"WHAT WILL BECOME OF HER?"
"CHRISTIE, I want to know what is amiss with you?" said the gentle
voice of Persis Arkwright.
And Christie, coming to himself with a start, found that he had been
leaning on his hoe, and forgetting his work; probably for some time, as
Persis had not been in the garden when he last looked about him with
seeing eyes.
"Miss Persis! You made me jump, miss!"
"Truly, I know that, Christie," the girl said, laughing. "But come—I
know you have had something on your mind ever since the day you took
a holiday. At first I thought you were over-weary, having walked so
far, and all night too. But I am sure now that it is not that. Mother
remarks it, and father says you never have a word to say, now-a-days,
and Debby says you eat nothing worth talking about; and now I find you
standing idle, though you're only halfway through the turnips! So I
know you must be thinking, and thinking sad thoughts too. I want to
know all about it, and to help you if I can."
"'Tis about my poor Hessie, Miss Persis. You know what I heard, that
day I went to Grassley. It do haunt me, day and night."
"It was very sad, Christie, but not your fault, you know. I am sure you
would have been a safeguard to her, had you been able to stay there;
but you know, they drove you away."
"'Tis so, Miss Persis. But still, I have this feeling—here am I, a
big strong fellow, made much of, and taught, and cared for, so that
a king's son could not be happier or better off. And there's Hessie,
a girl, with such a father, and such people round her, and with no
comfort nor peace in her life, knowing no more than those poor Africans
the dear master takes to heart so much. And so I do feel 'tis selfish,
and base of me, to bide here in peace, and leave her—my poor Hessie—Oh,
Miss Persis, the man's words come back to me, 'She's so pretty, and as
wild as a hawk, and what's to become of her?'"
Christie rubbed his face vehemently upon his sleeve, and then seized
his hoe, and began to work with hasty zeal.
"The turnips must be thinned, whatever comes," he said gruffly.
Persis waited. She knew that he had not said all that he had to say. At
last, she remarked softly—
"I thought you were only thinning them, Christie?"
Christie looked down absently on the destruction he had wrought—there
was a terrible gap in the line of little plants! But his mind would not
see with his eyes.
"Miss Persis," he said, "when you came along, I was trying to reason
out a little plan I have, and wondering how to make it known."
"Make it known to me, Christie; you know I should like to help you."
"Thank you, miss. You see, Miss Persis—in a manner, Hessie belongs to
me."
"Why, she is no relation, is she?"
"No, miss. But you know, my mother took charge of her till she was five
years old, and old Marks took her home."
"Yes; you and she must be like brother and sister, I think."
"So we were, then. But while we were still children, she and I made
up our minds to be married some day. She promised me faithful, and we
told father and mother. Father said it would please him well; he was
very fond of Hessie. And however, in the sorrowful times that came
afterwards, Hessie might quarrel with me, she never took back her
promise—so, as I said, she belongs to me, in a manner. And now, Miss
Persis, here's where you can help me. If I go up to Blackmead and see
Hessie, and if I can get her to come away with me, would you persuade
the master to keep back all my wages, and take all my savings, and pay
some good woman to take Hessie—I did think of Mrs. Smiles, but she's
too near Blackmead, and Ben would have her back, but some one like Mrs.
Smiles—and give Hessie what the master gave me here, in this blessed
place, a chance, and a hope, and teaching, and peace? Do you think they
would hear about it, miss?"
"I am sure they will hear about it, but what the answer will be I could
not say. I know so little about anything beyond our quiet happy home
that there may be objections that I don't see. But I will tell them all
that you have said, and ask them to think it over."
"Thank you, Miss Persis. That's all I could ask."
Persis left him to his hoeing, and went in, singing as she went.
Next morning, after family prayers, Mr. Arkwright said to Christie—
"Remain here for a few minutes, Christopher. We would speak with you."
Christie came back from the door, and stood by the table.
"Miss Persis has told us what you said to her yesterday, Christopher."
"I hope 'tis no annoyance, sir?"
"No, my boy. Your wish to help and save the companion of your childhood
is very right. Of anything more than that, Christopher—that the girl
was your mother's nursling and your playfellow—let us say nothing. When
children are much together, I believe such foolish talk about marriage
is not uncommon, but, you know, it means nothing. It is not binding in
any way, and it would be very undesirable, Christopher, that any such
matter should be spoken of between you and this young girl. In this, I
expect you to be guided by me, as you are but a boy, and I, a man with
much experience to aid me. Before we go any further, will you promise
me this?"
