KINGSFIELD.
FOUR or five days after his escape from Blackmead, Christie Brent,
shoeless and jacketless (he had given his jacket to a travelling tinker
for a piece of bread, and his shoes had gone to pieces), drew near to a
village, very unlike that in which his childhood had been passed.
In his perfect ignorance of the ways of the world, he had wandered
about, going to lonely cottages to ask for employment. Sometimes they
gave him some food, but more often drove him away with threats, for
tramps are never welcome in lonely places. He had failed to find the
only road he knew, that to Grassley, which he had travelled over once,
on the occasion of his mother's funeral. Kind Mrs. Smiles, therefore,
had no chance of befriending him, which she would gladly have done. He
had seen the town of Bradstone in the distance, but turned away from
it, feeling frightened at the notion of entering so large a place as it
seemed to him. That was on the day before he saw Kingsfield, from the
top of a little hill up which he had found it hard to climb, he was so
hungry and weary.
It was a very fair scene on which his eyes rested. The road was
bordered on one side by park palings, a great belt of fine trees hid
the park and the deer, but were themselves a wonder to the boy who had
never seen big trees till now. On the other side were large fields of
golden wheat, nearly ready for the sickle. Before him lay scattered
cottages, and a few pretty houses of the better class, each with a
garden or a smooth green lawn before it. All was in nice order—all was
green and fresh,—the trees showing barely a touch of autumn here and
there. Some way further on there was a church, one of those little
ancient churches of which so many survive in Yorkshire, and indeed in
many parts of England. With its low square tower and its rich mantle
of ivy, the peaceful churchyard round it beautifully kept, and some
pigeons flying in and out of the belfry, it added very much to the
beauty of the scene.
In the midst of his weariness, all this dawned upon poor Christie. It
was not so much the beauty as the peacefulness of it that made him
clasp his hands, and stand gazing, his lips moving a little, though no
sound came from them. But the words that were not heard were these:
"Heaven must be like this. I should like to be here. Oh, surely some
one must have work that I can do. I can reap and bind—did any one ever
see such wheat? I'll go up to the first house, and ask for work; and
I'll go to every house and cottage, and if they won't have me—well, I
may soon die perhaps, for no one can live like this."
And thus thinking, he went to the gate of the first house—a rather
formal-looking building, made lovely by climbing roses and traveller's
joy. There was a smooth lawn in front, and a trim gravelled approach;
on one side of the house a big gate, by which you entered a yard, on
the other a wall with a small gate, and plenty of climbing plants
trained with great neatness.
Inside this house a gentleman, a lady, and a young girl, their
daughter, were rising from the dinner-table; it was nearly two o'clock.
They were concluding a discussion on a subject which they had discussed
perhaps a hundred times already; for they were quiet folk, slow to make
changes, and everything had to be talked over very often and at great
length.
The gentleman was almost an old man, but hale and hearty; a short
stout man with a round, fresh-coloured face, kindly eyes twinkling
through his spectacles, white hair, and a very plain and formal suit
of dark-brown cloth, cut in a roomy and comfortable, but by no means
fashionable style. This was Mr. Arkwright, once a great manufacturer
in Leeds, but now retired, content with the modest fortune he had
acquired by honest hard work, and determined to secure a time of peace
and happiness before he was too old to enjoy life. So I think we may
say that he was a wise man; and his plan must have worked well, for he
looked as if he enjoyed everything heartily.
Mrs. Arkwright was much younger than her husband; she was about
five-and-forty, and had once been very pretty; she was still a very
pleasing-looking woman, but fragile and delicate to an almost painful
degree.
The girl, who rejoiced in the name of Persis, was a sweet, bright
lassie, the picture of health and happiness. Both ladies were dressed
with scrupulous neatness, but there was not a scrap of trimming nor
an unnecessary fold about their garments. Mrs. Arkwright wore a plain
muslin cap tied under her chin with a brown ribbon; Persis had her
pretty bright hair brushed smoothly back, and coiled up as tight as
she could twist it at the back of her head. Her gown was grey, with
spotless collar and cuffs, and her only ornament was her fresh, sweet
beauty. Perhaps beauty is too strong a word—yet Persis was very fair to
look upon.
