TURNED ADRIFT.
THE hay-harvest and the corn-harvest, with their long hours of labour
in the sunshine, passed by; and Ruth was one of the busiest of the
women working on Chipchase's farm. No one saw much change in her,
for she had always been a silent, inoffensive woman, minding her own
business, and leaving other folks alone.
But when harvest was ended, and the shooting season begun, the
term of Ishmael's imprisonment was nearly over. Nutkin and his
assistant-keepers were very busy about the woods, watching them all
night, whilst all day long the crash of guns could be heard far and
near. It was not a good time for Ishmael to be coming home; there was
too much to put her husband in mind of his threats, and to keep his
anger hot against his son. But surely he could not be so hard as to
turn Ishmael out of doors when the law let him go free!
"Ishmael's time's up to-morrow," she said, in a tremulous voice one
evening, with a deep anxiety she was striving to conceal.
"Ay," answered Humphrey, slowly, "that's what Nutkin says. So I up to
the Hall this mornin' early, and I says to th' squire, 'Squire, I've
been a honest man all my life; and I've worked on your hedges many a
year; and I'm not a-goin' to harbour no poacher in my home. There's
that lad o' mine, that's been a disgrace to me, a-comin' out o' the
county gaol to-morrow. He'll niver set his foot o'er my door-sill, I
promise you.
"The squire says, 'As you choose, Humphrey. Go into the kitchen, and
get a draught o' ale.' And good ale it was; a sight better nor that at
the Labour in Vain. I'm not the man to drink the squire's good ale, and
go agen him in any way."
"Thou 'lt never turn the lad adrift on the world?" cried Ruth.
"Adrift! He's big enough to shift for himself," said Humphrey,
doggedly. "The squire could get us turned out o' here neck-and-crop if
he chosen; and what 'ud become of me, if we had to go to the workhouse?
The squire won't have no poacher harboured close to his woods: and
who's to save me from goin' into the house in my old age, eh? Me, as
can't live without my drop o' goad ale, often and regular. I tasted the
beer in the workhouse once. No; Ishmael niver sets his foot o'er that
door-sill agen! And now thou knows it, and can make the best on it."
Ruth had a sleepless night again, as if the first bitterness of her
sorrow had come back upon her with tenfold power. Early as the dawn
came the next morning, she was up before it, making a bundle of all
Ishmael's coarse clothing, the scanty outfit she had scraped together
for him three months ago, when he was going out to earn his own living.
Mrs. Chipchase was taking her butter to market in the county town, and
had offered to carry Ruth with her in the gig, that she might meet
Ishmael at the gate-of the county gaol.
[Illustration]
She saw little enough of the dusty high road along which they drove,
or of the bustling streets thronged with a concourse of market people.
It was only when she came within sight of the gaol that she seemed to
wake up from a brown study and get her wits about her again. It stood
outside the town, amid green fields; a large square ugly building,
surrounded by strong and black stone walls. Small round windows,
closely barred and grated, looked out like hoodwinked eyes over the
lonely fields.
Ruth felt herself shivering, though the September sun was shining in an
unclouded sky, as she looked up, and wondered which one of those gloomy
windows had lighted Ishmael's cell. But before she could reach the
heavy gate, she saw sauntering down the path from the gaol, creeping
with sluggish footsteps and a bowed down head, her boy, Ishmael himself.
"Mother," he cried, "mother!"
He threw himself into her arms, laughing and crying at the same moment.
Ruth could not weep; but she held him fast in her arms, until he lifted
up his head to look into her dear face. There was no one near to see
them; they were as much alone as in their own quiet woods; only that
grim and ugly building looked down upon their meeting with its hollow
eyes.
She drew him away to a lonely spot under its walls; and they sat down
together on the grass, whilst, with her trembling hands, she untied the
little packet of home-made bread, baked in their own oven, which she
had brought for them to eat together, before they had to part again.
"I never meant any harm, mother," he said, when their meal was over. "I
never thought of anything save little Elide wishing for 'em. But I know
it was poaching; and oh, mother, it 'll turn up against me all my life."