"Sir, I meant to use it as my persuasion to her to come away."
"Well, Christopher, I will have nothing to say to the affair, unless
you promise this."
Mrs. Arkwright looked up, and said gently—
"You may believe, Christie, that we know better in this matter than you
can do. It is even my opinion that the girl, being very young, will be
more likely to listen to you without this argument."
"Well, ma'am—I am sure you do know best. But, if Hessie names the
matter to me, I must say that I have not forgotten."
"Yes; so far, Andrew, I think we must allow. For he has not forgotten,
and to say so binds him no more than the original promise—which you
know, Christie, was only childish folly."
Christie said no more, but he looked a little obstinate.
"This matter settled," said Mr. Arkwright—"for I suppose you promise,
Christopher?"
"Yes, sir, I promise."
"—We may go on to further particulars. After the way in which you left
Blackmead, there is a certain amount of risk in returning. But that you
know as well as I do," said the old gentleman quietly; for, to do him
justice, no risk would have stopped him, if he thought it lay in the
way of duty.
"They'll hardly think of all that now, sir. Hessie will surely have
told them that I was with her all that day, until we came home and
found mother uneasy about poor father. And I was such a little
chap!—they must see 'twas only nonsense. But, no doubt, the principal
anger was about the coal."
"But this risk you are prepared for, and I shall do my best to lessen
it. Now, hear what we have thought of. You shall set off alone, and go,
as you propose, to Blackmead. I shall drive to Bradstone, and thence to
Grassley, to the Smiles's farm. If Hessie will leave Blackmead, bring
her to the farm, and we will go on to Bradstone without delay. There
is a place in the town which a good woman set up fifty years ago, and
which is now supported by contributions, and as my wife is one of the
ladies who manage it, she can get Hessie admitted at once. She will be
well cared for, kindly treated, and trained as a servant. It is not
altogether free, except for a few of the girls, and the payment is
beyond your means, as you must keep money to clothe yourself. I will
not, however, deprive you of the privilege of helping. You shall give
half your wages towards it, and we will give the rest."
"Indeed, sir, you are very kind!" Christie exclaimed. "I never can say
what I feel. But, sir, Hessie is very proud. She may wish to go to this
place, but she may like better that her father should pay for her,
which he could, for he is not poor, though he lives just as if he was.
So please tell me how much it costs."
This Mr. Arkwright did, writing the name of the institution, and
various particulars about it, on a sheet of paper, which he gave to
Christie, telling him to leave everything in nice order, and then to
set out on his journey.
Christie thanked him again, and then turned to Persis, who was standing
in the window, and said—
"And you too, Miss Persis; I'm for ever obliged to you."
The young girl raised her head, and Christie started. What was wrong?
Was this pale, sad-looking girl the cheerful, smiling young mistress
who had listened only yesterday to his simple story, sympathizing with
him so kindly? What had happened to his dear Miss Persis?
"I am glad you are to go, Christie. Tell Hessie that I shall go to see
her if I may, and that I will be a friend to her."
Kind as ever, but the ring of happiness had gone out of her voice, just
as smile and colour had left her face.
Christie went to the kitchen, and told the two maids that he was going
to his old home for a day, at which Debby declared that he was out of
his senses, and Janet laughed at him.
"Miss Persis looks—grave-like—to-day," Christie went on.
"No wonder," said Janet, pursing up her lips.
"Why no wonder?" asked Debby.
"She has something to think of. But now, if I tell you what I know,
Debby, you'll blame me for a listener, as you've done before; and as
truly as I stand here, I was not listening, but was about my lawful
business, and could not help hearing."
"Oh, Janet, Janet!" cried Debby reproachfully. But then, human nature
being weak, she added—"Hearing what?"
Janet desired no better than to tell.
"What will you say to a wedding soon?"
"A wedding!" cried Debby.
While Christie, who had been leaving the kitchen, not wishing to hear
what Janet had no right to know, turned round, and said—
"Miss Persis?—But then, why should she look like that?"
"Why, of course," said Debby, speaking at the same time, "any one could
see how 'that' would end. Dear Miss Persis! I do hope she'll be happy,
and indeed, Mr. William Forster—"
"Mr. William? Better than that, Debby. For Mr. William is the youngest
brother, and has no fortune, and is, moreover, a Fellow of College,
and I've heard that they lose their situation if they marry—so he'd
be a very poor match. No, 'tis Mr. Edward, the Vicar himself. And he
has money, and I've heard say is sure to rise, for he's a Forster of
Northumberland, and has friends high in station. I'll tell you all
about it.
