friendly and worthy jaileress, who undertook to care for it to the
best of her abilities. The appearance of Mehetabel in the court
produced at once a favorable impression. Her beauty, her youth, the
sweetness and pathos of expression in her intelligent face, and the
modesty with which she bore the stare of the crowd, sent a wave of
sympathy through all present, and stirred pity in every heart. When
Mehetabel had recovered the confusion and alarm into which she was
thrown by finding herself in the dock with heads all about her, eyes
fixed upon her, and mouths whispering comments, she timidly looked
up and around.
She saw the judge in his robes under the Royal arms, the barristers,
in gowns and wigs, she looked in the direction of the jury,
and with a start recognized one amongst them. By a strange chance
Iver Verstage had been chosen as one of the petty jury, and the
prosecution not suspecting that he was in any way mixed up in the
matter before the court, not knowing that he was acquainted with
the prisoner, that he came from the neighborhood of the scene of
the murder, suffered him to pass unchallenged. Iver did not turn
his face her way, and avoided meeting her eye.
Then she saw Joe Filmer's honest countenance; he sought what Iver
avoided, and greeted her with a smile and a nod.
There was one more present whom Mehetabel recognized, and that in
spite of his wig. She saw in the barrister who was to act as
counsel in the prosecution that same young man who had insulted
her on the dam of the Hammer Pond.
There was little fresh evidence produced beyond that elicited
before the magistrates. Almost the only new matter was what was
drawn from the two Rocliffes relative to the conversation that
had passed between the prisoner and the deceased previous to his
death. But neither father nor son could give a clear account, and
they contradicted each other and themselves. But both were confident
as to Mehetabel having struck Jonas on the head.
The counsel for the defence was able to make a point here. According
to their account they were in a lane, the level of which was
considerably lower than that of the field in which the altercation
took place. There was a hedge of holly intervening. Now holly does
not lose its leaves in winter. Holly does not grow in straggling
fashion, but densely. How were these two men able to see through
so close a screen? Moreover, if they could see the prisoner then
it was obvious she could see them, and was it likely that she would
strike her husband before their eyes. Neither Samuel nor Thomas
Rocliffe was able to explain how he saw through a hedge of holly,
but he had no hesitation in saying that see he did. They were both
looking and had chosen a spot where a view was possible, and that
Mehetabel did not know they were present was almost certain, as
she was looking at Jonas all the while and not in their direction.
The counsel was disappointed, he had hoped to make much of this
point.
Mehetabel was uneasy when she noticed now that the bewigged young
man who had spoken with her at the Hammer Pond labored to bring
out from the witnesses' admissions that would tell against her.
He was not content with the particulars of the death of Jonas, he
went back to the marriage of Mehetabel, and to her early history.
He forced from the Rocliffes, father and son, and also from Colpus
and his daughter the statement that when Mehetabel had been told
her husband was dead she had laughed.
Up to this the feeling of all in court had been unmistakably in her
favor, but now, as in the petty sessions, the knowledge that she
had laughed turned the current of sympathy from her.
When all the evidence had been produced, then the counsel for the
prosecution stood up and addressed the court. The case, said he,
was a peculiarly painful one, for it exhibited the blackest
ingratitude in one who owed, he might say, everything to the
deceased. As the court had heard--the accused had been brought
up in a small wayside tavern, the resort of sailors on their way
between London and Portsmouth, where she had served in the capacity
of barmaid, giving drink to the low fellows who frequented the
public-house, and he need hardly say that such a bringing up must
kill all the modesty, morality, sense of self-respect and common
decency out of a young girl's mind. She was good-looking, and had
been the object of familiarities from the drunken vagabonds who
passed and repassed along the road, and stayed to slake their
thirst, and bandy jokes with the pretty barmaid. From this situation
she had been rescued by Jonas Kink, a substantial farmer. Having
been a foundling she had no name. She had been brought up at the
parish expense, and had no relatives either to curb her propensities
for evil, or to withdraw her from a situation in which no young
woman, he ventured to say, could spend her early years without
moral degradation. It might almost be asserted that Jonas Kink,
the deceased, had lifted this unfortunate creature from the gutter.
He had given her his name, he had given her a home. He had treated
her with uniform kindness--no evidence had been produced that he
had ever maltreated her. On the contrary, as the widow Chivers had
admitted--the prisoner said herself that the deceased had never
struck her with a stick. That there had been quarrels he freely
admitted, that the deceased had spoken sharply was not to be
denied. But he asked: What husband would endure that the young
wife who was indebted to him for everything, should resume her
light and reprehensible conduct, or should show inclination to
do so, after he had made her his own? No doubt whatever that the
prisoner at the bar felt the monotony of a farmhouse irksome
after the lively existence in a public house. No doubt she missed
the society of topers, and their tipsy familiarities. But was
that reason why she should kill her husband?
He believed that he had been able to show that this murder had
been planned; that the prisoner had provided herself with the
implement wherewith it was her purpose to rid herself of the
husband who was distasteful to her. With deliberate intention to
free herself, she had waited to catch him alone, and where she
believed she was unobserved. The jury must consider how utterly
degraded a woman must be to compass the death of the man to whom
she had sworn eternal fidelity and love. A woman who could do this
was not one who should be suffered to live; she was a scandal to
her sex; she dishonored humanity.
The counsel proceeded to say: "Gentlemen of the jury, I have
anxiously looked about for some excuses, something that might
extenuate the atrocity of this crime. I have found none. The man
who steals bread to support his starving children must suffer
under the law for what he has done. Can you allow to go free a
woman, because young, who has wilfully, wantonly, and deliberately
compassed the murder of her husband, merely, as far as we can
judge, because he stood in her way pointing the direction to
morality and happiness. Whatever may be said in defence of this
unfortunate prisoner now on her trial, gentlemen of the jury, do
not mistake your office. You are not here to excuse crime and to
forgive criminals, but to judge them with justice. Do not be
swayed by any false feeling of commiseration because of the sex
and youth of the accused. Remember that a wife guilty of the
murder of her husband, who is allowed to run free, encourages
all others, possibly even your own, to rid themselves of their
husbands, whenever they resent a look or a word of reproach. I
will lose no more words, but demand a sentence of guilty against
Mehetabel Kink."
The young mother had hardly been able to endure the sense of shame
that overwhelmed her during the progress of the speech of the
counsel. Flushes of crimson swept through her face, at his
insinuations and statements affecting her character, and then the
color faded leaving her deadly white. This was an agony of death
worse than the gallows. She could have cried out, "Take my life--but
spare me this dishonor."
Joe Filmer looked troubled and alarmed; he worked his way to the
back of the bench, where sat the counsel for the defence, and
said: "Old Crock, five guineas--ten, if you'll get her off. Five
from the master, and five from me. And I'll kick that rascal who
has just spoken, as he comes out; I will, be Jiggers!"
CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE VERDICT.
When the counsel for the defense stood up, Mehetabel raised her
shame-stricken face. This man, she knew, would speak a good word
for her--had he not done so already? Had not all his efforts been
directed towards getting out of the witnesses something favorable
to her, and to showing contradictions in their statements which
told against her?
