I WAS promised to William, in a manner of speaking, close upon seven
year. What I mean to say is, when he was nigh upon fourteen, and was
to go away to his uncle in Somerset to learn farming, he gave me a
kiss and half of a broken sixpence, and said--
'Kate, I shall never think of any girl but you, and you must never
think of any chap but me.'
And the Lord in His goodness knows that I never did.
Father and mother laughed a bit, and called it child's nonsense; but
they was willing enough for all that, for William was a likely chap,
and would be well-to-do when his good father died, which I am sure I
never wished nor prayed for. All the trouble come from his going to
Somerset to learn farming, for his uncle that was there was a Roman,
and he taught William a good deal more than he set out to learn, so
that presently nothing would do but William must turn Roman Catholic
himself. I didn't mind, bless you. I never could see what there was
to make such a fuss about betwixt the two lots of them. Lord love
us! we're all Christians, I should hope. But father and mother was
dreadful put out when the letter come saying William had been
'received' (like as if he was a parcel come by carrier). Father, he
says--
'Well, Kate, least said soonest mended. But I had rather see you
laid out on the best bed upstairs than I'd see you married to
William, a son of the Scarlet Woman.'
In my silly innocence I couldn't think what he meant, for William's
mother was a decent body, who wore a lilac print on week-days and a
plain black gown on Sunday for all she was a well-to-do farmer's
wife, and might have gone smart as a cock pheasant.
It was at tea-time, and I was a-crying on to my bread-and-butter,
and mother sniffing a little for company behind the tea-tray, and
father, he bangs down his fist in a way to make the cups rattle
again, and he says--
'You've got to give him up, my girl. You write and tell him so, and
I'll take the letter as I go down to the church to-night to
practice. I've been a good father to you, and you must be a good
girl to me; and if you was to marry him, him being what he is, I'd
never speak to you again in this world or the next.'
'You wouldn't have any chance in the next, I'm afraid, James,' said
my mother gently, 'for her poor soul, it couldn't hope to go to the
blessed place after that.'
'I should hope not,' said my father, and with that he got up and
went out, half his tea not drunk left in the mug.
Well, I wrote that letter, and I told William right enough that him
and me could never be anything but friends, and that he must think
of me as a sister, and that was what father told me to say. But I
hope it wasn't very wrong of me to put in a little bit of my own,
and this is what I said after I had told him about the friend and
sister--
'But, dear William,' says I, 'I shall never love anybody but you,
that you may rely, and I will live an old maid to the end of my days
rather than take up with any other chap; and I should like to see
you once, if convenient, before we part for ever, to tell you all
this, and to say "Good-bye" and "God bless you." So you must find
out a way to let me know quiet when you come home from learning the
farming in Somerset.'
And may I be forgiven the deceitfulness, and what I may call the
impudence of it! I really did give father that same letter to post,
and him believing me to be a better girl than I was, to my shame,
posted it, not doubting that I had only wrote what he told me.
That was the saddest summer ever I had. The roses was nothing to me,
nor the lavender neither, that I had always been so fond of; and as
for the raspberries, I don't believe I should have cared if there
hadn't been one on the canes; and even the little chickens, I
thought them a bother, and--it goes to my heart to say it--a whole
sitting was eaten by the rats in consequence. Everything seemed to
go wrong. The butter was twice as long a-coming as ever I knowed it,
and the broad beans got black fly, and father lost half his hay with
the weather. If it had been me that had done something unkind,
father would have said it was a Providence on me. But, of course, I
knew better than to speak up to my own father, with his hay lying
rotting and smoking in the ten-acre, and telling him he was a-being
judged.
Well, the harvest was got in. It was neither here nor there. I have
seen better years and I have seen worse. And October come. I was
getting to bed one night; at least, I hadn't begun to undress, for I
was sitting there with William's letters, as he had wrote me from
time to time while he was in Somerset, and I was reading them over
and thinking of William, silly fashion, as a young girl will, and
wishing it had been me was a Roman Catholic and him a Protestant,
because then I could have gone into a convent like the wicked people
in father's story-books. I was in that state of silliness, you see,
that I would have liked to do something for William, even if it was
only going into a convent--to be bricked up alive, perhaps. And then
I hears a scratch, scratch, scratching, and 'Drat the mice,' says I;
but I didn't take any notice, and then there was a little tap,
tapping, like a bird would make with its beak on the window-pane,
and I went and opened it, thinking it was a bird that had lost its
way and was coming foolish-like, as they will, to the light. So I
drew the curtain and opened the window, and it was--William!