"Miss Persis came in from the garden, and began telling the master and
mistress about Christie; how he wants to go and get his head broke like
the poor man your mother wrote of, and then she said something that I
could not hear, her voice is so low—I was dusting the hall at the time.
But I heard the mistress make answer,—
"'I am not annoyed, my dear; the boy meant no harm, but spoke this
because he is still but a boy—and you're no longer a child, Persis,
you'll soon be twenty years old.'
"And then the master said, 'And, indeed, as we were saying but now, the
time has come for me to tell you, my child, what we have arranged for
your future welfare.'
"And he said a lot more—how he is getting old, and the mistress is but
weakly, and Miss Persis a fortune, and how he wished to see her safe
with a good husband, and how he had promised her long ago to Mr. Edward
Forster, and that he should have her when she was twenty. And she
cried—girls always do, I think—and said she is very happy and wished
for no change—girls always say that.
"But the master just said, 'You have always been my good obedient girl,
Persis, and I am sure you will obey me now. I know it will be for your
happiness.'
"And then Miss Persis said no more."
"She could not desire a better man," said Debby. "'Tis but the
surprise, she will be herself again in a day or so. But, Janet, how
came you to be dusting the hall at four o'clock in the afternoon?"
This was very base of Debby, as she had listened to the news.
Christie went away before Janet found an answer. He set everything to
rights, and then went round to the garden to see that all was well
there. Then to the parlour, where he found Mr. Forster with Mr. and
Mrs. Arkwright. Persis was there also, looking very white.
"I'm ready now, sir."
"Very good, Christopher. To-morrow I shall go to Bradstone, and the
next day to Mr. Smiles's farm. I shall be there early. I trust we shall
meet there in joy, Christopher. We all wish you success, and will pray
for it."
Christie made his best bow—not a very graceful salutation—and set forth
on his journey.
He fell in with a wagon going to Bradstone, and the driver being a
friend, he got a good lift, and reached Grassley in the evening. As
he jogged along, he arranged his plans carefully; for though ready to
encounter a considerable risk for Hessie's sake, he had no desire to
run into unnecessary danger. Having had a good meal at the public-house
in Grassley, and bought some bread and cheese to take with him, he set
out in the twilight for Blackmead.
It was a lovely evening, and by the time he reached the foot of the
road by the Water it was a lovely night. There was no moon, but it
was June, so there was no actual darkness. Even a stranger might have
walked up safely, and he knew every stick and stone, and could have
done it even if it had been dark. He heard the Water tinkling away, as
he had heard it many a time while he and poor Kate were searching about
despairingly to find Giles, alive or dead. Then he turned the corner,
rounded the high rocks, and came within view of the houses. He could
see a light here and there. One, he knew, came from the blacksmith's
house, but not from Hessie's window, for it faced up the valley, and
would not be visible from where he stood. So he determined to sit down
and wait until the light was put out, when most likely Hessie would go
to her little room.
How bright and brisk the air felt!—ah, there was no air like it. There
was the Widow Kirby's shop—a single candle burned in the window. There
were lights at the Red Dog, and sounds came on the sweet breeze now and
then—shouts and songs. Presently these died away, and he heard voices:
then silence, and after a time, the light in Ben Marks's house was put
out, and Christie sprang up. He walked up past the now silent houses,
and soon reached the forge, with the dwelling-house behind it.
Now I must take a few minutes to tell you, that Hessie Marks had
scarcely been seen outside her father's house since the day when she
led that game of "Follow my leader," on the green close to the turn
to the Brents' cottage. The girl had been a child until that day, but
shame at what she had done made her a child no longer. She had at first
been in wild spirits at the noise and fuss, and quite proud of having
caused it. She had heard her father wish that some one would stop that
fellow's mouth,—and she had stopped it very effectually.
But when it was over, and rough men came and laughed and praised
her; when she found that they had determined never to listen to the
man again; above all, when from the forge she watched the still more
violent scene of the next day, and saw the man driven away, hurt and
bleeding; then indeed the old, long-forgotten lessons taught her by
Mammie Kate, about gentleness, and love, and kindness, and being a
good, modest girl, came suddenly back to her, and she was bitterly
ashamed. She kept at home, brooding over her thoughts, and was so moody
and dull that Ben more than once declared that she was bewitched, and
that, for his part, he did not care to live with a dummy. Hessie did
not seem to care: all her mirth, her wild spirits, her sharp jests
were gone, and Ben said that he would be driven to marry Jenny Brent
yet!—Even this did not rouse Hessie!