But she looked timidly towards him, and dared not meet the glances
of the crowd in the court. What must they think of her--that she
was an abandoned woman without self-restraint; a disgrace to her
sex, as that young barrister had said.
Again, it must be said, she was accustomed to injustice. She had
been unfairly treated by Susanna Verstage. She had met with cruel
wrong from her husband. By the whole of the Punch-Bowl she had been
received without generosity, without that openness of mind which
should have been manifested towards a stranger claiming its
hospitality. She had not received the kindness that was her due
from her sister-in-law. Even the well-disposed Joe Filmer believed
her to be guilty of murder. But perhaps she could have borne all
this better than the wounding insults offered her by the counsel
for the prosecution, blasting her character before the world.
The barrister engaged to defend her did his utmost, and did it with
ability. He charged the jury not to be deceived into believing that
this was a case of premeditated murder, even if they were satisfied
that Jonas had been killed by the stone carried by the defendant.
As he had brought out by the evidence of the widow Betty Chivers,
and by that of the surgeon, the prisoner had been off her head,
and was not responsible for what she said or did. What more likely
then that she raved in delirium when she asserted that she would
kill her husband, and what more evident token of having her brain
overbalanced than that she should be running about the country
hiding in caves, carrying her child with her, under the impression
that her husband desired to take it from her, and perhaps do it an
injury. That was not the conduct of a sane woman. Why should a
father seek to rob her of her child? Could he suckle it? Did he
want to be encumbered with an unweaned infant? Then as to the
alleged murder. Was the testimony of the two men, Thomas and Samuel
Rocliffe, worth a rush? Was not this Thomas a fool, who had been
enveigled into a marriage with a tramp who called herself a
countess? Did he not show when under cross-examination that he was
a man of limited intelligence? And was his son Samuel much better?
There was a dense holly hedge betwixt them and the prisoner. He
put it to any candid person, who can see so clearly through a
holly bush as to be able to distinguish the action of parties on
the further side? These two witnesses had fallen into contradiction
as to what they had heard said, through the holly hedge, and it was
much easier to hear than to see athwart such an obstruction.
There was enough to account for the death of Jonas Kink without
having recourse to the theory of murder. He had received a blow
on his head, but he had received more blows than one; when a man
falls backwards and falls down into a kiln that yawns behind him
he would strike his head against the side more than once, and with
sufficient force to break in his skull and kill him. How could they
be sure that he was not killed by a blow against the bricks of the
kiln edge? The accused had charged the deceased with having tried
to murder her baby. That was what both the witnesses had agreed
in, though one would have it she had asserted he tried to poison
it, and the other that he had endeavored to strangle it. Such a
charge was enough to surprise a father, and no wonder that he
started back, and in starting back fell into the kiln, the existence
of which he had forgotten if he ever knew of it. He the counsel,
entreated the jury not to be led away by appearances, but to weigh
the evidence and to pronounce as their verdict not guilty.
No sooner had he seated himself than he was nudged in the back,
and Joe Filmer said, in a loud whisper, "Famous! Shake hands, and
have a drop o' Hollands." Then the ostler thrust forward a bottle
that had been in his pocket. "It's first-rate stuff," he said. "The
master gave it me."
The Judge summed up and charged the jury. As Joe Filmer described
his address afterwards, "He said that there were six things again'
her, and about a half-a-dozen for her; there was evidence as went
one road and evidence as went t'other way. That she was either
guilty or not guilty, and the gem'men of the jury was to please
themselves and say wot they liked."
Thereupon the jury withdrew.
Now when the twelve men were in the room to which they had retired,
then the foreman said:--"Well, gents, what do you think now? You
give us your opinion, Mr. Quittenden."
"Then, sir," answered the gentleman addressed, an upholsterer. "I
should say 'ang 'er. It won't do, in my opinion, to let wives think
they can play old Harry with their 'usbands. What the gentleman
said as acted in the prosecution was true as gospel. It won't do
for us to be soft heads and let our wives think they can massacre
us with impunity. Women ain't reasonin' creatures, they're hanimals
of impulse, and if one of us comes 'ome with a drop too much, or
grumbles at the children bein' spoiled, then, I say, if our wives
think they can do it and get let off they'll up wi' the flat iron
and brain us. I say guilty. Ang 'er."
"Well, sir," said the foreman, "that's your judgment. Now let us
hear what Josias Kingerle has to say."
"Sir," said the gentleman addressed, who was in the tannery
business, "if she weren't so good-lookin' I'd say let her off."
As an expression of surprise found utterance Mr. Kingerle proceeded
to explain.
"You see, gentlemen of the jury, and you, Mr. Foreman, I have a
wife, and that good lady was in court, an' kept her eye on me all
the time like a rattlesnake. I couldn't steal a peep at the prisoner
but she was shakin' of her parasol handle at me, and though she
didn't say it with words yet I read it in her eye, 'Now then, Josiah,
none o' your games and gushes of pity over pretty gals.' It's as
much as my domestic felicity is worth, gentlemen, to say not guilty.
My wife would say, and your wives would all say, 'O yes! very fine.
Because she was 'andsome you have acquitted her. Had we--' I'm
speakin' as if it was our wives addressin' of us, gentlemen--'Had
we been in the dock, or had there been an ugly woman, you would
have said guilty at once.' So for peace and quietness I say guilty.
'Ang 'er."
"Well, Mr. Kingerle," said the foreman, "that is your opinion; you
agree with Mr. Quittenden. Now then, what say you, Mr. Wrist?"
The juryman addressed was a stout and heavy man. He stretched his
short legs, seated himself in his chair, and after a long pause
said, "I don't know as I care particular, as far as I'm concerned.
But it's better in my opinion to hang her, even if innocent, than
let her off. It's setting an example, a fine one, to the wimen. I
agree with Mr. Quittenden, and say--guilty. 'Ang 'er.'
"Now then, Mr. Sanson."
"I," answered a timid little apothecary, "I wouldn't wish to differ
from any one. I had rather you passed me over now, and just asked
the rest. Then I'll fall in with the general division."
"Very well, then--and you, Mr. Sniggins."
"I am rayther hard of hearing," answered that gentleman, "and I
didn't catch all that was said in evidence, and then I had a bad
night. I'd taken some lobster last evening, and it didn't agree
with me, and I couldn't sleep, and it was rayther hot in the court,
and I just closed my eyes now and again, and what with being hard
of hearing and closing my eyes, I'm not very well up in the case,
but I say--guilty. 'Ang 'er."
"And you, Mr.--I beg your pardon, I did not catch your name."
"Verstage."
"Not a Kingston gent?"
"Oh, no, from Guildford,"
"What say you, sir?"
"I--emphatically, not guilty." Iver threw himself back in his
chair, extended his legs, and thrust his hands into his trouser
pockets. "The whole thing is rank nonsense. How could a woman with
a baby in her arms knock a man down? You try, gents, any one of
you--take your last born, and whilst nursing it, attempt to pull
your wife's nose. You can't do it. The thing is obvious." He looked
round with assurance. "The man was a curmudgeon. He misused her.
