FullReads

“Why does na’ tha’ talk more?” demanded Janner’s daughter, who was a strong, brusque young woman, with a sharp tongue.

“I ha’ not gotten nowt to say,” was the meekly deprecating response.

Miss Janner, regarding the humble face with some impatience, remarkably enough, found nothing to deride in it, though, being neither a beauty nor in her first bloom, and sharp of tongue, as I have said, she was somewhat given to derision as a rule. In truth, the uncomplaining patience in the dull, soft eyes made her feel a little uncomfortable.

“I dunnot know what ails thee,” she remarked with unceremonious candor, “but theer’s summat as does.”

“It’s nowt as can be cured,” said the lad, and turned his quiet face away.

In his silent fashion he evinced a certain degree of partially for his host’s daughter. Occasionally, after his meals, he lingered for a few moments watching her at her work when she was alone, sitting by the fire or near the door, and regarding her business-like movements with a wistful air of wonder and admiration. And yet so unobtrusive were these mute attentions that Bess Janner was never roused to any form of resentment of them.

“Tha’s goin’ to ha’ a sweetheart at last, my lass,” was one of Janner’s favorite witticisms, but Bess bore it with characteristic coolness. “I’m noan as big a foo’ as I look,” she would say, “an’ I dunnot moind him no more nor if he wus a wench hissen’.”

Small as was the element of female society at Black Creek, this young woman was scarcely popular. She was neither fair nor fond: a predominance of muscle and a certain rough deftness of hand were her chief charms. Ordinary sentiment would have been thrown away upon her; and, fortunately, she was spared it.

“She’s noan hurt wi’ good looks, our Bess,” her father remarked with graceful chivalrousness on more than one occasion, “but hoo con heave a’most as much as I con, an’ that’s summat.”

Consequently, it did not seem likely that the feeling she had evidently awakened in the breast of their lodger was akin to the tender passion.

“Am I in yo’re way?” he would ask apologetically; and the answer was invariably a gracious if curt one: “No–no more than th’ cat. Stay wheer yo’ are, lad, an’ make yo’resen’ comfortable.”

There came a change, however, in the nature of their intercourse, but this did not occur until the lad had been with them some three months. For several days he had been ailing and unlike himself. He had been even more silent than usual; he had eaten little, and lagged on his way to and from his work; he looked thinner, and his step was slow and uncertain. There was so great an alteration in him, in fact, that Bess softened toward him visibly. She secretly bestowed the best morsels upon him, and even went so far as to attempt conversation. “Let yo’re work go a bit,” she advised: “yo’re noan fit fur it.”

But he did not give up until the third week of illness, and then one warm day at noon, Bess, at work in her kitchen among dishes and pans, was startled from her labors by his appearing at the door and staggering toward her. “What’s up wi’ yo’?” she demanded. “Yo’ look loike death.”

“I dunnot know,” he faltered, and then, staggering again, caught at her dress with feeble hands “Dunnot yo’,” he whispered, sinking forward– “dunnot yo’ let no one–come anigh me.”

She flung a strong arm around him, and saved him from a heavy fall. His head dropped helplessly against her breast.

“He’s fainted dead away,” she said: “he mun ha’ been worse than he thowt fur.”

She laid him down, and, loosening his clothes at the throat, went for water; but a few minutes after she had bent over him for the second time an exclamation, which was almost a cry, broke from’ her. “Lord ha’ mercy!” she said, and fell back, losing something of color herself.