Mr. Arkwright had risen, but was lingering to say a few last words.
"It is not so much the expense I object to, Dorothea, as the
responsibility. I do not care to have a boy on my hands. The young
women of the household are, at times, very much upon my mind, though
they are quiet, docile girls, and attend willingly to the voice of
instruction. But, then, they are not much out of the house, and you
are able to see after them. A boy would be very different. Then too,
remember, I love my garden; my work in it is my greatest pleasure."
"It is so, Andrew, but you do not take into account, my dear, that
you have now no help from me, and less from our daughter than when I
was strong and well, that you are not growing younger yourself; that
if you should see your garden less beautifully kept than it has been
heretofore, it will be a vexation to you. It is for these reasons that
I wish you, love, to hire a boy, and to teach him your own way of doing
things. Otherwise, you may yet have to engage a gardener, who will not
easily give in to your ways."
"There is some truth in that, Dorothea," said Mr. Arkwright, as if he
heard that argument now for the first time, which was very far from
being the case.
"Father, may I say a word?" asked Persis. "For you know I have another
reason for wishing that we had a boy. If we had, you could buy a pony
and a little carriage for mother, and you know the doctors say that
fresh air would do her much good."
"Hush, Persis, I do not wish that urged," said Mrs. Arkwright.
"I can believe that, Dorothea, for it will be new times when you urge
your own claims. I must consider the question, and—Why, who is this
coming up the approach?"
Persis went to the window.
"Oh, father," she said softly, "such a ragged boy! His feet are bare—he
looks so faint and weary—may I take him some food?"
"Let me see him first, my child. He may be some rough fellow, not fit
for you to meddle with."
He left the room, and Persis followed him to the hall door, which was
close by. Mrs. Arkwright went to the window, which was open.
"What do you want, my boy?" said Mr. Arkwright, pushing his glasses
up on his forehead the better to examine poor Christie. This gave him
such a funny, surprised look, that Persis, when a small child, had been
known to laugh at him.
"Have you any work that I could do?" said Christie, steadying himself
by putting out one hand and holding by the door-post; which gave Mrs.
Arkwright some uneasiness, lest his hand should be dirty.
"Boy, I greatly fear that you are not sober," said Mr. Arkwright,
severely.
"No, sir; I am only hungry—and the sun is hot. I—do—feel like dying."
As he spoke, he staggered and almost fell.
Mr. Arkwright caught him by the arm, and the boy said hoarsely, "'Tis
cruel dark."
Persis, being young and soft-hearted, began to cry.
Her father, hastily replacing his spectacles, rebuked her, but added—
"Whatever the lad may be, he needs rest and refreshment. Persis, fetch
me a cup of milk. Come with me, boy."
Taking Christie by the arm, he led him round to the gate of the yard,
through which they passed. Although he kept no pony, there was a small
stable, and in it a small store of straw and fragrant new hay, for
the cow. Hastily arranging a kind of bed with these materials, Mr.
Arkwright made the boy lie down.
Persis ran in with a huge mug of milk. And though Christie resisted and
groaned, he was raised and made to drink it; and having once tasted it,
drink it he did, without once pausing to take breath. He fell back with
a great sigh of comfort, and soon slept like a child in its mother's
arms.
"It is warm, he will not need covering," said Mr. Arkwright, but even
as he spoke, his wife and her two maids came, bringing a pillow and a
blanket.
Christie was duly covered up, and the process failed to disturb him.
Then they all withdrew, and Mr. Arkwright locked the stable-door. This
the maids considered very unkind, particularly as he took the key away
with him.
But though Janet and Debby could not enjoy the excitement of
occasionally opening the stable-door to see if the stranger still
slept, Christie was neither forgotten nor neglected. Mr. Arkwright
probably enjoyed the whole thing quite as much as they could have done.
Once in every hour he solemnly visited his prisoner. Not, however,
until eight o'clock did he proceed to awake him, and even then it was
not very easy.