He was in bad circumstances through the failure of the Wealden
Bank. He wanted money, and the child had just had a fortune left
it--something a little under two hundred pounds."
"How do you know that?" asked the foreman. "That didn't come out
in evidence."
"P'raps you shut your ears, as Mr. Sniggins shut his peepers.
P'raps it came out, p'raps it didn't. But it's true all the same.
And the fellow wanted the money. Matabel--I mean the prisoner at
the bar thought--rightly or wrongly matters not--that he wished
for the death of his child, and she ran away. She was not crazy;
she was resolved to protect her child. She swore that she would
defend it. That Giles Cheel and Mrs. Rocliffe said. What mother
would not do the same? As for those two men, Thomas and Samuel
Rocliffe, they never saw her knock down Jonas Kink, for the good
reason that she was holding the baby, and couldn't do it. But
when she told him, he was seeking his child's life--all for the
money left it--then he stumbled back, and fell into the kiln--not
guilty. If I sit here till I starve you all--not guilty."
"But, sir, what you state did not come out in the evidence."
"Did it not? So much the worse for the case. It wasn't properly got
up. I'll tell you what, gents, if you and me can't agree, then
after a time the jury will be dismissed, and the whole case will
have to be tried again. Then the evidence will come up that you
think you haven't heard now, and she'll be acquitted, and every
one will say of this jury--that we were a parcel of noodles."
"Well, sir, not guilty," said the foreman. "What do you say, Mr.
Lilliwhite?"
"Sir," answered the gentleman addressed, "I'd like to know what
the cost to the county will be of an execution. I say it can't be
done under a hundred pounds, if you calculate the carpentering and
the timber, and the fees, and the payment of the constables to keep
order, and of the hangman. I say it ain't worth it. There'll be
another farthing stuck on the rates, all along of this young woman.
I'm again' it. Not guilty. Let 'er go."
"And I," said the next juryman, "am averse to capital punishment. I
wrote a little tract on the subject. I do not know if any of you
gentlemen have seen it. I have copies in my pocket. I shall be happy
to present each of you with a copy. I couldn't possibly say guilty
and deliver her over to a violent death, without controverting my
published opinions, and, so to speak, stultifying myself. So,
really, sir, I must positively say not guilty, and would say as
much on behalf of the most ferocious murderer, of Blue Beard
himself, rather than admit anything which might lead to a sentence
of capital punishment. Not guilty."
Nearly an hour and a half elapsed before the jury returned to the
court. It was clear that there had been differences of opinion,
and some difficulty in overcoming these, and bringing all the
twelve, if not to one mind, at all events to one voice.
A silence fell on the whole court.
Mehetabel who had been allowed a seat, rose, and stood pale as
death, with her eyes fixed on the jurymen, as they filed in.
The foreman stepped forward, and said: "We find the prisoner not
guilty."
Then, in the stillness with which the verdict was received,
Mehetabel's voice was heard, tremulous and pleading. She had
dropped a curtsey, and said, "Thank you, gentlemen." Then turning
to the judge, and again dropping a curtsey, she raised her eyes
timidly, modestly, to the judge, and said, "Please, sir, may I go
to my baby?"
CHAPTER XLIX.
WELCOME.
Mehetabel was not able to leave Kingston for several days. Her child
was too ill to bear the journey to Thursley; and the good-natured
jailer's wife kindly urged her to remain as her guest till she
thought that the little being might be removed with safety. Joe
Filmer would drive her back, and Joe consented to tarry. He had
business to discharge, the settlement of the account with the
solicitor, or turnkey as he called him, to haggle over the sum,
and try to get him to abate a sovereign because paid in ready money.
He had also to satisfy the girl who had recommended the attorney,
and the ostler who had consulted the girl, and old Clutch, who
having found his quarters agreeable at the stable of the Sun, was
disinclined to depart, and pretended that he had the strangles, and
coughed himself into convulsions. At length, towards the end of the
week, Mehetabel thought the child was easier, and Joe having
satisfied all parties to whom he was indebted, and Clutch having
been denied his food unless he came forth and allowed himself to
be harnessed, Mehetabel departed from Kingston, on her return
journey.
The pace at which old Clutch moved was slow, the slightest elevation
in the ground gave him an excuse for a walk, and he turned his head
inquiringly from side to side as he went along, to observe the
scenery. If he passed a hedge, or a field in which was a horse,
he persisted in standing still and neighing. Whereupon the beast
addressed, perhaps at the plough, perhaps a hunter turned out to
graze, responded, and till the conversation in reciprocal neighs
had concluded to the satisfaction of the mind of Clutch, that
venerable steed refused to proceed.
"I suppose you've heard about Betty Chivers?" said Joe.
"About Betty! What?"
"She got a bad chill at the trial, or maybe coming to it; and she
is not returned to Thursley. I heard she was gone to her sister,
who married a joiner at Chertsey, for a bit o' a change, and to be
nussed. Poor thing, she took on won'erful about your little affair.
So you'll not see her at Thursley."
"I am sorry for that," said Mehetabel, "and most sorry that I have
caused her inconvenience, and that she is ill through me."
"I heard her say it was damp sheets, and not you at all. Old wimen
are won'erful tender, more so than gals. And, of course, you've
heard about Iver."
"Iver! What of Iver?" asked Mehetabel, with a flush in her cheek.
"Well, Mister Colpus, he had a talk wi' Iver about matters at the
Ship. He told him that the girl Polly were gettin' the upper hand
in everythin', and that if he didn't look smart and interfere she'd
be marryin' the old chap right off on end, and gettin' him to leave
everythin' to her, farm and public house and all his savings.
Though she's an innercent lookin' wench, and wi' a head like a
suet puddin' she knows how to get to the blind side of the master,
and though she's terrible at breakages, she is that smooth-tongued
that she can get him to believe that the fault lies everywhere else
but at her door. So Iver, he said he'd go off to Thursley at once,
and send Polly to the right-abouts. And a very good thing too. I'll
be glad to see the back of her. 'Twas a queer thing now, Iver
gettin' on to jury, weren't it?"
"Yes, Joe, I was surprised."
"I reckon the Rocliffes didn't half like it, but they made no
complaint to the lawyer, and so he didn't think there was aught
amiss. You see, the Rocliffes be won'erful ignorant folk. If that
blackguard lawyer chap as sed what he sed about you had known who
Iver was, he'd have turned him out. That insolent rascal. I sed I'd
punish him. I will. They told me he comes fishin' to the Frensham
Ponds and Pudmoor. He stays at the Hut Inn. I'll be in waitin' for
him next time, and give him a duckin' in them ponds, see if I don't."
The journey home was not to be made in a day when old Clutch was
concerned, and it had to be broken at Guildford. Moreover, at
Godalming it was interrupted by the obstinacy of the horse,
which--whether through revival of latent sentiment toward the
gray mare, or through conviction that he had done enough, refused
to proceed, and lay down in the shafts in the middle of the road.
