IT is nearly a hundred years ago now since that golden October evening
which made such a change in Molly Rainford’s life; the blue-eyed children
to whom she used to tell the story have long since been laid to rest, and
her grandchildren—old men and women now—have almost forgotten it. Even
the neighbours have ceased to wonder at the odd name which they bear, and
do not realise that were it not corrupted and mispronounced, it would
have a still stranger sound in their ears.
On this fine October evening then, many, many years ago, Molly Rainford
was setting the house-place to rights, before the return of her father
and his men from the wheatfield, where they had been at work since dawn.
It was worth while growing wheat in those days, as Farmer Joe could tell
you, but it took long to cut, and the arms grew weary that wielded the
sickle, and the sweat poured down the brown faces. Old Winny the
servant, and even Susan, the lass who occasionally came in to help, had
been all day in the field too, helping with other women-folk to bind the
sheaves. Molly would have been there herself, but that somebody was
wanted to go backwards and forwards between house and field with food and
drink for the labourers. Indeed, what with carrying the ten o’clock
“bagging,” the big noonday dinner, and the four o’clock “drinkings,”
Molly’s arms and feet ached pretty well, but she could not sit down to
rest yet; she must bestir herself, “straighten up” the house, and set out
the supper—bread and cheese, cold bacon, and plenty of small beer.
As she moved about the flagged room, intent on her own thoughts, she did
not at first hear a low hurried tap at the outer door, which stood open;
and it was not until a figure passed hurriedly through it, and stepped
from the passage into the kitchen itself, that she turned round with a
great start.
She saw a young fellow of about middle height, with a well-knit and
curiously graceful figure, fair hair, closely cropped, and blue eyes set
in a face which, though pale and startled now, had nevertheless a certain
winsomeness about it. His clothes were soiled and ragged, and his feet
were bare, yet at the very first sight of him Molly realised that he was
no tramp.
“Don’t scream,” he said in a low voice, and throwing out his hand
pleadingly.
“I weren’t goin’ to scream,” returned Molly, briefly and calmly, and
thereat the stranger smiled—a very pleasant smile, with a flash of white
teeth, and a merry twinkle in the eyes.
Molly blushed all over her apple-blossom face, and dropped her head, upon
which the brown hair would never lie as smoothly as she wished; but
presently, overcoming her shyness, she fixed her honest grey eyes upon
him and said seriously: “What might you please to want, sir?”
“I will tell you the truth,” said the man. “I have escaped from prison.
I want you to give me shelter here for a few days, until the hue and cry
is over, and then—”
“’Scaped from prison!” ejaculated Molly. “I don’t say as I won’t scream
now,” and she made as though she would rush past him to the door. But
the other stopped her.
“I am not a criminal,” he said. “I have done no wrong except to fight
for my own land.”
“Dear o’ me,” said Molly. “And where may that be? I doubt we are
fighting most of the world just now.”
“I am a Frenchman,” returned he. “My name is Jean Marie Kerenec.”
“Well, that’s a name,” cried Molly, and dropped upon a chair. “Jammery,
d’ye say? But you speak English quite sensibly.”
“I was a fisherman by trade,” said Jean, “and used besides to do a bit of
trade with your country, and your folks came over to us, and so I learned
to speak your language when I was quite a little boy. And then I’ve been
so long in an English prison, you see. When the war broke out I became a
marine, and was taken prisoner with my mates by an English man-o’-war,
and I’ve been in prison two—three years now. Life in an English
prison-ship is not gay, I tell you.”
“You shouldn’t fight against us, you see,” said the girl. “Well, I’m
sure I don’t know what I’m to do. You’re welly clemmed, I
reckon?—hungry, I mean,” seeing that he stared at her. “Sit down and eat
a bit.”
She pointed to the great wooden settle, but he remained standing until
she returned with a plate of bread and meat and a jug of beer. Going
towards her as she was crossing the kitchen, and moving swiftly and
gracefully on his bare feet, as some lithe creature of the woods, he took
her burden from her, and, placing it on the table, sat down, and fell to
with right good will.