'Oh, go away, do,' says I; 'father will hear you.'
He had climbed up by the pear-tree that grew right and left up the
wall, and--
'I ask your pardon,' says he, 'my pretty sweetheart, for making so
free as to come to your window this time of night, but there didn't
seem any other way.'
'Oh, go, dear William, do go,' says I. I expected every moment to
see the door open and father put his head in.
'I'm not going,' said William, 'till you tell me where you'll meet
me to say "Good-bye" and "God bless you," like you said in the
letter.'
Though I knew the whole parish better than I know the palm of my
hand, if you'll believe me, I couldn't for the life of me for the
moment think of any place where I could meet William, and I stood
like a fool, trembling. Oh, what a jump I gave when I heard a noise
like a heavy foot in the garden outside!
'Oh! it's father got round. Oh! he'll kill you, William. Oh!
whatever shall we do?'
'Nonsense!' said William, and he caught hold of my shoulder and gave
me a gentle little shake. 'It was only one of these pears as I
kicked off. They must be as hard as iron to fall like that.'
Then he gave me a kiss, and I said: 'Then I'll meet you by the
Parson's Shave to-morrow at half-past five, and do go. My heart's
a-beating so I can hardly hear myself speak.'
'Poor little bird!' says William. Then he kissed me again and off he
went; and considering how quiet he came, so that even I couldn't
hear him, you would not believe the noise he made getting down that
pear-tree. I thought every minute some one would be coming in to see
what was happening.
Well, the next day I went about my work as frightened as a rabbit,
and my heart beating fit to choke me, trying not to think of what I
had promised to do. At tea-time father says, looking straight before
him--
'William Birt has come home, Kate. You remember I've got your
promise not to pass no words with him, him being where he is,
without the fold, among the dogs and things.'
And I didn't answer back, though I knew well enough it wasn't
honest; but he hadn't got my word. Father had brought me up careful
and kind, and I knew my duty to my parents, and I meant to do it,
too. But I couldn't help thinking I owed a little bit of a duty to
William, and I meant doing that, so far as keeping my promise to
meet him that afternoon went. So after tea I says, and I do think it
is almost the only lie I ever told--
'Mother,' I says, 'I've got the jumping toothache, and it's that bad
I can hardly see to thread my needle.'
Then she says, as I knew she would, her being as kind an old soul as
ever trod: 'Go and lie down a bit and put the old sheepskin coat
over your head, and I'll get on with the darning.'
So I went upstairs trembling all over. I took the bolster and pillow
and put them under the covers, to look as like me as I could, and I
put the old sheepskin coat at the top of all; and as you come into
the room any one would have thought it was me lying there with the
toothache. Then I took my hat and shawl and I went out, quiet as a
mouse, through the dairy. When I got to the Parson's Shave there was
William, and I was so glad to see him, I didn't think of nothing
else for full half a minute. Then William said--
'It's only one field to the church. Why not go up there and sit in
the porch? See, it's coming on to rain.'
So he took my arm, and we started across the field, where all the
days of the year but one you would not meet a soul. We went up
through the churchyard. It was 'most dark, but I wasn't a bit afraid
with William's arm round me. But when we got to the porch and had
sat down, I was sorry I'd come, for I heard feet on the road below,
and they stopped outside the lychgate.
'Come, quick,' says I, 'or we're caught like rats in a trap. If I am
going to give you up to please father, I may as well please him all
round. There's no reason why he should know I've seen you.'
'So we stole on our tiptoes round to the little door that is hardly
ever fastened, and so through to the tower. Father being one of the
bellringers, I knew every step. There's a stone seat cut out of the
wall in the bellringers' loft, and there we sat down again, and I
was just going to tell him again what I had said in the letter about
being his sister and a friend, which seemed to comfort me somehow,
though William has told me since it never would have him, when
William, he gripped my hand like iron, and ''S-sh!' says he,
'listen.' And I listened, and oh! what I felt when I heard footsteps
coming up the tower. I didn't dare speak a word to him, and only
kept tight hold of his hand, and pulled him along till we got to the
tower steps, and went on up. But I says to myself, 'Oh, what's my
head made of, to forget that it's practising night? and Him the
church was built for only knows how long they won't be here
practising!' We went on up the twisted cobwebby stairs, with bits of
broken birds' nests that crackled under our feet that loud I thought
for sure the folks below must hear us; and we got into the belfry,
and there William was for staying, but I whispered to him--
'If you hear them bells when they're all a-going, you won't never
hear much else. We must get on up out of it unless we want to be
deaf the rest of our lives.'