Happily he did this with such deliberation, and after having
announced his intention so unequivocally, that Mehetabel was able
to escape out of the taxcart with her baby unhurt.
"It can't be helped," said Joe Filmer, "we'll never move him out
but by levers; what will you do, Matabel? Walk on or wait?"
Mehetabel elected to proceed on foot. The distance was five miles.
She would have to carry her child, but the babe was not a heavy
weight. Gladly would she have carried it twice the distance if
only it were more solid and a greater burden. The hands were almost
transparent, the face as wax, and the nose unduly sharp for an
infant of such a tender age.
"I daresay," said Joe aside, "that if I can blind old Clutch and
turn him round so that he don't know his bearin's, that I may get
him up and to run along, thinkin' he's on his way back to Gorlmyn.
But he's deep--terrible deep."
Accordingly Mehetabel walked on, and walked for nearly two hours
without being overtaken. She reached that point of the main road
whence a way diverges on the right to the village of Thursley,
whereas the Ship Inn lies a little further forward on the highway.
She purposed going to the dame's schoolhouse, to ascertain whether
Mrs. Chivers had returned. If she had not, then Mehetabel did not
know what she should do, whither she should go. Return to the
Punch-Bowl she would not. Anything was preferable to that. The
house of Jonas Kink was associated with thoughts of wretchedness,
and she could not endure to enter it again.
She reached the cottage and found it locked. She applied at the
house of the nearest neighbor, to learn whether Betty Chivers was
expected home shortly, and also whether she had left the key. She
was told that news had reached Thursley that the schoolmistress
was still unwell, and the neighbor added, that on leaving, Betty
had carried the key of the cottage with her.
"May I sit down?" asked Mehetabel; her brow was bathed in
perspiration, and her knees were shaking under her, whilst her
arms ached and seemed to have lost the power to hold the precious
burden any longer. "I have walked from Gorlmyn," she explained;
"and can you tell me where I can be taken in for a night or two.
I have a little money, and will pay for my lodgings."
The woman drew her lips together and signed to a chair. Presently
she said in a restrained voice: "That there baby is feverish, and
my man has had a hard day's work and wants his rest at night, and
though 'tis true we have a spare room, yet I don't see as we can
accommodate you. So they let you off--up at Kingston?"
"Yes, I was let off," answered Mehetabel, faintly.
"Hardly reckoned on it, I s'pose. Most folks sed as you'd swing
for it. You mustn't try on them games again, or you won't be so
lucky next time. The carpenter, Puttenham, has a bed at liberty,
but whether he'll take you in I don't know."
Mehetabel rose, and went to the cottage of the wheelwright. The
man himself was in his shop. She applied to his wife.
"I don't know," said Mrs. Puttenham. "They say you was off your
head when you did it. How can I tell you're right in your intellecks
now? You see, 'twould be mighty unpleasant to have anything happen
to either Puttenham or me, if we crossed you in any way. I don't
feel inclined to risk it. I mind when owd Sammy Drewitt was daft.
They did up a sort of a black hole, and stuck he in, and fed him
through a kind of a winder in the side, and they had the place
cleaned out once a month, and fresh straw littered for him to lie
on. Folk sed he ort to ha' been chained to the wall, but they
didn't do that. He never managed to break through the door. They
found him dead there one winter mornin' when the Hammer Ponds was
froze almost a solid block. I reckon there's been nobody in that
place since. The constable might send a man, and scrape it out,
and accommodate you there. It's terrible dangerous havin' a maniac
at large. Sammy Drewitt made a won'erful great noise, howlin' when
the moon was nigh full, and folk as lived near couldn't sleep then.
But he never knocked nobody on the head, as I've heard tell. I don't
mind givin' you a cup o' tea, and some bread and butter, if you'll
be quiet, and not break out and be uproarious. If you don't fancy
the lock-up, there is a pound for strayed cattle. I reckon of that
Mister Colpus keeps the key--that is if it be locked, but mostly
it be open. But then there's no roof to that."
Mehetabel declined the refreshment offered her so ungraciously,
and went to the cottage of Mrs. Caesar, the mother of Julia who
had been dismissed from the service of Mr. Colpus.
Of her she made the same request as of the two last.
"I call that pretty much like cheek, I do," replied Mrs. Caesar.
"Didn't you go and try to get into Colpus's, and oust my daughter?"
"Indeed, indeed, I did not."
"Indeed, you did. I heard all about it, as how you wanted to be
took in at Colpus's when Julia was out."
"But Mrs. Caesar, that isn't ousting her. Julia was already
dismissed!"
"Dismissed! Hoity-toity! My daughter gave notice because she was
too put upon by them Colpuses. They didn't consider their servants,
and give 'em enough to eat, and holidays when they wanted to go
out with their sweethearts. And you had the face to ax to be taken
there. No, I've no room for you;" and she shut the door of the
house in Mehetabel's face.
The unhappy girl staggered away with her burden, and sank into a
hedge. The evening was drawing on, and she must find a house to
shelter her, or else seek out the cave where she had lodged before.
Then she recalled what Joe Filmer had said--that Iver had returned
to the Ship. A light flashed through her soul at the thought.
Iver would care for her. He who had been her earliest and dearest
friend; he, who through all his years of absence, had cherished
the thought of her; he who had told her that the Ship was no home
to him without her in it; that he valued Thursley only because
she lived there; he who had clasped her with his arm, called her
his own and only one; to him--to him--at last, without guilt,
without scruples; she could fly to him and say, "Iver, I am driven
from door to door; no one will receive me. Every one is suspicious
of me, thinks evil of me. But you--yourself, who have known me
from infancy--you who baptized me to save me from becoming a
wanderer--see, a wanderer, homeless, with my poor babe, I come
to you--do you provide that I may be housed and sheltered. I ask
not for myself so much as for my little one! To Iver--to Iver--as
my one refuge, my only hope!"
Then it was as though her heart were light, and her heels winged.
She sprang up from where she had cast herself, and forgetful of
her weariness, ran, and stayed not till she had reached the familiar
porch of the dear old Ship.
And already through the bar window a light shone. The night had
not set in, yet a light was shining forth, a ray of gold, to
welcome the wanderer, to draw her in, with promise of comfort
and of rest.
And there--there in the porch door stood Iver.
"What! Mehetabel! come here--here--after all! Come in at once.
Welcome! A word together we must have! My little Mehetabel! Welcome!
Welcome!"
CHAPTER L.
MOVE ON.
"Come in, little friend! dear Matabel! come into the kitchen, by
the fire, and let us have a talk." His voice was cheery, his
greeting hearty, his manner frank.
He drew her along the passage, and brought her into the little
kitchen in which that declaration had taken place, the very last
time she had been within the doors of the inn, and he seated her
in the settle, the very place she had occupied when he poured out
his heart to her.
Mehetabel could not speak. Her bosom was too full. Tears sparkled
in her eyes, and ran down her cheeks. The glow of the peat and wood
fire was on her face, and gave to it a color it did not in reality
possess. She tried to say something, but her voice gave way. Half
laughing in the midst of tears she stammered, "You are good to me,
Iver."