Molly went on with her work, eyeing her visitor from time to time. Once,
happening to intercept her glance, he smiled at her brightly.
“I’m sure I don’t know whatever my father will say,” muttered Molly.
“He’ll haply be angry with me for letting you stop.”
“Is he a hard man?” enquired Jean, his face falling.
“Nay, when father’s not crossed there’s no kinder man in the whole o’
Lancashire. But if you go the wrong way to work wi’ him! Poor Teddy, my
brother, did that, and my father turned him out. He’s sorry enough about
it now, poor father is, for Ted went and ’listed and hasn’t never been
home since.”
The stranger laid down his knife and fork and looked at her earnestly.
“If your brother were taken prisoner,” he said, “would not he, your
father, be glad if he were treated kindly? If he had a chance of coming
home, and only wanted just what I want now, shelter for a few days to
help him, what would your father say if one refused him?”
“There’s something in that,” said Molly, and the glance which she threw
at the young stranger was much softer and more encouraging than her
words.
An hour or two wore away, and Molly finished tidying, and spread the long
tables, and fed the chickens, and set her dairy to rights. In all these
operations Jean Marie Kerenec assisted her, and he told her the most
wonderful things the while, so that now her eyes brightened with
astonishment, and now her bonny cheek grew pale with alarm, and sometimes
her red lips would droop and tears of compassion would hang upon her
lashes. But she thought her new friend an heroic and most delightful
personage.
When the shadows had crept over the face of the land and the first bat
circled round the house, the tramp of clogged feet, and the sound of many
voices, announced the return of the harvesters.
“You’d best hide,” said Molly, struck with a sudden thought. “Yes, hide
in the buttery till the folks are abed and my father is having his glass
comfortable by the fire; then I’ll tackle him.”
So into the buttery Jean Marie disappeared, and prudent Molly locked the
door and put the key in her pocket. Presently he heard the farmer come
stamping in in his top-boots, and a series of thuds in the passage, which
meant that the men, having duly “washed them” at the pump, were now
respectfully divesting themselves of their clogs. He heard old Winny
groaning over the fatigues of the day, and Susan giggling with some
rustic admirer, and the quick tread of Molly’s feet on the flags as she
hastened up and down the table. Then a roar from Farmer Rainford—
“Hurry up, wilt thou, lass? Wheer’s the moog? I’m that dry I could very
near drink water. ‘Is the field nigh cut?’ says thou. No, nor half-cut”
(and here the farmer rapped out an oath or two); “the lads don’t work
near so well as they used to do: nor the wenches neither. There’s
storm-weather about. Thou might ha’ made shift to come out a bit before
supper—another pair of hands is worth summat, I tell thee.”
Another pair of hands! Jean Marie rubbed his own in the darkness, and
drew a long breath. Here was a lever by which he might help his cause.
Presently the scraping back of benches denoted that the meal was at an
end, and soon the sound of retreating voices announced that the tired
folk had withdrawn to their beds in attic or outhouse. Then Jean Marie
heard Molly speaking in a low muffled tone, which somehow conveyed to him
the impression that she was bending over her father; and then a bellow
from the old man made the prisoner spring backwards from the door.
“A Frenchy in my house! What the—the—”
“Eh, father, just think if it were our Teddy as had got loose from prison
over yon, and wanted a helpin’ hand.”
“Our lad’s noan sich a fool as to get put in prison.”
“Nay, but he might; and the Lord might do the same to us as we do to yon
poor chap.”
“Don’t tell me, ye silly wench, as the Lord ’ud go for to treat a good
honest Englishman same as a fool of a Frenchy.”
“He looks just like an Englishman, father, and he speaks English much the
same as we do. He seems as nice as could be, and that handy going about
the kitchen.”
“Sir,” called out Jean Marie from the place of his concealment, his voice
sounding thin and strange through the keyhole; “Sir, I could help with
the reaping; you said you wanted another pair of hands.”
