BY "THE WATER."
HESSIE MARKS came to the cottage next day for the first time since
she and Christie paid their last visit to the poor old mound over the
fever-pits. Her father's illness had brought out a gentler side of
Hessie's wild disposition than any one but Christie had credited her
with. She had hardly left his side during his whole illness, and if she
could not actually do much for him, she at least made the woman he had
engaged to nurse him do her work carefully.
The said woman declared that "Marks's Hessie was a real vixen."
But Marks lived, though very ill indeed. He was much better now,
however, and had sent Hessie out, telling her to go to Christie Brent
and get some fresh air, but on no account to go near the mound.
"And indeed, Christie, no one would care to go there now. I looked back
as father carried me off, and all the pretty roses and ferns were cut
and trampled down. 'Twill be years before the mound is pretty again.
But father paid some men to go and fill up the great hole they had made
in the bank. Where shall we go, Christie?"
"Indeed, Hessie, I must take a creel and get what turf I can carry. Did
you not hear that poor John Donkey is dead? Yes, indeed, I knew you
were fond of poor John. I found him dead in the shed yonder, yesterday
morning; and I'll show you where father and I buried him. What we're to
do for turf, I don't know."
"'Tis dreadful!" said Hessie, half crying. "And Mammy Brent so ill
too. But don't fret, Christie, I'll help you all I can to get turf.
Come along quick; give me a creel too," and the bright-looking little
creature threw her arms round the boy and bestowed on him a hearty kiss.
"I'll just go and tell father that we're off," said Christie, much
cheered and comforted, "and see if mother wants anything."
Hessie sat down on the low wall and waited.
"Father, you'll be about here, won't you, to see after mother, for I'm
going to cut turf?"
"Ay, ay, child," Giles answered absently. "I'm not going far. By and
by, if all else fails, I must see about borrowing a donkey, but— Yes,
I'll see after mother, Christie; so off you go, quick step. Eyes
right—march!"
Christie laughed, and said—
"We'll not be back very soon, for Hessie will want to get flowers."
The pair then set off, each carrying what they called a creel—a tall,
round basket, carried on the back by means of a rope which passed over
the shoulders, and a second which was fastened round the waist. Hessie
insisted on having a creel as large as Christie's, and declared that
she meant to carry it back quite full; at which Christie privately
laughed. He carried a spade as well as his creel.
It was a good way to the boggy place where good turf could be procured.
Arrived there, Christie set to work to cut out brick-shaped pieces,
which Hessie carried to the baskets. She kept up such a gay chatter,
that Christie never thought of reckoning how many he cut, till Hessie
said triumphantly—
"There! The creels are full—look!"
"Oh, Hessie, you should have stopped me. We never can carry all that,
and some one will just walk off with what we leave."
"Yes, we can carry it. Don't be lazy, Christie. Turf is not so very
heavy."
"Even if 'twas dry, neither you nor I could carry those baskets. And
'tis twice as heavy when 'tis wet. Well—just try, then. There's nothing
like trying."
Hessie tried, and her countenance fell.
"Could we carry one between us, and then come back for the other,
Christie?"
"I doubt not; and if we did, what about the flowers?"
"Never mind the flowers. I hate to be beaten."
"Well, let us try."
They could lift the basket, but it was plainly impossible that they
should carry it far.
"Well, now, 'tis a bother," Hessie said petulantly. "But if we pile
them up neatly and come for them to-morrow, we shall find them here all
right, most likely. I think we've a load here that poor old John Donkey
would have found too heavy."
"Why, we haven't half a load for John Donkey, child. Father and mother
used to cut for ever so long, and I carried it, and—"
"Oh, hold your tongue. I don't believe John could have carried all
this, and I won't believe it."
"Where's the use of that?" asked Christie. "Do you know, father says
that if we could dig deep holes in the marshy places, we'd get better
turf. He saw them getting it in Ireland. Come, Hessie, we've put out
enough."
"Too much, you've nearly emptied my creel. I'm as strong as 'you,' I
expect. Put them in again, now—make it the same as yours."
Christie obeyed with a laugh. Then they left the creels, and made a
great search for flowers. Curious orchis, queer little cotton-ball
plant, bog-bean, purple loose-strife, and stunted rushes with black
heads; the place was not wet enough for really fine bulrushes. Then,
higher up, they got stellaria and a few blackberries. These were eaten;
and the flowers being placed on the top of the baskets, they set out
for home—a picturesque couple, with their flower-crowned burthen on
their backs.
Hessie found her basket very heavy—dreadfully heavy, in fact. How
Christie tramped along under his she could not tell, but she had a pain
in her side, and the ropes hurt her. Still, pride lent her strength
for some time, but at last Christie became aware that she had fallen
behind. He looked back, laughed softly, and then went on slowly.
Hessie had contrived to slip the creel off, and was lifting out a lot
of the turf, which she concealed under a bush of gorse. Soon he heard
her call—
"Christie, wait a bit. There's something wrong with my ropes."
"So there is, indeed," said Christie, as he set them right. "Why,
you're a wonder, Hessie, to carry all that turf."