He took the stool and drew it before the fire that he might look
up into her agitated face.
"How have you come?" asked he.
"I walked."
"Where from--not Kingston?"
"Oh, no! only from Gorlmyn."
"But that is a long way. And did you carry the child?"
"Yes, Iver! But, oh! he is no weight. You have not seen him. Look
at him. He is quiet now, but he has been very troublesome; not
that he could help it, but he has been unwell." With the pride and
love of a mother she unfolded the wraps that concealed her sleeping
child, and laid it on her knees. The dancing light fell over it.
Iver drew his stool near, and looked at the infant.
"I am no judge of babies," he said, "but--it is very small."
"It is small, that is why I can carry him. The best goods are
wrapped in the smallest parcels."
"The child looks very delicate--ill, I should say."
"Oh, no! it has been ill, but is much, much better now. How could
even a strong child stand all that my precious one has had to go
through without suffering? But that is over now. Now at length we
shall have rest and happiness, baby and me, in each other." Then
catching the child to her heart, she rocked herself, and with
tears of love flowing, sang--
"Thou art my sceptre, crown and all."
She laid the child again on her lap and sat looking at it admiringly
in the rosy light of the fire that suffused it. As the flames had
given to her cheek a fictitious color, so did they now give to the
infant a glow as of health that it did not actually possess.
"You must be tired," said Iver.
"I am tired; see how my limbs shake. That is why my baby trembles;
but as for my arms, they are past tiredness, they are just one
dead ache from the shoulder to the wrist."
"Are you hungry, Matabel?"
"Oh, no! All I want is rest, rest. I am weary."
Presently she asked, "Where is father?"
"He is away. Gone to the Dye House to see a cow that is bad. They
sent for him, to have his opinion. Father is thought a great
authority on cows."
"And Polly?"
"Oh! Polly," laughed Iver, "she's bundled off. Father has borne it
like a philosopher. I believe in his heart he is rather pleased
that I should have turned her neck and crop off the premises. It
was high time. She had mastered the old man, and could make him
do what she pleased."
"Whom have you got in her place?"
"Julia Caesar. She was sent away from the Colpuses for drawing the
beer too freely. Well, here she can draw it whenever there are men
who ask for drink, so she will be in her proper element. But she
is only a stop gap. I engaged her because there really was for the
moment no one else available, but she goes as soon as we can find
a better."
"Will you take me?" asked Mehetabel, with a smile, and with some
confidence that she would be gladly accepted.
"We shall see--there is another place for you, Matabel," said Iver.
"Now let us talk of something else. Was it not a piece of rare good
luck that I was stuck on the jury? Do you know, I believe all would
have gone wrong but for me. I put my foot down and said, 'Not
guilty,' and would not budge. The rest were almost all inclined to
give against you, Matabel, but there was a fellow with a wist in
his stupid noddle against capital punishment. He was just as
resolute as I was, and between us, we worked the rest round to
our way of thinking. But I should like to know the truth about it
all, for it is marvellous to me."
"There is nothing for me to say, Iver," answered Matabel, "but
that some words I uttered made Jonas spring back, and neither
he nor I knew that there was a kiln behind, it was so overgrown
with brambles, and he fell down that."
"And you laughed."
"Oh, Iver! I don't know what I did. I was so frightened, and my
head was so much in a whirl that I remember nothing more. You do
not really think that I laughed."
"They all said you did."
"Iver, you know me too well to believe that I was other than
frightened out of my wits. There are times when a laugh comes
because the tears will not break out--it is a gasp of pain, of
horror, nothing more. I remember, at my confirmation, when the
Bishop laid his hands on us, that the girl beside me laughed; but
it was only that she was feeling more than she could give token
of any other way."
"That's like enough," said Iver, and taking the poker he put the
turf together to make it blaze; "I say, Matabel, they tell me that
Jonas was a bad loser by the smash of the Wealden Bank, and that
he was about to mortgage his little place. Of course, that is
yours now--or belongs to the young shaver. There are a hundred
pounds my mother left, and fifty given by my father, that I hold,
and I don't mind doing anything in reason with it to prevent
having the property get into the lawyer's hands. I wouldn't do
it for Jonas; but I will for you or the shaver. Shall you manage
the farm yourself? If I were you I would get Joe Filmer to do that.
He's a good chap, honest as daylight, and worships you."
"I don't know or think anything about that," said Mehetabel.
"But you must do so. The Rocliffes have invaded the place, so my
father says. They took possession directly Jonas was dead, and
they are treating the farm as if it were their own. You are going
to the Punch-Bowl at once, and I will assert your rights."
"I am not going to the Punch-Bowl again," said Mehetabel, decisively.
"You must. You have no other home."
"That can be no home to me."
"But--where are you going to live?"
"I ask--" she looked at Iver with something of entreaty in her
eyes--"May I not come and be servant here? I will do my duty, you
need not doubt that."
"I have no doubt about that," he answered. "But--but--" he hesitated,
and probed the fire again, "you see, Matabel, it wouldn't do."
"Why not?"
"Oh, there are three or four reasons."
She looked steadily at him, awaiting more.
"In the first place," he said, with a little confusion, "there has
been much chatter about me being on the jury, and some folk say
that but for me you'd have been found guilty, and--" He did not
complete the sentence. He had knocked a burning turf down on the
hearth. He took the tongs, picked it up and replaced it. "I won't
say there is not some truth in that. But that is not all, Matabel.
I'm going to give up Guildford and live here."
"You are!" Her eyes brightened.
"Yes, at the Ship. For one thing, I am sick of giving lessons to
noodles. More than half of those who take lessons are as incapable
of making any progress as a common duck is of soaring to the
clouds. It's drudgery giving lessons to such persons. The only
pictures they turn out that are fit to be looked at are such as
the master has drawn and corrected and finished off for them. I'll
have no more of that."
"I am glad, Iver. Then you will be with the dear old father."
"Yes. He wants some one here to keep an eye on him. But, just
because I shall be here, it is not possible for you to be in the
house. There has been too much talk, you know, about us. And this
matter of my being on the jury has made the talk more loud and
unpleasant for me. I shall have to be on my P's and Q's, Mattie;
and I doubt if I am acting judiciously for myself in bringing you
into the house now. However, it is only for an hour, and the maid
Julia is out, and father is at the Dye House, and no one was in
the road; so I thought I might risk it. But, of course, you can't
remain. You must go."
"I must go! What, now?"
"I won't hurry you for another ten minutes, but under the
circumstances I cannot allow you to remain. There is more behind,
Matabel. I have got engaged to Polly Colpus!"
"Engaged--to Polly Colpus?"
"Yes. You see she is the only child of James Colpus, and will have
his land, which adjoins ours, and several thousand pounds as well.