"I'm afeared so, lad," she answered, sighing. "But hast thee asked
God's forgiveness, Ishmael?"
"Often and often," he replied, eagerly. "Mother, I never forgot to
sing, 'Glory to Thee, my God, this night;' only I sang it low, in a
whisper; like I used to do when father was at home. I thought you'd be
singing it as well, mother."
"Ay," she said, softly; "thank God I could sing it after the first
evenin', Ishmael."
"When I get home," he went on, "I'll go up to the Hall and ask the
squire to forgive me; I'll beg and pray of him; and if he will, maybe I
can go to work with Mr. Chipchase, like I was to go before I came here."
"He's got another waggoner's boy," answered his mother; "and thee 'rt
not to go home with me, but do thy best away from home. Father won't
hear of it; and maybe the squire 'ud get us turned out altogether if
thee comes home. But if God has forgiven thee—"
"Not go home with you, mother?" he cried.
"No," she said, half sobbing, "no! But God sees; God knows. Jesus
Christ had not where to lay His head, and had to wander about without a
home. Ishmael, I want thee to believe that God sees us always; and He
loves us, in spite of it seeming as if He didn't take any notice of us.
Oh, if I thought God didn't know and didn't care, my heart 'ud break.
I'd go down to the river, yonder, and just drown myself. But some day
He'll find us a home again, thee and me."
She had never spoken so passionately before, even to him; and he was
startled, gazing into her agitated face with wondering eyes. Then he
looked back at the dreary gaol, his last dwelling-place. There seemed
to be no place for him in the whole world now he had been in there.
"Where can we find a home again, mother?" he asked at last. "There's no
place like home."
"Up there!" she said, lifting her dim eyes to the great sky above them.
"If God gives us no other home here in this world, He's got one ready
there for thee and me. 'Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in
God, believe also in Me. In My Father's house are many mansions; I go
to prepare a place for you. That's what Jesus said. He's preparing a
place for us, Ishmael; and we must not trouble our hearts too much.
Only we must go on believing in Him."
"I'll try, mother," he said, putting his hand in hers.
And they sat there, not speaking much, but with hands closely clasped,
till the chiming of the church clocks in the town behind them reminded
Ruth there was still something to be done. A place must be found for
Ishmael to sleep in that night, and if possible to stay at till he
could get work to do.
It was hard work leaving him, so far away from her, to loiter about the
streets and pick up any stray job that might fall in the way of a boy
with a doubtful character. Her mother's heart told her but too plainly
how precarious such a life must be. Only a few months ago, he was still
a child; even yet, in happier homes he would be reckoned among the
children, to be punished, indeed, for his faults, but not to be thrust
into want and temptation.
But Ishmael was to fight in the thickest of the battle, bereft of his
good name, and removed from all good companionship. Yet Ruth had hope
and faith. She worked harder than ever, never taking a day's rest, that
she might save a few pence every week to send to his help. She knew he
was almost always hungry; often pinched with cold; ragged and nearly
barefoot at all times; scarcely able to pay for a shelter night after
night. He roamed about the country from farmstead to farmstead, doing
any odd work the farmers would trust him with, and sleeping in any
outhouse or broken shed he could find open. But he failed in getting a
settled place; there were too many boys of good character who wanted to
set their foot on the first step of the ladder.
There was one thing he could not make up his mind to do. He could not
put such a distance between himself and his mother as would prevent
him seeing her every Sunday. He never failed to steal homewards at the
close of the week, lurking about the lime-kiln or the woods, in hiding
from his father, until he could make his presence known to his mother.
It was the great solace and enjoyment of her life.
She could still wash and mend his clothes for him, and get him a
sufficient meal or two, and listen to all that had happened to him
during the week. He never crossed the threshold of his old home; but on
summer evenings, Ruth and he sat together within the tangle of green
brushwood behind it, and on winter nights, they sheltered themselves
under the walls of the old kiln, or, if they needed a roof over their
heads, they met in the limestone cave, which most often of all was
Ishmael's sleeping-place.