The bedroom was still. A candle burned on the chimney-piece, but its
light was only feeble. In the bed lay a woman, wasted and weak, but at
present sleeping, and there was no one else in the room. Downstairs,
supper was being served to the workers, and in the small sitting-room
the more grown-up members of the family sat. The children had gone
to bed and were asleep; the farmer was away at a meeting in the
neighbouring village.
And so the cold, shivering days of December, Christmas and the New Year
wore away. And with them silently and slowly the sufferer wore away
too. For months she had lain in bed, waiting and wasting, and now the
end of wait and waste was coming.
It had fallen to the lot of the second daughter to act as nurse, and
she fulfilled her part well. She was only a young girl, but had all a
girl’s devotion. It fell to her daily task to read to the poor invalid
the Litany from the Prayer-Book.
Who could blame her if now and again she omitted long clauses? That
Litany was so very long and dull, and the delight of skipping so
refreshing.
But even the Litany with its many repetitions must at last have an
ending; and there came a day when it was no longer needed—for the poor
soul that besought its God to hear it and have mercy on it had gone to
take its peep behind the curtain.
It was bitterly cold in the first month of the new year, and there
upon the white bed lay the corpse. The smell of coffin wood and burial
flowers intermingled—white waxen flowers that looked a part of the
white waxen figure in the snowy shroud. Beautiful and peaceful and
care-free was that thin face, now the restless fragment of life had
left it.
In the adjoining room, all alone upon the bed, sat Deborah, the little
sickly baby. It wasn’t very nice having anybody dead in the house—you
had all to go about quiet, and the rooms were dark.
Just then the door opened, and in came Deborah’s eldest sister. She had
been crying.
“You may come with me to see mother,” she said.
So together they went. Marion held the younger sister up so that she
might see and kiss the dead face—and it was perhaps in that first
glance at the dead that she became conscious of her own life.
How beautiful, and strange, and far-away looked that weak and ailing
mother! She who had let you nestle beside her in the bed and kissed you
every night and morning. But now she was going away to heaven—to be
really beautiful and never to be ill any more.
After that life settled down pretty much as it had been before, and all
the usual little trivialities went on in the farm.
Marion became mistress in her mother’s place. Susan was sent away to
school. Elinor, and fat, chubby, sturdy Maggie went to school near by,
and Deborah, being the youngest, stayed at home.
It was very nice being at home all alone, as then she could wander
about the orchard and garden, and the yard and the lot, and be happy.
Besides, there were nine special chickens to feed, and they were so
tame that they would let Deborah carry them about; and she used to sit
upon the little stone slabs at the door and feed them—and they were so
greedy that they nearly upset the tin with the oatmeal paste in it, and
if she didn’t look quick about it she nearly always missed her share,
for naturally she always ate a little with them. Also they used to
drink in such a funny way, holding their heads up and letting the water
trickle down their throats, but though they were always hungry they
didn’t often want to drink—so perhaps they belonged to the Blue Ribbon
Army like the servant girl.
Then there was the old grey cat. It was the most wonderful cat on the
earth, and the biggest. But alas! poor thing! it had seen bad days.
The girl (you will understand that to mean the servant) let some
scalding porridge fall on it one day, which made it so timid that for
a long time it would not come near anyone. And when it had got over
that catastrophe and was one day sneaking round the stable, probably
in search of mice, one of the horses struck out and kicked it on the
head. Ever after that it walked about as if it had forgotten something,
and formed a great affection for Deborah. They loved each other very
sincerely, and she used to nurse it by the hour together; it used to
lay its great head upon her little breast, and she for pure love used
to kiss its velvet ears.
Besides, the grey cat was really so much better behaved than the black
cat. The black cat was cruel and wild and would think nothing of
killing and eating a mouse before your very eyes. Moreover, it often
went away from home for six weeks at a time, and never left word where
it was going to, nor when it would come back; which was decidedly
bad manners, to say the least of it. And it was pretty certain that
it never went away for any good purpose, because after it came back
the least thing would frighten it, and it would fly off for the least
sound, just like some guilty person.
Then there were the little Bantams—two little Bantam hens and a Bantam
cock—they kept quite aloof from all the other big clumsy fowls, and
refused to let their small and pretty families mix with them.
Then there was the fierce old sheep-dog, Spring, who died. There was
a very grand funeral and a properly-dug grave. Jack, the youngest
boy, acted as grave-digger, clerk and clergyman all in one; he was so
serious that he never saw anything the least bit funny about his work.
And there followed him to the grave-side, Elinor, Maggie and Deborah,
all wearing a remnant of black.
They were strange days—curious dream-like days—and they followed each
other silently, like shadows over grain fields.
Thus the time passed on, and gradually, gradually, the cloud darkened.
Some said when his wife died the farmer showed every sign of
relief—perhaps, poor man, he did. In the ruin that was staring at
him he could face it better alone. She was not quite the woman to
invite, he not the man to give, confidences. Oh, Life! Life! Life! how
many couples are there that will face these things bravely? How much
selfishness would have to be torn from its very heart-roots! How much
narrow-heartedness and shallow depths have to be swept right away!
But, by the irony of fate, though he had escaped from his wife he could
not escape altogether from his family. He must provide for them and
look after them, ruin or no ruin.
Accordingly, two years after his wife’s death, he gave notice that he
was leaving the farm, but where he was going or what he was going to do
no one knew.
When it was heard that the farmer had given up the farm everybody
talked.
Naturally people wondered what he was going to do; he was getting
middle-aged, they thought, and too old to start a new line of business.
The real fact probably was that he did not know what he was going to do
himself. He wished to get to some town and there try what luck would do
for him. Experience had not yet taught him that he was essentially an
unlucky man.
Along with all these worries for the farmer his children lived their
own little lives.