She had been sitting alone that night, waiting for her father to come
home. And when he went to bed, she climbed up to her little attic. She
had not gone to bed, however, and now she heard a voice calling her
softly—
"Hessie, Hessie! Look out to me."
Hessie went to the window. Some one stood below, but she did not
recognize him.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"Don't you know me, Hessie? I'd know your voice anywhere."
"Oh!" she cried, with a start. "Is it you, Christie? I never thought to
see you again. Take care father does not hear you."
"He'd hardly harm me—but I don't want to see him. I want to speak to
you. Come up to our old cottage to-morrow, any time: you'll find me
there."
"What can you have to say to—? But go—I hear father moving. I'll come."
She vanished from the window.
And now Christie heard Ben stumbling about near the door, so he ran
round the forge. He heard Ben come out, and knew by his walk that he
was not sober. Ben stood under Hessie's window.
"Hessie, are you up still?"
"Yes—why are you up, father?"
"Who were you speaking to? I heard your voice and—another. Who was it?"
Hessie was at the window now, and replied in a low tone, which Christie
did not hear.
"I believe that's a lie," said Ben. "I'll nail up your window
to-morrow."
"So you can if you like," she answered carelessly.
Ben growled, and walked, rather unexpectedly, round to the front of the
forge. Christie avoided being seen, dodging round to the back. After
a while, Ben went in, still growling and muttering: and Christie made
haste to get up to his old home before there was a chance of being seen.
Presently, he reached the cottage. It was darker now—the dark hour
before dawn—and he opened the door easily, felt his way over to the
wall, lay down, and was soon asleep.
It was no longer very early morning when he awoke; and after a cautious
look all round, stole down to the Water to wash himself. He saw no one.
How changed the place was! The sturdy stone walls and the heavy roof
were not much the worse, but all the plaster had fallen, and the glass
was all broken in the little windows. It was very unlike the home he
remembered so fondly. Every morsel of furniture had been removed,
except an old three-legged stool which no longer deserved that name,
as it had lost a leg and a half! The little fire-grate was gone, the
hearth yawned wide and black, and the daylight came down the chimney,
and made a wide patch of white before it. Christie sighed.
"Poor mother!" he said. "You wouldn't know the place," and with another
sigh, he passed out into the garden.
At the back of the house the hives still stood, but they were black and
decayed, not having been thatched in winter: the bees had deserted them
and taken to various hollows in the roof and wall. Here they seemed to
be flourishing, though from the blackened look of the stones it was
plain that some one had tried to smoke them out, and to get the honey.
The garden had a crop of potatoes growing in it: probably Jane Brent
had planted them.
He went back into the house, and sat in the window to watch for Hessie.
And after what seemed a long time, he heard a quick, light step, and
Hessie Marks came into the little enclosed yard. When she saw him
leaning from the window, she ran to him, and threw her arms round him,
but, without speaking, she suddenly turned away and went to the door.
Christie met her.
"Oh, Hessie! To think that this is you—this tall girl!"
He had taken her hand, but she twitched it away, and drew back from him.
"What brings you here?" she said. "'Tis no safe place for you, and you
know it."
"I came to see you, Hessie. I've been very fortunate; I got a good
place almost at once, and have been very happy; and I want you to—"
Hessie stopped him. Not as of old, by putting her hand on his lips, for
she kept away from him; but she raised her hand, and said—
"None of that nonsense, Christie. I've heard of you from time to
time—father has dealings with Farmer Smiles. I know you have a place,
and work hard, and are 'respectable'—" with the familiar toss of her
head—"and Smiles's girl is a servant there, and every one thinks a heap
of you. And I'm not respectable, not I! I'm just as you left me, and I
like it too. I shouldn't care at all to live as you do. So if 'tis the
old story about the promise and that you want me to keep it—I won't
keep it. Be off about your business, and marry Smiles's girl if you
want to marry."
"But, Hessie, I wasn't going to say a word about marrying. We're too—"
"Young," he meant to say, but Hessie did not let him finish.
"Too different," said she; "ay, so I told you—mind now, I said so
first. Well—and pray what 'did' you come for?"
She was very red, and looked, to his amazement, very angry. He fully
expected his ears to be soundly boxed, but instead, she merely let her
arms fall by her side, threw back her head, and looked at him. He knew
that his well-meant explanation had displeased her, and wondered why.