Her mother left her something, and her father has been a saving
man; so I could not do better for myself. I have got tired of
teaching imbeciles to draw and daub. You see, I knew nothing about
a farm, but father will manage that, and when he is too infirm and
old, then Mr. Colpus will work it along with his own, and save me
the trouble. Polly is clever and manages very well, and I can trust
her to govern the Ship and make money out of that. So my idea is to
be here when I like, and when tired of being in the country, to go
to London and sell my pictures, or amuse myself. With the farm and
the inn I shall be free to do that without the worry of giving
lessons. So you understand that not only must I avoid any scandal
among the neighbors by harboring you here, but I must not make
Polly Colpus jealous; and she might become that, and break off
the engagement were you taken into the house. She is a good girl,
and amiable, but might become suspicious. There are so many
busybodies in a little place, and the smaller the place is the
more meddlesome people are. It would not do for my engagement to
be broken through any such an injudicious act on my part, and I
should never forgive myself for having given occasion for the
rupture. Consequently, as is plain as a pike-staff, we cannot
possibly take you into the Ship. Not even for to-night. As for
receiving you as a servant here, that is out of the question. There
is really no place for you but the Punch-Bowl."
"I will not go back to the Punch-Bowl," said Mehetabel, her heart
sinking.
"That is unreasonable. It is your natural home."
"I will not go back. I said so when I ran away. Nothing will induce
me to return."
"Then I wash my hands of all concerning you," said Iver, irritably.
"There really seems to be ill-luck attending you, and affecting all
with whom you are brought in touch. Your husband--he is dead, and
now you try to jeopardize my fortunes. 'Pon my word, Matabel," he
stood up. "It cannot be. We are willing enough to take in most
people here, but under the circumstances cannot receive you."
"The door," said the girl, also rising, "the door was open at one
time to all but to you. Now it is open to all but to me."
"You must be reasonable, Matabel. I wish you every good in the
world. You can't do better than take Joe Filmer and make yourself
happy. Every one in this world must look first to himself; then to
the things of others It is a law of Nature and we can't alter it."
Leisurely with sunk head on her bosom, Metabel moved to the door.
"If I can assist you with money," suggested Iven
She shook her head she could not speak.
"Or if you want any food--"
She shook her head again.
But at the door she stood, leaned against the jamb turned, and
looked steadily at Iver.
"You are going to the Punch-Bowl?" he asked.
"No, I will not go there!"
"Then, where do you go?"
"I do not know, Iver--you baptized me lest I should become a
wanderer, and now you cast me out, me and my baby to become
wanderers indeed."
"I cannot help myself, dear Matabel. It is a law of Nature, like
that of the Medes and Persians, unalterable."
CHAPTER LI.
THOR'S STONE AGAIN.
Stunned with the sense that her last hope was taken from her, the
cable of her one anchor cut, Mehetabel left the Ship Inn, and
turned from the village. It would be in vain for her to seek
hospitality there. Nothing was open to her save the village pound
and the cell in which the crazy man, Sammy Drewitt, had perished
of cold. There was the cave in which she had found refuge the night
before the death of Jonas. She took her way to that again, over
the heath.
There was light in the sky, and a star was shining in the west,
above where the sun had set.
How still her baby was in her arms! Mehetabel unfolded the shawl,
and looked at the pinched white face in the silvery light from the
sky. The infant seemed hardly to breathe. She leaned her cheek
against the tiny mouth, and the warm breath played over it. Then
the child uttered a sob, drew a long inspiration, and continued
its sleep. The fresh air on the face had induced that deep,
convulsive inhalation.
Mehetabel again covered the child's face, and walked on to the
gully made by the ancient iron-workers, and descended into it.
But great was her disappointment to find that the place of refuge
was destroyed. Attention had been drawn to it by the evidence of
Giles Cheel and Sally Rocliffe. The village youths had visited it,
and had amused themselves with dislodging the great capstone, and
breaking down the sandstone walls. No shelter was now obtainable
there for the homeless: it would no more become a playing place
for the little children of the Dame's school.
She stood looking dreamily at the ruin. Even that last place of
refuge was denied her, had been taken from her in wantonness.
Leisurely she retraced her steps; she saw again the light in the
window of the Ship, and the open door. She, however, turned away--the
welcome was not for her--and entered the village. Few were about,
and such as saw her allowed her to pass without a salutation.
She staggered up some broken steps into the churchyard, and crossed
it, towards the church. No friendly light twinkled through the
window, giving evidence of life, occupation, within. The door was
shut and locked. She seated herself wearily in the porch. The great
building was like an empty husk, from which the spirit was passed,
and it was kept fast barred lest its emptiness should be revealed
to all. The stones under her feet struck a chill through her, the
wall against which she leaned her back froze her marrow, the bench
on which she sat was cold as well. Why had she come to the porch?
She hardly knew. The period at which Mehetabel lived was not one
in which the Church was loved as a mother, nestled into for rest
and consolation. She performed her duties in a cold, perfunctory
manner, and the late Vicar had, though an earnest man, taught
nothing save what concerned the geography of Palestine, and the
weights and measures of Scripture--enough to interest the mind,
nothing to engage the heart, to fill and stablish the soul.
And now, as Mehetabel sat in the cold porch by the barred door,
looking out into the evening sky, she extended, opened, and closed
her right hand, as though trying to grasp, to cling to something,
in her desolation and friendlessness, and could find nothing. Again
a horror came over her, because her child lay so still. Again she
looked at it, and assured herself that it lived--but the life
seemed to be one of sleep, a prelude to the long last sleep.
She wiped her brow. Cold drops stood on it, as she struggled with
this thought. Why was the child so quiet now, after having been so
restless? Was it that it was really better? Was this sleep the
rest of exhausted nature, recovering itself, or was it--was it--she
dared not formulate the thought, complete the question.
Again, in the anguish of her mind, in her craving for help in this
hour of despondency, she put forth her hand in the air gropingly,
and clutched nothing. She fully opened her palm, extended it level
before her, and then, wearily let it fall.
From where she sat she could not see even the star that had
glimmered on her as she crossed the common.
She heard the crackling of the gravel of the path under a foot,
and a figure passed the porch door, then came back, and stood
looking at her.
She recognized the sexton.
"Who are you there?" he asked.
She answered him.
"Do you want to see where Jonas is laid? Come along with me, and
I'll show you."
She shrank back.
"He's where the Kinks all are. You must look and see that it is
all right. I haven't been paid my fee. Them Rocliffes buttoned up
their pockets. They sed it was for you to pay. But I hear they
have put their hands on the property. They thought you would be
hanged, but as you ain't they'll have to turn out, and you'll have
to pay me for buryin' of Jonas, I reckon."
The old fellow was much bowed, and hard of hearing. He came into
the porch, laid hold of Mehetabel, and said, "I'm goin to lock
the gate. You must turn out; I can't let you bide in the churchyard
till you come to bide there forever. Be that your baby in your
arms?"
"Yes, Mr. Linegar, it is."
"It don't make much noise. Ain't a very lively young Radical."
"Would you like to see my baby?" asked Mehetabel, timidly, and she
uncovered the sleeping child.
The sexton bowed over the little face, and straightening himself
as much as he could, said, "It seems not unlike as that the child
be comin' to me."