"Why, where on earth am I?" Christie cried out when at last he was
really awake. "And who are you?" he added.
"You are in my stable, where you have slept for several hours. And it
seems to me that the question rather is, who are you?"
"Christie Brent, sir. In your stable!—How did I get in?"
"I brought you in. You seemed in sore need of rest. You see, my Master
tells us to help every one we can."
"Sir—who's your master?"
"The Lord Jesus, my boy."
"That's He that died for us," Christie said; "but how is He your
master, sir?"
"Come with me, boy, you need food. We can talk of this at a future
time. You look weak now."
"I am very hungry, for sure. But—where's my bundle? I'm afraid I've
lost it."
"I have it; you dropped it at our door. This way,—here's our kitchen,
and Debby will give you a good meal. Then, Debby, show him the way to
the parlour, for I would speak with him."
He went to the door, but turned back to say—
"Have you any money in your bundle?"
"None, sir."
Mr. Arkwright looked distressed, but he said nothing.
And Christie did not notice his looks; for truly such a supper as that
now set before him, the boy had never seen before. Cold beef, big
slices thereof, white bread, a dish with a corner of fruit pie, and
milk without stint. Christie ate and drank, and felt another man.
"Where do you come from?" said Janet the housemaid, putting another
piece of beef on his plate. "You looked like one going to die when you
came here."
"I come from Blackmead, ma'am. And I had no food since early
yesterday,—only water."
The girls looked at each other, and said—
"Water!—And he a growing boy!"
Then Debby went on, "Blackmead!—Is that the place up in the mountains
where Mrs. Brent and the Sergeant lived?"
"Brent is my name, ma'am."
"Did you ever hear of Grassley?"
"Oh yes," Christie said with a sigh, and he laid down his knife and
fork—they had done good work, however. "She is buried there—my mother
is."
Here the bell rang, and Janet went to the parlour.
Now when Mr. Arkwright asked that question about the contents of
Christie's bundle, he was actuated by a desire to test the boy's truth;
and his change of countenance showed that he was disappointed. The fact
was, that when he picked up Christie's bundle, he had heard something
very like the jingle of coin.
"I fear, Dorothea," said he, when he went to the parlour, leaving
Christie to get his supper, "I fear the boy is not truthful. He avers
that there is no money in his bundle."
"Poor boy," said Mrs. Arkwright; "I hope—perhaps it is not money,
Andrew."
Persis shook the bundle, which made a very suggestive tinkling.
They then waited for some time, and then Mr. Arkwright rang the bell,
saying—
"We must talk to him before prayers. Surely he has supped by this time.
Janet, is the boy ready to come hither?"
"Yes, sir. Debby knows the place he comes from, sir."
"Let Debby come with him, then."
And Janet, I suppose, thought that she ought to be present also, so she
came with Debby.
"Well, boy, have you had your supper?"
"Yes, sir; and I'm very grateful for it."
Christie's eyes were wandering round the room,—the cosy, pretty room;
but presently they rested on Mrs. Arkwright and Persis, and though he
did not exactly stare, he looked at nothing else afterwards.
"Tell me, why are you thus a wanderer? Where do you live?"
"I have lived ever since I can remember at Blackmead. I was a baby
when father and mother came there, but father was born there. Father
was a soldier, and had a Waterloo bullet in his knee, and a bad chest,
because another bullet went right through him; it's in my box—and it
made his breathing bad. He had a medal; may I show it to you? Then
you'll know that what I say is true."
He stepped forward, took up the bundle and opened it. Some articles of
wearing apparel and a shabby book he laid back in the handkerchief,
having taken out a little tin box—a box which rattled and tinkled in
his hand—and the three Arkwrights looked at each other and smiled with
pleasure. Mr. Arkwright, in fact, fairly beamed.
"See, sir—and lady—here they be. This is the medal, and this the bullet
that went through father's chest."
Mrs. Arkwright shuddered.
But Debby pressed forward, saying excitedly—
"Why, the Sergeant showed that medal to my mother! 'Twould be your
father," she said to Christie; "we always called him the Sergeant. And
is your mother dead?"