"Please don't think," Hessie went on, when he failed to reply, "that I
'wanted' you to come for that. I never thought of it only it came into
my head that moment. I wish you'd tell me what you did want, and let me
get home. Father may miss me, and come searching about."
"What I want is, to give you what others gave me, Hessie dear; help to
learn honest work, and a peaceful, safe life with good people, and—"
"But I don't like good people. Did you hear anything of a man that came
here preaching?—Ah, I see you did!"
Her pretty dark face was crimson, but she went on defiantly—
"I'm not a bit ashamed of it! I'd do the same to-morrow. Where did you
want me to go?"
Christie told her, producing the sheet of paper on which Mr. Arkwright
had copied the address of the school in Bradstone.
"I can't read that!" cried Hessie, snapping the paper from him. "I've
forgotten the print letters, and I never learned those. Don't bother
yourself nor me with any more nonsense. I don't want to part in anger.
'Twas kind of you, no doubt, to want to get me out of this, but I won't
hear of it. Go away, and just forget all about me. Say to yourself,
'Once I had a little sister, and we played together many a time, and I
was fond of her; but, she's dead.'—Now go! I wish you had never come. I
hate you, Christie."
While speaking, she thrust the paper into the bosom of her dress,
unperceived by him. Christie had heard that she hated him too often to
mind her last remark much. He only said—
"No, you don't; you couldn't if you tried. We were children together,
and though you would cuff and scratch me, I know well you were fond
of me. I haven't forgot how you saved me, neither. And oh, Hessie! If
you did only know the happiness of a quiet, godly life, learning every
day to trust God more and to serve Him, and do one's duty, and be
kind and good and truthful, you would just say this moment, 'I'll go
to Bradstone, and be taught and cared for.' This is no place for you,
Hessie, nor—"
The last words undid everything. She had been listening with a softer
look in her wild bright eyes, but now they flashed, and she stamped her
foot, crying—
"Yes, it is! 'Tis good enough for me. I'm just fit for it, just like
all the rest. I'm not good like you, and I don't want to be. You're
very much changed, and I don't like the change: you preach just like
the little chap we drove down the hill by the Water! You'd better
go, before I call out to the boys to hunt you down the same way.—Oh,
Christie, as sure as I stand here, that's father's step."
The door was flung open: there stood Ben the blacksmith. I cannot say
that the three years since we saw him had improved him.
"Who have we here?" he said.
"Christie Brent," answered Christie. "Don't you know me, Ben?"
"What brought you here, Mr. Christie Brent?"
"I wanted to see Hessie."
"Well, you've seen her, that's plain. Oh yes, I see you, Hessie—no use
standing in the shadow. I s'pose 'twas you that was sneaking about my
place last night; I thought I knew your voice. You just mind me now:
come here no more. I never did hate any one as I hate you, Christie
Brent, with your quiet sly ways and your silent tongue—one never knew
what you were thinking of. Hessie's 'my' girl, and if ever I catch you
speaking to her again, I'll break every bone in your body: and I'll do
as much for you, Hessie, if I ever catch you speaking to him. You're
'my' girl, and so I mean to keep you. Get out of this now—go on before
me."
He drove Hessie out, and then looked back to say, "If you don't make
off without delay, you'll repent of it. I know, of course, the talk
about your killing your father was nonsense; Hessie cleared you of
that. But we haven't forgotten yet how you lived in comfort with a coal
fire, and never gave any one else a chance. You cleared it out, you
whelp—not a basketful left for any one. You'll hear of it if any one
sees you; your own cousins are as little likely to forgive you as I am."
"I've done nothing to need forgiveness of any one here," said Christie;
"and just to show you that I'm not a bit ashamed or afraid, I shall
walk straight down through the village this moment."
He walked out of the cottage, closing the door.
"Good-bye, Hessie," he said, as he passed her.
He met Jenny Brent just at her mother's gate, but Jenny did not know
him. Marks came up and told her who it was. Jenny rushed to the cottage
to tell her brothers, and Marks waited for them. Poor Hessie, pale and
trembling, was dragged along by her father; all the good she could do
was to make herself as helpless a burthen as she dared. But before the
Brents joined Marks, Christie had walked unharmed past the houses, and
had reached the turn of the road by the big rock. Here he stopped, to
wave his hat at the party which was in pursuit by this time, and then
he disappeared round the rock.
Once out of sight, he began to run, and even if they followed him, he
was now safe enough.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]