Elinor had her photograph taken and went and spoiled the family album
by going into the parlour secretly and forcing all her photos (a round
dozen) into the empty spaces. She tore the paper and spoilt the album,
and you may be sure she did not get off lightly.
Next, Maggie found out whereabouts in this same wonderful parlour the
iced Christmas cake was kept. She went quietly and helped herself to
the delicious sugar. At first they thought it was a mouse. So it was,
but just a little two-legged one, who was soon found out, and suffered
the natural penalty of such greed.
Deborah, however, didn’t do much in this interesting line. She had no
individuality, and it always needs individuality to err. At this time
she had more respect for the grey cat than for any human being, and
more love for the speckled chickens than anything beside. They made up
her small world and she was quite content; it would have been far too
much trouble to commit any of the faults common to childhood.
The farmer, in his spare time, taught her her lessons—and that was
the beginning of the great love she afterwards bore him. He bought her
a wonderful book with pictures and words in, and by the time she was
seven she could read and understand quite well.
Just about this time a boy from the town came to stay with them. He
was a very well-to-do boy, and the son of very worldly people, and he
looked down greatly upon Jane and the men-servants on the farm. But
he formed a great attachment for Jack, the youngest son, probably as
being much older than himself, and able to teach him some wonderful
country games. He was a very curious boy and had what might be called a
wonderful conceit of himself.
One day he appeared before Deborah with a very determined air.
“We’ve known each other nearly a week,” he said decidedly, “so it’s
quite time we were engaged.”
“All right,” she observed cheerfully, for it all seemed quite natural;
and she began to plan a place for him among the chickens in her
affection.
“Yes,” he went on, “but of course I sha’n’t be able to give you much of
my time. I’m a boy, you know. Some day I’ll be a man, so my life will
be a much grander one than yours. You’re only a girl.”
“Yes,” remarked Deborah, and accepted the inevitable with contentment.
“Then if you like you can take a short walk with me now.”
“All right,” said Deborah again. So they went.
For some days after that they took the usual short walk, till one day
he began in the same decided way.
“We’ve been engaged long enough. It’s time we were married.”
“But we’re not old enough,” said Deborah. This was too quick work
altogether for one who always let things glide.
“Yes, we are. Besides, if I’m married to you now I shall feel bound in
honour to stick to you. Otherwise, when I go away I may forget you.”
It seemed a very terrible thing to be forgotten, so she consented.
“But how are we to do it?” she asked.
“Oh! we stand together with the sky above us, and you must say to me,
‘Bernard’ (not Bay, that’s only short, you know) ‘Bernard, I take you
to be my wedded husband’—and then I shall say to you, ‘Deborah, I take
you to be my wedded wife.’ After that it’s all done and nothing but
death can part us.”
So they went together to the old rustic, ear-wiggy seat in the garden,
and were married very solemnly. And he got his place among the chickens
in her heart, and what place she got in his it would be hard to tell,
as it was a very matter-of-fact union.
Some days later he came with a more serious and thoughtful air.
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he said, sitting down upon the
floor and clasping his hands round his knees. “When I go home I’m going
to school. Then when I’m old enough I shall be going to Oxford. And
after that I’m going to India to shoot big game. Then when I’ve made
a name I’ll come home and marry you proper—on the very day you’re
twenty-one.”
Now there was something very exciting about all that, which awoke even
phlegmatic Deborah, the more so as she was too ignorant to understand
the half of it. Even the grey cat got up to stretch itself, but after
blinking idly at the speaker it settled comfortably once more in
Deborah’s lap.
“What’s Oxford?” she asked curiously.
“Oh!—er—it’s a place where you go to learn to look down on everybody
who isn’t as good as yourself,” he answered, first with hesitation,
then with decision. “There’s another place called Cambridge where you
can go to learn the same thing,” he added as an afterthought.
“But—it’s not a good thing to learn, is it?”
“Of course. If one is a gentleman one must know it, and let other
people know it too.”
“What do you mean by big game?” she asked next.
“Tigers and elephants,” he answered, his eyes sparkling.
“And could you really shoot a tiger?”
“Of course. Just lend me that old cat, and I’ll show you how it’s
done,” he said, springing up. But all Deborah’s instincts revolted at
the thought.
“No, indeed,” she cried, and put as much of her two hands over it as
would go for protection.
“I won’t hurt it. Just you lend it to me and I’ll—”
“I won’t, it’s got the headache and feels tired.”
“Got the headache!” exclaimed he with great contempt. “Who ever heard
of a cat with the headache?”
“It has got the headache,” she persisted. “Darling kicked it—and it’s
had the headache ever since.”
“Well, it’s only a tame old thing, so it wouldn’t do. But listen to me
and I’ll tell you about shooting big game. I shall go on an elephant
right into the thickest part of the forest.”
“How will you get up?”
“Climb, of course, up a ladder. Then in the thickest part of the forest
I shall suddenly see two eyes like fire shining down at me. Then I
shall take my gun—one—two—three. At the third shot it will fall
mortally wounded. And then, so that everybody may really know I’ve
really shot the tiger, I shall have it skinned, and bring the fur home.”
“But suppose instead it killed you,” observed Deborah, who by this time
was fully roused to the possibilities of such an event.
“Well, you see, I shall have to be a pretty good shot before I could
think of going out. And after that—well, a man with a gun, who knows
how to use it, is a match for a tiger any day.”
They became very great friends indeed, and took the short walks
together every day most religiously, till at last the time came for his
going away.
They met each other in the kitchen lobby when there was no one there,
and kissed several times very sadly. Deb wiped her eyes with the corner
of her small pinafore, but he kept up manfully.
“I’ll come back when—I’ve shot the big game—and—you’re twenty-one,
you know.”
But he never shot the big game, and he never came back.