And it was pitch dark in the belfry, except for the little grey
slits where the shuttered windows are. The owls and starlings were
frightened, I suppose, at hearing us, though why they should have
been, I don't know, being used to the bells; and they flew about
round us liker ghosts than anything feathered, and one great owl
flopped out right into my face, till I nearly screamed again. It was
all very, very dusty, and not being able to see, and being afraid to
strike a light, we had to feel along the big beams for our way
between the bells, I going first, because I knew the way, and
reaching back a hand every now and then to see that William was
coming after me safe and sound. On hands and knees we had to go for
safety, and all the while I was dreading they would start the bells
a-going and, maybe, shake William, who wasn't as used to it as I
was, off the beams, and him perhaps be smashed to pieces by the
bells as they swung.
I don't know how long it took us to get across the belfry to the
corner where the ladder is that leads up to the tower-top. William
says it must have been about a couple of minutes, but I think it was
much more like half an hour. I thought we should never get there,
and oh! what it was to me when I came to the end of the last beam,
and got my foot down on the firm floor again, and the ladder in my
hand, and William behind me! So up we went, me first again, because
I knew the way and the fastenings of the door. And that part of it
wasn't so bad, for I will say, if you've got to go up a long ladder,
it's better to go up in the dark, when you can't see what's below
you if you happen to slip; and I got up and opened the door, and it
was light out of doors and fresh with the rain--though that had
stopped now.
Then William would take his coat off, and put it round me, for all I
begged him not, and presently the tower began to shake and the bells
began, and directly they began I knew what they was up to.
'O William,' I says, 'it's Grandsire Triples, and there's five
thousand and fifty changes to 'em, and it's a matter of three
hours!'
But he couldn't hear a word I said for the bells. So then I took his
coat and my shawl, and we wrapped them round both our heads to shut
the bells out, and then we could hear each other speak inside.
I'm not going to write down all I said nor all he said, which was
only foolishness--and besides, it come to nothing after all. But
somehow the time wasn't long; and it's a funny thing, but unhappy
and happy you can be at the same time when you are with one you love
and are going to leave. William, he begged and prayed of me not to
give him up. But I said I knew my duty, and he said he hoped I would
think better of it, and I said, 'No, never,' and then we kissed each
other again, and the bells went on, and on, and on, clingle,
clangle, clingle, chim, chime, chim, chime, till I was 'most dazed,
and felt as if I had lived up there all my life, and was going to
live up there twenty lives longer.
'I'll wait for you all my life long,' says William. 'Not that I wish
the old man any harm, but it's not in the nature of things your
father can live for ever, and then--'
'It ain't no use thinking of that, William,' said I. 'Father is sure
to make me promise never to have you--when he's dying, and I can't
refuse him anything. It's just the kind of thing he'd think of.'
Perhaps you will think William ought to have made more stand, for
everybody likes a masterful man; but what stand can you make when
you are up in a belfry with the bells shouting and yelling at you,
and when the girl you are with won't listen to reason? And you have
no idea what them bells were. Often and often since then I have
started up in the bed thinking I heard them again. It was enough to
drive one distracted.
'Well,' says William, 'you'll give me up, but I'll never give you
up; and you mark my words, you and me will be man and wife some
day.'
And as he said it, the bells stopped sudden in the middle of a
change. The rain had come on again. It was very chill up there. My
teeth was chattering, and so was William's, though he pretended he
did it for the joke.
'Let's get inside again,' says he. 'Perhaps they are going home, and
if they are not, we can stay there till they begin it again.'
So we opened the door and crept down the ladder. There was light now
coming up from the bellringers' loft through the holes in the floor,
and we got down to the belfry easy, and as we got to the bottom of
the ladder I heard my father's voice in the loft below--
'I don't believe it,' he was shouting. 'It can't be true. She's a
God-fearing girl.'
And then I heard my mother. 'Come home, James,' she said, 'come
home--it's true. I told you you was too hard on them. Young folks
will be young folks, and now, perhaps, our little girl has come to
shame instead of being married decent, as she might have been,
though Roman.'
Then there was silence for a bit, and then my father says, speaking
softer, 'Tell me again. I can't think but what I'm dreaming.'