"Yes," Christie said; "it can't be very long ago, and yet it do seem
long to me."
"She used to come round selling knitted stockings and things, but 'tis
long since she came. And the last time the Sergeant was at our house
with—What was it he called the ass?"
"John Donkey," said Christie.
"Yes, so 'twas; he said his wife was very ill."
"'Twas the fever. But she did not die then."
"Do you know the boy, Debby?" asked Mrs. Arkwright.
"No, ma'am."
"I never was out of Blackmead from the day father and mother and John
Donkey and me went up to it, till I came with mother—to bury her."
"I was a little lass when they went there. But mother could tell
you all about it, ma'am; they would go on, though mother told them
Blackmead was a dreadful place. I can remember seeing them; they had
some deal chairs and tables on the cart, and 'he' was on his mother's
back in a shawl."
This was going too fast for Mr. Arkwright, who liked to do things in a
slow and orderly way.
"If I understand you, Deborah," said he, "of which I am not certain,
owing to your hurried manner,—your mother knew this boy's father and
mother?"
"Yes, sir. They were the only people, except the blacksmith, that ever
came from Blackmead to Grassley."
"Spring, the landlord, comes now," said Christie. "Father used to buy
for him at Grassley and Bradstone, and when John Donkey died, Spring
got a pony, and he goes now as poor father used."
"Your father is dead, then?"
"Yes, sir—a long time. I worked most of that time with Ben Marks."
"The blacksmith?" said Debby. "Oh, he's a dreadful man. He swears so as
I never heard the like."
"He was not kind to me," Christie said. "They all turned against me,
because of the coal, and—other reasons—then they took to beating me.
And some nights ago, Hessie Marks came up to our place and warned me to
escape, or they would do more to me. So I got up on the hill and came
down into the country."
Of course they questioned him about the coal, and he explained very
fully. Then he said to Debby—
"Your name is Smiles, I suppose? Mother used to go to Farmer Smiles's
farm, and once she brought me a cake with sugar on it, and she said
the little girl there sent it to me. Was it you?"—And he smiled as he
spoke, the first pleasant smile for many a day.
He had a remarkably honest, bright smile; and I really think it was
at that moment that Mr. Arkwright perceived that here was the boy he
wanted.
Debby was obliged to confess that the sender of the cake was one of her
sisters.
"It gets late," said Mr. Arkwright, "and we had better have our usual
worship. You will join us, my boy."
The books were brought, and Mr. Arkwright read two chapters, one in the
Old and one in the New Testament, and then what seemed to Christie a
great many prayers. Fortunately the lad behaved with great decorum, for
he was well watched. Only when the first chapter was concluded, he said
in a tone of pleased surprise—
"You have the same Bible that mother had."
"My boy, there is but one Bible," Mr. Arkwright replied gravely, "but
do not speak again during prayers."
Prayers over, he said to Christie—
"Do you think you could make yourself comfortable for to-night in the
stable?"
Christie smiled again, and looked much amused.
"Indeed yes, sir. I never was more comfortable in my life. May I stay
for to-night? And oh, sir, do you think you could get me work?"
"We will talk about that to-morrow," was the reply.
Christie was then allowed to retire to the stable, where he was soon in
a very sweet sleep.
Debby Smiles was cross-examined as to her knowledge of the Brents and
of Blackmead.
"Well, indeed, sir, I have always heard it spoken of as a very poor,
low kind of a place. But Mrs. Brent was a most decent woman. Father and
mother thought well of her. They could tell you more than I can."
"Father," said Persis, when the servants were gone, "you will have to
keep a boy now, for the boy has come of himself."
"Not of himself, Persis. It seems to me as if the lad had been led
hither. But we will talk about it to-morrow. You look tired, Dorothea.
Let us all retire."
So they retired. But Persis felt pretty sure that henceforth her father
"would" keep a boy. And before she slept, she had decided that the
colour of the pony would be brown, though white ones were prettier; but
father was sure to prefer brown.
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