FullReads

Daddy Darwin died of old age. As his health failed, Jack nursed him with the tenderness of a woman; and kind inquiries, and dainties which Jack could not have cooked, came in from many quarters where it pleased the old man to find that he was held in respect and remembrance.

One afternoon, coming in from the farmyard, Jack found him sitting by the kitchen-table as he lad left him, but with a dread look of change upon his face. At first he feared there had been “a stroke,” but Daddy Darwin’s mind was clear and his voice firmer than usual.

“My lad,” he said, “fetch me yon tea-pot out of the corner cupboard. T’ one wi’ a pole-house[7] painted on it, and some letters. Take care how ye shift it. It were t’ merry feast-pot[8] at my christening, and yon’s t’ letters of my father’s and mother’s names. Take off t’ lid. There’s two bits of paper in the inside.”

[Footnote 7: A pole-house is a small dovecot on the top of a pole.]

[Footnote 8: “Merry feast-pot” is a name given to old pieces of ware, made in local potteries for local festivals.]

Jack did as he was bid, and laid the papers (one small and yellow with age, the other bigger, and blue, and neatly written upon) at his master’s right hand.

“Read yon,” said the old man, pushing the small one towards him. Jack took it up wondering. It was the letter he had written from the workhouse fifteen years before. That was all he could see. The past surged up too thickly before his eyes, and tossing it impetuously from him, he dropped on a chair by the table, and snatching Daddy Darwin’s hands he held them to his face with tears.

“GOD bless thee!” he sobbed. “You’ve been a good maester to me!”

“Daddy,” wheezed the old man. “Daddy, not maester.” And drawing his right hand away, he laid it solemnly on the young man’s head. “GOD bless thee, and reward thee. What have I done i’ my feckless life to deserve a son? But if ever a lad earned a father and a home, thou hast earned ’em, Jack March.”

He moved his hand again and laid it trembling on the paper.

“Every word i’ this letter ye’ve made good. Every word, even to t’ bit at the end. ‘I love them tumblers as if they were my own,’ says you. Lift thee head, lad, and look at me. They are thy own!… Yon blue paper’s my last will and testament, made many a year back by Mr. Brown, of Green Street, Solicitor, and a very nice gentleman too; and witnessed by his clerks, two decent young chaps, and civil enough, but with too much watchchain for their situation. Jack March, my son, I have left thee maester of Dovecot and all that I have. And there’s a bit of money in t’ bed-head that’ll help thee to make a fair start, and to bury me decently atop of my father and mother. Ye may let Bill Sexton toll an hour-bell for me, for I’m a old standard, if I never were good for much. Maybe I might ha’ done better if things had happened in a different fashion; but the Lord knows all. I’d like a hymn at the grave, Jack, if the Vicar has no objections, and do thou sing if thee can. Don’t fret, my son, thou’fet no cause. Twas that sweet voice o’ thine took me back again to public worship, and it’s not t’ least of all I owe thee, Jack March. A poor reason lad, for taking up with a neglected duty–a poor reason–but the Lord is a GOD of mercy, or there’d be small chance for most on us. If Miss Jenny and her husband come to t’ Vicarage this summer, say I left her my duty and an old man’s blessing; and if she wants any roots out of t’ garden, give ’em her, and give her yon old chest that stands in the back chamber. It belonged to an uncle of my mother’s–a Derbyshire man. They say her husband’s a rich gentleman, and treats her very well. I reckon she may have what she’s a mind, new and polished, but she’s always for old lumber. They’re a whimsical lot, gentle and simple. A talking of women, Jack, I’ve a word to say, if I can fetch my breath to say it. Lad! as sure as you’re maester of Dovecot, you’ll give it a missus. Now take heed to me. If ye fetch any woman home here but Phoebe Shaw, I’ll walk, and scare ye away from t’ old place. I’m willing for Phoebe, and I charge ye to tell the lass so hereafter. And tell her it’s not because she’s fair–too many on ’em are that; and not because she’s thrifty and houseproud–her mother’s that, and she’s no favorite of mine; but because I’ve watched her whenever t’ ould cat ‘s let her be at home, and it’s my belief that she loves ye, knowing nought of this” (he laid his hand upon the will), “and that she’ll stick to ye, choose what her folks may say. Aye, aye, she’s not one of t’ sort that quits a falling house–like rattens.”