Then mother says--'Don't I tell you she said she'd got the
toothache, and she was going to lie down a bit, and I went to take
her up some camomiles I'd been hotting, and she wasn't there, and
her bolsters and pillows, poor lamb, made up to pretend she was, and
Johnson's Ben, he see her along of William Birt by the Parson's
Shave with his arm round her--God forgive them both!'
Then says my father, 'Here's an end on't. She's no daughter o' mine.
If she was to come back to me, I'd turn her out of doors. Don't let
any one name her name to me never no more. I hain't got no
daughter,' he said, 'and may the Lord--'
I think my mother put her hands afore his mouth, for he stopped
short, and mother, she said--
'Don't curse them, James. You'll be sorry for it, and they'll have
trouble enough without that.'
And with that father and mother must have gone away, and the other
ringers stood talking a bit.
'She'd best not come back,' said the leader, John Evans. 'Out
a-gallivanting with a young chap from five to eight as I understand!
What's the good of coming back? She's lost her character, and a gal
without a character, she's like--like--'
'Like a public-house without a licence,' said the second ringer.
'Or a cart without a horse,' said the treble.
There was only one man spoke up for me--that was Jim Piper at the
general shop. 'I don't believe no harm of that gal,' says he, 'no
more nor I would of my own missus, nor yet of him.'
'Well, let's hope for the best,' said the others. But I had a sort
of feeling they was hoping for the worst, because when things goes
wrong, it's always more amusing for the lookers-on than when
everything goes right. Presently they went clattering down the
steps, and all was dark, and there was me and William among the
cobwebs and the owls, holding each other's hands, and as cold as
stone, both of us.
'Well?' says William, when everything was quiet again.
'Well!' says I. 'Good-bye, William. He won't be as hard as his word,
and if I couldn't give you all my life to be a good wife to you, I
have given you my character, it seems; not willing, it's true; but
there's nothing I should grudge you, William, and I don't regret it,
and good-bye.'
But he held my hands tight.
'Good-bye, William,' I says again. 'I'm going. I'm going home.'
'Yes, my girl,' says he, 'you are going home; you're going home with
me to my mother.' And he was masterful enough then, I can tell you.
'If your father would throw you off without knowing the rights or
wrongs of the story, it's not for him you should be giving up your
happiness and mine, my girl. Come home to my mother, and let me see
the man who dares to say anything against my wife.'
And whether it was father's being so hard and saying what he did
about me before all those men, or whether it was me knowing that
mother had stood up for us secret all the time, or whether it was
because I loved William so much, or because he loved me so much, I
don't know. But I didn't say another word, only began to cry, and we
got downstairs and straight home to William's mother, and we told
her all about it; and we was cried in church next Sunday, and I
stayed with the old lady until we was married, and many a year
after; and a good mother she was to me, though only in law, and a
good granny to our children when they come. And I wasn't so unhappy
as you may think, because mother come to see me directly, and she
was at our wedding; and father, he didn't say anything to prevent
her going.
When I was churched after my first, and the boy was christened--in
our own church, for I had made William promise it should be so if
ever we had any--mother was there, and she said to me: 'Take the
child,' she said, 'and go to your father at home; and when he sees
the child, he'll come round, I'll lay a crown; for his bark,' she
says, 'was allus worse than his bite.'
And I did so, and the pears was hard and red on the wall as they was
the night William climbed up to my window, and I went into the
kitchen, and there was father sitting in his big chair, and the
Bible on the table in front of him, with his spectacles; but he
wasn't reading, and if it had been any one else but father, I should
have said he had been crying. And so I went in, and I showed him the
baby, and I said--
'Look, father, here's our little baby; and he's named James, for
you, father, and christened in church the same as I was. And now I
have got a child of my own,' says I, for he didn't speak, 'dear
father, I know what it is to have a child of your own go against
your wishes, and please God mine never will--or against yours
either. But I couldn't help it, and O father, do forgive me!'
And he didn't say anything, but he kissed the boy, and he kissed him
again. And presently he says--
'It's 'most time your mother was home from church. Won't you be
setting the tea, Kate?'
So I give him the baby to hold, for I knew everything was all right
betwixt us.
And all the children have been christened in the church. But I think
when father is taken from us--which in the nature of things he must
be, though long may it be first!--I think I shall be a Roman
Catholic too; for it doesn't seem to me to matter much one way or
the other, and it would please William very much, and I am sure it
wouldn't hurt me. And what's the good of being married to the best
man in the world if you can't do a little thing like that to please
him?