parted, and a day or two after, strangely enough, just as Joe was walking along by the old Oak that is haunted, and which the owls and the ghosts occupy between them, who should come down the lane in the opposite direction but Polly Sweetlove! Where she came from was the greatest mystery in the world! And it was so extraordinary that Joe should meet her: and he said so, as soon as he could speak.

“Now look at that! Whoever would have thought of meeting anybody here?”

Polly hung down her head and blushed. Neither of them knew what to say for a long time; for Joe was not a spokesman to any extent. At last Polly Sweetlove broke silence and murmured in the softest voice, and I should think the very sweetest ever heard in this world:

“Are you going away soon, Joe?”

“Friday,” answered the young Hussar.

Ah me! This was Wednesday already; to-morrow would be Thursday, and the next day Friday! I did not hear this, but I give you my word it took place.

“Are you coming to see the Vicar again?” asked the sweet voice.

“No,” said Joe.

They both looked down at the gnarled roots of the old tree—the roots did stick out a long way, and I suppose attracted their attention—and then Polly just touched the big root with her tiny toe. And the point of that tiny toe touched Joe’s heart too, which seemed to have got into that root somehow, and sent a thrill as of an electric shock, only much pleasanter, right through his whole body, and even into the roots of his hair.

“When are you coming again?” whispered the sweet lips.

“Don’t know,” said the young soldier; “perhaps never.”

“But you’ll come and see—your mother?”

“O yes,” answered Joe, “I shall come and see mother; but what’s it matter to thee, lassie?”

The lassie blushed, and Joe thought it a good opportunity to take hold of her hand. I don’t know why, but he did; and he was greatly surprised that the hand did not run away.

“I think the Vicar likes you, Joe?”

“Do he?” and he kept drawing nearer and nearer, little by little, until his other hand went clean round Polly Sweetlove’s waist, and—well an owl flew out of the tree at that moment, and drew off my attention; but afterwards I saw that they both kept looking at the root of the tree, and then Joe said;

“But you love th’ baker, Polly?”

“No,” whispered Polly; “no, no, never!”

“Now, look at that!” said Joe, recovering himself a little; “I always thought you liked the baker.”

“Never, Joe.”

“Well then, why didn’t you look at me?”

Polly blushed.

“Joe, they said you was so wild.”

“Now, look at that,” said Joe; “did you ever see me wild, Polly?”

“Never, Joe—I will say that.”

“No, and you can ask my mother or Mrs. Bumpkin, or the Vicar, or anybody else you like, Polly—.”

“I shall go and see your mother,” said Polly.

“Will you come to-morrow night?” asked Joe.

“If I can get away I will; but I must go now—good-bye—good-bye—good——”

“Are you in a hurry, Polly.”

“I must go, Joe—good—; but I will come to-morrow, as soon as dinner is over—good—good—good-bye.”

“And then——,” but the Old Oak kept his counsel. Here I awoke.

* * * * *

“Well,” cried my wife, “you have broken off abruptly.”

“One can’t help it,” quoth I, rubbing my eyes. “I cannot help waking any more than I can help going to sleep.”

“Well, this would be a very pretty little courtship if true.”

“Ah,” I said, “if I have described all that I saw in my dream, you may depend upon it it is true. But when I go to Southwood I will ask the Old Oak, for we are the greatest friends imaginable, and he tells me everything. He has known me ever since I was a child, and never sees me but he enters into conversation.”

“What about?”

“The past, present, and future—a very fruitful subject of conversation, I assure you.”

“Wide enough, certainly.”

“None too wide for a tree of his standing.”

“Ask him, dear, if Joe will marry this Polly Sweetlove.”

“He will not tell me that; he makes a special reservation in favour of lovers’ secrets. They would not confide their loves to his keeping so often as they do if he betrayed them. No, he’s a staunch old fellow in that respect, and the consequence is, that for centuries lovers have breathed their vows under his protecting branches.”

“I’m sorry for that—I mean I am sorry he will not tell you about this young couple, for I should like to know if they will marry. Indeed, you must find out somehow, for everyone who reads your book will be curious on this subject.”

“What, as to whether ploughman Joe will marry Polly the housemaid. Had he been the eldest son of the Squire now, and she the Vicar’s daughter, instead of the maid—”

“It would not have been a whit more interesting, for love is love, and human nature the same in high and low degree. But, perhaps, this old tree doesn’t know anything about future events?”

“He knows from his long experience of the past what will happen if certain conditions are given; he knows, for instance, the secret whispers, and the silent tokens exchanged beneath his boughs, and from them he knows what will assuredly result if things take their ordinary course.”

“So does anyone, prophet or no prophet.”

“But his process of reasoning, based upon the experience of a thousand years, is unerring; he saw William the Conqueror, and listened to a council of war held under his branches; he knew what would happen if William’s projects were successful: whether they would be successful was not within his knowledge. He was intimately acquainted with Herne’s Oak at Windsor, and they frequently visited.”

“Visited! how was that possible?”

“Quite possible; trees visit one another just the same as human beings—they hold intercourse by means of the wind. For instance, when the wind blows from the north-east, Southwood Oak visits at Windsor Park, and when the wind is in the opposite direction a return visit is paid. There isn’t a tree of any position in England but the Old Oak of Southwood knows. He is in himself the History of England, only he is unlike all other histories, for he speaks the truth.”

“He must have witnessed many love scenes!”

“Thousands!”

“Tell me some?”

“Not now—besides, I must ask leave.”

“Does he ever tell you anything about yourself?”

“A great deal—it is our principal topic of conversation; but he always begins it, lest my modesty should prevent any intercourse on the subject.”

“What has he said?”

“A great deal: he has inspired me with hope, even instilled into me some ambition: he has tried to impart to me an admiration of all that is true, and to awaken a detestation of all that is mean and pettifogging. I never look at him but I see the symbol of all that is noble, grand and brave: he is the emblem of stability, friendship and affection; a monument of courage, honesty, and fidelity; he is the type of manly independence and self-reliance. I am glad, therefore, that under his beautiful branches, and within his protecting presence, two young hearts have again met and pledged, as I believe they have, their troth, honestly resolving to battle together against the storms of life, rooted in stedfast love, and rejoicing in the sunshine of the Creator’s smiles!”

After these observations, which were received with marked approval, I again gave myself up to the soft influence of a dreamy repose.