“What’s that?” cried Farmer Joe, and then he fell a-laughing. “Why,
there’s sense in what the chap says—I’m terribly short-handed just now.
Come out, sin’ thou’rt theer, and let’s have a look at thee.”
The door being unlocked, Jean emerged from the buttery, and stepped
lightly across the floor on his bare feet. Taking up his position
opposite old Rainford, he first extended for inspection a pair of
powerful hands, and then, pulling up his ragged shirt-sleeves, displayed
the magnificent muscles of his arms.
“Will that do?” he enquired quaintly.
The farmer slapped him on the back, with a roar of laughter.
“That’ll do, my lad; that’ll do,” he cried. “Od’s bobs, they arms ’ud do
credit to an Englishman! Coom, we’s see how mich work thou can get
through to-morrow. How long dost thou want to bide here?”
“Till the end of the week, if I may.”
“Ah, that’ll do well enough; we’s have finished field by then. How wilt
thou get away, think’st thou?”
“A friend of mine will meet me a little further down the coast in a
fishing-boat. You see, I am trusting you, sir. I am sure you will keep
my secret.”
“You may be sure, lad. I’m not the mon to betray yo’.”
“I’ve been thinkin’,” put in Molly, “we must lend Mester John some o’ our
Ted’s cloo’es, and a pair o’ clogs, and we must tell folks—I think we’d
best tell folks as he’s a friend o’ yours as has coom to help wi’ the
harvest.”
This plan was put into execution. To the work-people it seemed natural
enough that “Mester” had called in additional help in the emergency, and
the intimate terms on which the new comer seemed to be with the daughter
of the house lent credit to the supposition.
Jean Marie worked manfully in the wheat-field, but in the evenings, and
every spare moment during the day, he was at Molly’s side. He pumped
water for her, carried her pail, swept up her kitchen, and even lit the
fire before she came down in the morning. He had such pleasant ways
withal, and such a kindly smile, that it was no wonder Molly smiled on
him in return, and that the work-people soon began to whisper that she
and the “Liverpool mon” were “coortin’.”
On the evening of the third day, work being finished, and Jean
outstripping his mates, and finding Molly alone in the kitchen, was
greeted by her so cordially that somehow—he never quite knew how—he found
his arm round her waist, and words of love leaping to his lips. She was
an angel, a darling; he would never love anyone but her, and she must
love him too; he must go away now, but when the war was over he would
come back, and they must be married.
“But my father will never allow it,” stammered Molly, making no attempt,
however, to disengage herself.
And at this most inopportune moment in walked Farmer Joe. The state of
things that ensued can be imagined. The old farmer’s fury; Jean Marie’s
protestations; Molly’s tearful and inconsequent assurances, first, that
she knew nothing about it, and that it wasn’t her fault, secondly, that
“as how ’twas” she would never have any other sweetheart.
After a time, however, peace was in some measure restored; the young
folks silently resolved to achieve their end, while Farmer Joe loudly
announced that, as the chap was bound to leave in two-three days, he’d
keep his word to him for this time, but he’d be domned if he didn’t give
him up if ever he showed his face there again.
After that he interfered no more, and though he was well aware that Jean
and Molly continued their courting on the sly, he left them alone, and,
except for an occasional sarcasm anent “Frenchies” and “frog-eaters,”
made no attempt to molest Jean.
On the morning of the day fixed for the young man’s departure, however,
he received news which changed his contemptuous indifference into active
hatred and fury. He came staggering into the kitchen with an ashy-white
face and starting eyeballs. Parson Bradley had been with him, and had
announced to him the death of his son, Teddy, in foreign parts.
“They’n killed him,” he cried. “Those domned Frenchies ha’ killed my
lad. See, here’s his name in th’ paper parson brought me. Eh, my
lad—and I druv him fro’ the door! And now they’n killed him, the domned
raskils!”
Molly gave a cry, and flung her apron over her head, and Jean came
forward, full of genuine distress and sympathy. But at sight of him the
old man’s face became suddenly suffused with a rush of returning colour;
he babbled with inarticulate rage, and shook his fist threateningly.