"What do you mean?" Her heart stood still.
"If you hadn't showed it me as alive, I'd ha' sed it were dead, or
dyin'. Well, come and tell me where it's to be laid. Shall it go
beside Jonas?"
"Mister Linegar!" Mehetabel stood still trembling. "Why do you
say that? My babe is well. He is sleeping very sound."
"He looks won'erful white."
"That's because of the twilight. You fancy he is white. He has
the most beautiful little color in his lips and cheeks, just like
the crimson on a daisy."
"Well, come along, and choose a place. It'll save comin' again.
I'll let you see where Jonas lies. And if you want to put up a
monument, that's half-a-guinea to the passon and half-a-crown to
me. There, do you see that new grave? I've bound it down wi'
withies, and laid the turf nice over it. It's fine in the sun,
and a healthy situation," continued the sexton, pointing to a
new grave. "This bit of ground is pretty nigh taken up wi' the
folks of the Punch-Bowl, the Boxalls, and the Nashes, and the
Snellings, and the Kinks, and the Rocliffes. We let 'em lie to
themselves when dead, as they kep' to theirselves when livin'.
Where would you like to lie, you and the baby--you may just as
well choose now--it may save trouble. I'm gettin' old, and I don't
go about more than I can help.
"If anything were to happen, Mr. Linegar, then let us be laid--me
and my darling--on the other side of the church, where my father's
grave is."
"That's the north side--never gets no sun. I don't reckon it over
healthy."
"I would rather lie there. If it gets no sun on that side, my
poor babe and I have been in shade all our lives, and so it fits
us best to be on the north side."
"Well, there's no accountin for tastes," said the sexton. "But I've
hear you be a little troubled in the intellecks."
"Is it strange," answered Mehetabel, "that one should wish to be
laid beside a father--my poor father, who is alone?"
"Come, come," said the old man, "it is time for me to lock up the
churchyard gate. I only left it open because I had been doing up
Jonas Kink's grave with withies."
He made Mehetabel precede him down the path, saw her through the
gate, and then fastened that with a padlock.
"Even the dead have a home--a place of rest," she said. "I have
none. I am driven from theirs."
It was not true that she had no home, for she had one, and could
claim it by indefeasible right, the farmhouse of the Kinks in the
Punch-Bowl. But her heart revolted against a return to the scene
of the greatest sorrows. Moreover, if, as it was told her, the
Rocliffes had taken possession, then she could not enter it without
a contest, and she would have perhaps to forcibly expel them. But
even if force were not required, she was quite aware that Sally
Rocliffe would make her position intolerable. She had the means,
she could enlist the other members of the squatter community on
her side, and how could she--Mehetabel--maintain herself against
such a combination? To return to the Punch-Bowl would be to enter
on ignoble broils, and to run the gauntlet of a whole clique united
to sting, wound, bruise her to death. How could she carry on the
necessary business of the farm when obstructed in every way? How
manage her domestic affairs, without some little assistance from
outside, which would be refused her?
She entertained no resentment against Iver Verstage for having
excluded her from the inn, but a sense of humiliation at having
ventured to seek his help unsolicited. Surely she had an excuse.
He had always been to her the one to whom her thoughts turned in
confidence and in hope. It was in him and through him that all
happiness was to be found. He had professed the sincerest attachment
to her. He had sought her out at the Punch-Bowl, when she shrank
from him; and had she not been sacrificed--her whole life blighted
for his sake? Surely, if he thought anything of her, if he had
any spark of affection lingering in his heart for her, any care
for her future, he would never leave her thus desolate, friendless,
houseless!
She wandered from the churchyard gate, aimless, and before she was
aware whither she was going, found herself in the confines of
Pudmoor. How life turns in circles! Before, when she had run from
the Ship, self-excluded, she had hasted to Pudmoor. Now, again,
excluded, but by Iver, she turned instinctively to Pudmoor. Once
before she had run to Thor's Stone, and now, when she found help
nowhere else, she again took the same direction. She had asked
assistance once before at the anvil, she would ask it there again.
Before she had asked to be freed from Iver. She had no need to ask
that now, he had freed himself from her. She would seek of the
spirits, what was denied her by her fellow-men, a home where she
might rest along with her baby.
The first time she had sought Thor's Stone she had been alone, with
herself only to care for, though indeed for herself she had cared
nothing. Now, on this second occasion, she was burdened with the
child infinitely precious to her heart, and for the sake of which
even a stumble must be avoided. The first time she had been fresh,
in the full vigor of her strength. Now she was worn out with a
long tramp, and all the elasticity gone out of her, all the strength
of soul and body broken.
Slowly, painfully she crept along, making sure of every step. The
full moon did not now turn the waters into gold, but the illumined
twilight sky was mirrored below--as steel.
She feared lest her knees should fail, and she should fall. She
dared not seat herself on a ridge of sand lest she should lack
power to rise again. When she came to a crabbed fir she leaned
against it and stooped to kiss her babe.
"Oh, my golden darling! My honeycomb! How cold you are! Cling
closer to your mother's breast. She would gladly pour all the
warmth out of her heart into your little veins."
Then on again, amidst the trilling of the natterjacks and the
croaking of the frogs. Because of their noise she could not hear
the faint breath of her infant. Although she walked slowly, she
panted, and through panting could not distinguish the pulsation of
the little one she bore from the bounding of her own veins. At last
she saw, gleaming before her--Thor's Stone, and she hasted her
steps to reach it.
Then she remembered that she was without a hammer. That mattered
not. She would strike on the anvil with her fingers. The
spirits--whatever they were--the good people--the country folk
called them, would hear that. She reached the stone, and sank
exhausted below it She was too weary to do more than lie, with
her child in her lap, and hold up her face bathed in sweat, for
the cool evening wind to wipe it, and at the same time feed with
fresh breath her exhausted lungs.
Then looking up, she saw the little star again, the only one in
the light-suffused heavens, but it twinkled faintly, with a feeble
glitter, feeble as the frail life of the child on her lap.
And now a strange thing occurred.
As she looked aloft suddenly the vault was pervaded with a rosy
illumination, like the flushing of a coming dawn, and through this
haze of rosy light, infinitely remote, still flickered the tiny
spark of the star.
What was this? Merely some highly uplifted vapor that caught the
sun after it had long ceased to shine on the landscape.
There were even threads of amber traced in this remote and
attenuated glory--and, lo--in that wondrous halo, the little star
was eclipsed.
Suddenly--with an unaccountable thrill of fear, Mehetabel bent
over her babe--and uttered a cry that rang over the Mere.
The hand she had laid on Thor's Stone to tap struck it not. She
had nothing to ask; no wish to express. The one object for which
she lived was gone from her.
The babe was dead in her lap.
Her hand fell from the stone.
CHAPTER LII.
THE ROSE-CLOUD.
Joe Filmer, driving old Clutch, drew up at the door of the Ship
Inn. Iver Verstage came out and welcomed him.