Hessie maintained a discreet silence. Not that a fib would have hurt
her conscience, but that she knew that he must find her out when they
came to unload.
"Here we are at last," said Christie, whose load had been no sham.
"We'll just spread it out here to dry. Why, Hessie, your creel
feels . . . Eh—what's that?"
"What a queer noise! Why, 'tis Mammy Kate calling us, Christie—look;
there's something gone wrong. Oh, I'm feared father is bad again."
Turf, creels, and flowers were abandoned, and they raced on to the
cottage. It was now six o'clock, and the children were hungry and tired.
Kate was standing just outside the garden-fence, looking very pale and
downcast.
"What's the matter, mother?"
"Is father bad again?" asked the two children, both speaking.
"No, Hessie—no, dear. Christie, come here. Run you in, Hessie; I'll
be with you in a moment. Christie, dear, run to the—the village: I
don't know why, but I'm getting frightened about father. I'd have gone
myself, only really I couldn't walk so far."
"Why, is father not with you? He said he would stay."
"About an hour after you went off, he came in, and says he,—
"'Give me a crust and a drink of milk, for I've something I mean to do;
I've hoed the potato patch and need do no more till afternoon, when
I'll set some winter cabbage, so now's my time to go.'
"And he kissed me, my dear man did, just as when I was a young lass,
and he says, 'Cheer up, Kate, my woman, maybe I'll bring home good
news.'
"So he went out and I looked after him, and he went towards the
village, stumping along with the old crutch, hearty—more hearty than
I've seen him for a long time. But—he has never come back."
"Well, but nothing can have happened to him, mother. I'll tell you what
it is: he's gone to try and borrow a donkey—he said something about it
this morning."
"Christie, there's a weight on my heart. I tell myself I'm a fool, but
I'm dreadful frightened. Maybe he's taken sick for the fever; maybe
he's got a fall. Run you to the village, dear, and see if he's at
Marks's, or—the Red Dog."
"I'll go and see. Mother, give Hessie something to eat, she's tired."
The boy turned away and set out on his errand without a murmur, though
he was tired and hungry too.
"Poor mother!—She's very weak yet, and so she's full of fears and
notions. Father's safe enough, no doubt. I hope he got a loan of a
donkey."
He walked, not ran—for he was very tired—to his Aunt Jane's house
first, for since the affair about the medicine, Giles and Jane had been
very good friends. However, he was not there, nor had they seen him
that day. Neither was he with Ben Marks; neither was he at the Red Dog:
no one had seen him in the village.
Christie went home, fully expecting to find his father there; but no.
Kate was there, and Hessie—no one else.
Christie was beginning to feel puzzled and frightened, but he found
that his mother was easier in her mind when certain that Giles had not
gone to the Red Dog. Hessie ran off home.
Christie had some food, and Kate made a poor pretence of having some
too; and then they sat and waited. The light faded; the soft grey night
fell over the world; the moon rose, bathing everything in her pure cold
light. And still those two sat and waited, and still Kate kept some
supper hot for "her poor good man." And still Giles did not come; the
sound of the crutch, so familiar to both, never gladdened their ears.
"Time do seem so long when one's waiting," said Christie at last, in
answer to a restless moan from Kate.
"Yes, but it is long—see how high the moon is! 'Tis very late,
Christie; I'm sore frightened."
"Mother, I'll go and rouse them at Aunt Jane's, and get some one to
help me, and we'll search. He must have got a fall. You keep the fire
good, for he'll be tired and cold."
Kate made no answer; she seemed stupefied.
Christie ran to Jane Brent's house, awoke them with some difficulty,
and told his story.
"Giles out!—And was not down in the village! What can have happened
him? Robert and Jem, go you with Christie; you'd best go to the Red Dog
and rouse some one up to help you. Maybe he's there after all; he might
have told them not to mention it. I'll dress and go up to poor Kate;
she's weak yet."
Giles was not, and positively had not been, at the Red Dog. But the
landlord and one or two men who were sleeping there, came with the
boys, and they began a regular search for him, shouting, listening,
looking everywhere. The moon paled, the sweet flush of dawn stole into
the sky, the sun rose, and still Giles was not found.
"Christie, where did any of you see him last?" said a man all muffled
up in a comforter, and walking very feebly. It was Ben Marks, who had
heard the shouting and come out to inquire into the cause.
"Just a bit down the track, as if going to the village," said Christie,
too anxious to be surprised at Ben's appearance.
"Come to that place, then," said Marks. "There's not one of you blessed
with an ounce of sense."
They soon stood at the place. Ben looked about.
"Now," said he, "these hawthorn-bushes would hide him from Kate, so
most likely, when he reached them, she went in. He didn't go to his
brother's; he didn't go to the village. Then he went either this way or
that; and he left the track before he came to Bob's house, or some of
the children would have seen him. There's nothing to take him up the
bank here," pointing to the left, "and so, 'tis my belief he went down
to the Water. Saw his cow drinking, and wanted to look at her, maybe.
If he did this, we'll find footsteps, for the ground is soft near the
Water."
"You've got a head, Ben!" said the landlord, as they all pushed through
the half-grown hawthorn-bushes, and got into the grassy strip of land
through which the stream ran.