“Soombry ’ll pay for this,” he cried, as soon as he could speak. “I’ll
not have no murderers in my house. I’ll have blood for blood. Does not
the Book say ‘an eye for an eye’? I’ll have life for life, I tell yo’.
I’ll revenge my son!”
“Oh, father, father,” wept Molly, throwing herself at his feet, “dunnot
say that! Dunnot look at John so wicked! He’s innocent, poor lad. The
Book says more nor they things; it says, ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the
Lord,’ and, ‘Do as yo’ would be done by.’ We’n killed hundreds and
thousands of Frenchmen, I reckon, but if poor Teddy were alive in the
hands of his enemies yo’d think it a cruel thing if he were made to
answer for it.”
With a volley of oaths the farmer was stooping forward to thrust her
away, when there sounded of a sudden a tramping of feet without, and a
heavy knock at the door.
“They’ve come for me!” said Jean, turning very pale. “Molly, my loved
one, they will take me away; we shall—never meet again. Let us thank God
for these happy days.”
She had risen and flown to him, and his arms were about her, when the
knocking came again, loud and continuous.
“Open there, in the King’s name!” cried an imperious voice.
“Curse yo’, Molly, go to the door!” growled her father.
“Go, sweetheart,” said Jean, releasing her.
“Oh, father,” gasped Molly, as she crept with lagging steps across the
room, “father, remember—yo’ gave your word!”
The door swung back, and in an instant the room, as it seemed to Molly,
was full of soldiers. Their leader, after a brief glance round, which
took in, apparently without any deep interest, the old man leaning
forward in his chair, the trembling girl, and the fair-haired young
labourer standing in the background, addressed himself to the master of
the house.
“You are Farmer Rainford, I presume? I am in search of an escaped French
prisoner of war, who, it is supposed, is in hiding in this neighbourhood.
A suspicious-looking French craft has been hovering about Formby Cove
since yesterday. May I ask if you’ve seen any stranger about your
premises during the last few days?”
Old Joe lifted his heavy eyes, and gazed at the speaker stolidly, but
without saying a word.
“Please to excuse my father, sir,” faltered Molly, coming quickly
forward, “We’n just had bad news—terrible bad news, and he’s upset. We’n
just heard as my only brother was killed by the French. See, there’s his
name in the paper—Corporal Edward Rainford of the King’s Own.”
She snatched the paper from her father’s hand as she spoke, and pointed
out the marked place with a trembling finger. Joe made an inarticulate
sound, and then clapped his hand before his mouth.
“That’s a pity,” said the officer, with momentary compassion. “Well, Mr
Rainford, we won’t trouble you. You can tell us what we want to know, my
girl. You haven’t noticed any stranger about the place lately? Your
labourers are all known to you? No ragged-looking fellow has come to the
door to beg for alms?”
Molly had been shaking her head vigorously.
“No, sir! oh no, sir!” she now cried eagerly. “There’s nobody about but
our own folks as has worked for us ever sin’ I can remember; and there’s
nobody in this house but my father and mysel’, and old Winny the servant,
and my sweetheart there.”
“Oh!” said the officer, laughing, “that’s your sweetheart, is it? He
seems a likely lad. Why isn’t he out fighting for his country?”
“Oh, please sir, I couldn’t spare him!” cried Molly, laughing with white
lips. “It ’ud fair break my heart if anything was to happen to him.”
Her feigned laughter was strangled by her sobs. Her father uttered a
groan, and let his head drop forward into his hands.
“Dom they raskil Frenchies!” he cried: “they’n been and killed my only
son!”
“Come, men,” said the officer, “we’ll take ourselves off. This is not a
likely place for a French prisoner to take refuge in. You’d soon give
him up, wouldn’t you, Mr Rainford?”
Joe Rain ford raised his head and looked at him steadily.
“Yo’n heerd what my lass telled yo’,” he said, doggedly; “there isn’t
nobry here, nobbut me, and her,—and her sweetheart!”