"I've had a trouble with Clutch," said the ostler. "He lay down as
we got out of Gorlmyn, and neither whip nor kicks 'ud make him
stir. I tried ticklin', but t'wern't no good neither. How long
this 'ud have gone on I dun know; I took him out o' th' shafts, and
got him back to Gorlmyn, because some men helped me wi' him, and
pulled at his tail, and twisted his carcass about till his nose
pointed to the stable of the Angel. Then he condescended to get up
and go to the inn. I shouldn't ha' got him away at all but that a
notion came into my head as helped. I got the ostler to saddle
and bride the gray mare, and mount her afore old Clutch's naked
eyes. And I told the ostler to ride ahead a little way. Then, my
word! what airs and jinks there were in Clutch; he gambolled and
trotted like a colt. It was all a show-off afore the gray mare.
The ostler--I knew him very well, he's called Tom Tansom, and it's
a coorious thing now, he only cut his wise teeth about three months
afore, and suffered won'erful in cutting 'em. But that's neither
here nor there. Tom Tansom, he rode ahead, and old Clutch went
after as if he were runnin' with the hounds. But I must tell you,
whilst I was in Gorlmyn, that Widow Chivers came with the carrier,
and as she was wantin' a lift, I just took her up and brought her
on. She's been ter'ible bad, she tells me, with a cold, but she's
better now--got some new kind o' lozenges, very greatly recommended.
There's a paper given along wi' 'em with printed letters from all
sorts o' people as has benefited by these lozenges. They're a
shillin' and a ha'penny a box. Betty sez they've done her a power
of good."
"Go on with your account of old Clutch. You're almost as bad as he
with your stoppages."
"I'm tellin' right along. Well, the ostler he trotted on till he
came to a turn in the road, and then he went down a lane out o'
sight. But old Clutch have been racin' on all the way, thinkin'
the mare had got a distance ahead. I'd a mighty difficulty to make
him stop at the corner to set down Betty Chivers, and again here.
Though he's roarin' like the roarin' of the sea, he wants to be on
again and ketch up the gray mare. It's a pleasure that I've dun
the old vagabond. Has Matabel been here?"
"Yes, she has; and has gone."
"Where to?"
"Of course, home, to the Bowl."
"Not she. She's got that screwed into her head tight as a nut, that
she'll never go there again. There was the sexton at the corner,
and he helped Betty with her bag, he said he turned Matabel out of
the church porch."
"Then she may be in the churchyard."
"Oh, no, he turned her out of the churchyard, and the last he seed
of her was goin' down to the Pudmoor. If she's queer in her head,
or driven distracted wi' trouble--she oughtn't to be allowed to go
there."
"Gone to Pudmoor!" exclaimed Iver. "I shouldn't wonder if she has
sought Thor's Stone. She did that once before."
"I'll clap old Clutch in the stable, then go and look for her. Will
you come, Mr. Iver?"
"Well--yes--but she cannot be received in here."
"No, there is no need. Betty Chivers will take her in as before.
Betty expects her. I told her as we comed along that Matabel were
before us, and we almost expected every minute to take her up.
Though how we should ha' managed three in the trap I don't know,
and Clutch would have been in an outrageous temper. Do you hear
him snortin' there? That's because he's angry--the Radical!"
Beside Thor's Stone Iver and Joe Filmer found Mehetabel rocking her
child, she had bared her bosom and held the little corpse against
her palpitating heart, in the desperate hope of communicating to
it some of her own heat; and if love could have given life the baby
would have revived.
Again, as when her husband died, her brain was for a while unhinged,
but she had the same kind and suitable nurse, the widow, Betty
Chivers.
And now this story is all but done. Little more remains to be told.
Never again did Mehetabel return to the Punch-Bowl--never revisit
it. The little property was sold, and after the debts of Jonas were
paid, what remained went for her sustenance, as well as the money
bequeathed by Susanna Verstage and that laid aside by Simon.
Years passed. Betty Chivers was gathered to the dust and in her
place Mehetabel kept the Dame's school. It was thought that Joe
Filmer had his eye on her, and on more than one occasion he dressed
himself in his Sunday best and walked towards the school, but his
courage ebbed away before he reached it, and he never said that
which he had resolved to say.
On the north side of the church, near the monument of the murdered
sailor, was a tiny mound, ever adorned with flowers, or when
flowers were unattainable, with sprigs of holly and butcher's broom
set with scarlet berries. At the beginning of the present century
the decoration of a grave was rarely if ever practised. It was
looked on as so strange in Mehetabel, and it served to foster the
notion that she was not quite right in her head.
But in nothing else did the village schoolmistress show strangeness:
in school and out of school she was beloved by her children, and
their love was returned by her.
We live in a new age--one removed from that of Dame schools. A few
years has transformed the system of education in the land.
In one of the voyages of Lemuel Gulliver, he reached the island of
Lagado, where the system of construction adopted by the natives in
the erection of an edifice was to begin at the top, the apex of a
spire or roof, and to build downwards, laying the foundations last
of all, or leaving them out altogether.
This is precisely the system of primary education adopted in our
land, and if rent and ruin result, it is possibly due to the method
being an injudicious one.
The face of Mehetabel acquired a sweetness and repose that were new
to it, and were superadded to her natural beauty. And she was happy,
happy in the children she taught, happy in the method she pursued,
and happy in the results.
Often did she recall that visit to Thor's Stone on the night when
her child died, and she remembered her look up into the evening
sky. "I thought all light was gone from me, when my star, my little
feeble star, was eclipsed, but instead there spread over the sky a
great shining, glorious canopy of rosy light, and it is so,"--she
looked after her dispersing school--"my light and life and joy
are there."
The Vicar came up.
There had been a great change in the ecclesiastical arrangements of
Thursley. It was no longer served occasionally and fitfully from
the mother church. It had a parson of its own. Moreover a change
had been effected in the church. It was no longer as a house left
desolate.
"I have been thinking, Mrs. Kink," said the Vicar, "that I should
much like to know your system of education. I hear from all quarters
such good accounts of your children."
"System, sir!" she answered blushing, "oh, I have none."
"None, Mrs. Kink?"
"I mean," she answered, "I teach just what every child ought to
know, as a matter of course."
"And that is?"
"To love and fear God."
"And next?"
With a timid smile:
"That C A T spells cat, and D O G spells dog."
"And next?"
"That two and two makes four, and three times four makes twelve."
"And next?"
She raised her modest dark eyes to the Vicar, and answered, smiling,
"Mine is only a school for beginners. I lay the foundations. I do
not profess to finish."
"You teach no more than these?"
"I lay the foundations on which all the rest can be raised," she
answered.
"And you are happy?"
She smiled; it was as though the sun shone out of her face.
"Happy! Oh, so happy! I could not be happier." Then, after a pause,
"Except when I and my own little one are together again, and that
would be too much happiness for my heart now. But it will be able
to bear the joy--then."
THE END.
[1] Not really in Hants, but in Surrey, adjoining the County
demarcation.
[2]This is the beginning of a long ballad based on the incidents
above mentioned, which is still current in the neighborhood.