And sure enough, they soon found Giles's footprints; there was no
mistaking them,—a long step and a short one, turns about, and the mark
of the crutch. They led down to the water, and it seemed as if he must
have walked into the stream. Of course, in the water no foot could
leave a mark, and on the other side the cows had their drinking-place,
and the ground was trampled into mud by their feet.
"What's that?" said Jem Brent suddenly—"Under the stone—the one with
tall grass a-top."
Christie splashed into the stream, without delay. He reached the stone,
and raised a terrified, piteous cry.
"'Tis his hat!—Father's old hat! Oh, what has become of him? Sure, he
couldn't be drowned here, there's no depth of water."
"A very little water will drown a man who falls in face foremost and
can't get up," said Ben Marks; "and he was a helpless man, with his
stiff knee. But there's no water here to hide him, or to carry him down
stream."
However, they searched a long way down the stream, but found nothing.
Every man in Blackmead was out by this time, and they all helped. But
they did not find Giles Brent, alive or dead. No man ever saw him again.
Christie went home, more dead than alive. It was nearly noon by that
time.
Jane met him at the door.
"Are they giving up?" she said. "We heard they were searching along the
Water,—why did you do that?"
Christie held up the battered old hat, still wet and dripping.
"He went down to the Water. We found footsteps and that. We searched
well."
"And who's to tell your mother?" asked Jane, scowling until her black
brows met. "Not me, Christie; I couldn't do it. She's half dead with
fear and fretting. I left her lying on her bed."
"And the window open!—There's no need to tell her now—" And Christie
rushed into the cottage.
Poor Kate had heard; there was no need to tell her anything. She had
risen, and met her boy at the door of the inner room. She let him put
his arms round her, and hold her close for a moment, but then slipped
away and began hurrying about the kitchen, getting some food for him.
"Don't mind that, mother; I couldn't eat. I'm—I'm tired out."
"Eat, boy, eat. See, I'll take some myself. You and I have got to find
him, alive or dead. 'Tis all very well for 'them' to give up searching;
'they' don't love him as we do. They're jealous of him, because he's
such a fine man: brave he is, and clever, and good. Even if he's dead,
I must find him. How could we live, Christie, and never find him? And
he's 'somewhere'—'tis only to keep on looking. Eat, Christie—I'll be
ready when you are."
In her agony, the poor soul never saw that Christie was almost unable
to stir. He could not eat, but he drank the milk she gave him, and then
Kate took his hand and led him out. Jane followed them, and saw that
they went to the Water.
She went home, meaning to return presently.
In about two hours, she came to the cottage again.
She found Kate sitting by the fire, which was just out; her fact was
white as paper, and her eyes glassy.
"You found nothing, Kate?"
"No."
"Where's Christie?"
"I don't know."
"Bless me, woman, you don't mean that 'he's' lost too?"
Kate seemed to try to collect herself. She said—
"I brought him home."
No more could be got from her, so Jane went in search of the boy. She
found him lying on his bed in his damp clothes, so sound asleep that
she could not awake him.
"And after all, why should I?" she said, desisting. "The boy's half
dead; he was a-foot all night."
She tried to get Kate to lie down, and after a while succeeded.
"Now," she said, "close your eyes, Kate, and try to sleep. You'll be
more yourself after that."
She waited awhile in the kitchen, and then, seeing that mother and son
were both asleep, she went home to attend to her own affairs.
Late in the day Christie awoke. For some time he could not remember
where he was, or what had happened. When memory came back, the boy
stole out into the kitchen, and burst into tears; the first tears shed
for poor Giles Brent, but not the last. Many a better man has been less
truly mourned for. For though Kate never cried,—no, not a tear,—there
could be no doubt that she mourned.
When Christie had prepared a meal, to the best of his ability, he woke
his mother with some difficulty. She rose, came to the kitchen, and
took some food.
"You're rested, Christie?" she asked.
For they had only come home when poor Christie nearly fainted from
weariness and hunger, and how his mother got him home was a wonder to
him when he came to think of it.
"Yes, mother, quite," he said.
"Then we may go back to the Water," she answered, getting up.
And back to the Water they went, up and down the banks all that
evening. All the next day, and the next; searching every little set
of bushes, looking under every shelving rock, going down the pass and
following the stream till it was lost in the river.
By that time, Christie had begun to see that his mother's mind was
weakened by the shock, and he gave up trying to convince her that no
full-grown man, nor even a child, could have been swept along by so
tiny a flow of water.
"Mother," he said, "come home. We've searched the Water well—wherever
father is, he is not here. Perhaps he may come home and find no one
there, no fire, and not a bit to eat. Let's go home and keep things
comfortable for him."
Kate let him take her home, but nothing could convince her that she
would not yet find her "poor good man" in or near the stream. As long
as she had strength to do it, she went every day to the Water, just
where Giles had left the print of his feet and of his crutch. She
seldom spoke, and never seemed to be anxious as to how she and Christie
were to live. She did a little household work, by fits and starts, but
except to go to the Water, she never left the house. If they were not
both to starve, it was very plain that poor Christie must work for her
and himself.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]