Produced by Lionel Sear
THE STORY OF JESSIE.
BY MABEL QUILLER-COUCH.
CONTENTS
Chap.
I A LETTER FOR SUNNYSIDE COTTAGE.
II JESSIE ARRIVES.
III SHOPPING AND TEAING.
IV A GARDEN SUNDAY-SCHOOL.
V HAPPY DAYS.
VI TAKEN BY SURPRISE.
VII THE JOURNEY AND THE ARRIVAL.
VIII THE NEW HOME.
IX MISS PATCH.
X CHARLIE REACHES HOME.
XI TOO LATE.
XII SPRINGBROOK AGAIN.
THE STORY OF JESSIE.
CHAPTER I.
A LETTER FOR SUNNYSIDE COTTAGE.
Thomas Dawson was busy in the kitchen trying to make the kettle boil,
and to get the fire clear that he might do a piece of toast. He had
already tidied up the grate and swept the floor, and as he stood by
the table with the loaf in his hand, about to cut a slice, his eye
wandered down through the dewy, sunny garden, where every tree and
bush was beginning to show a little film of green over its brown
branches.
But before he could notice anything in the garden, his attention was
attracted by the sight of Daniel Magor, the postman, standing at the
gate and fumbling with the latch. Thomas dropped the loaf and the
knife, and went out to meet him, leaving the house-door wide open to
the beautiful morning sunshine, which poured in in a wide stream
right across the kitchen, lighting up with golden radiance the
flowers in the window, the old-fashioned photographs on the wall, the
china on the dressers, and the cat lying asleep on the scarlet
cushion in the arm-chair by the fire.
When he saw Thomas coming the postman ceased fumbling with the latch
and waited, holding two letters in his hand.
"Lovely weather, Mr. Dawson. You ain't to work this morning!" he
remarked in a tone of surprise.
Thomas shook his head slowly. "No, my wife is bad, she've been bad
all night with a sick headache. She's better this morning, but I
stayed home to get her some breakfast, and tidy up a bit.
When anybody's sick they don't feel they want to do much."
"You'm right," agreed the postman feelingly. "I gets sick headaches
very bad myself, and when I wakes with one it seems to me I don't
care whether folk gets their letters or not. I am glad I didn't feel
like that this morning, Mr. Dawson, for it's good to be alive on such
a day, and I've got two letters for you."
"Both of 'em for me!" said Thomas in surprise, and holding out his
hand to take them. "I don't think I've had two to once in my life
before."
The postman laughed. "If folks didn't get more than you do we
postmen would soon be out of a job, I reckon!" But Thomas was gazing
at his letters with such a perplexed, preoccupied air, that he did
not reply, and Daniel, with a long, inquiring look at him, said
"Good-morning," and went on his way.
"One is the seed-list," muttered Thomas to himself, as he retraced
his steps through the garden under the budding May-trees, "but it
passes my understanding to know who can have sent the other.
It--it can't be from--from her," he added, with sudden thought,
speaking as though it pained him even to put such a thought into
words.
The old cat, hearing his footsteps on the path, roused herself and
went out to meet him, but for once he paid no heed to her, and
passing into the house sat himself down in the chair by the window,
while he still gazed with troubled eyes at the outside of the
envelope, and the blurred post-mark which told him nothing.
Moments passed before he could summon up courage to open it, for in
his heart he felt almost certain who the writer was, and he dreaded
to read what might be written; and when at last he did make up his
mind, his hand trembled so as he tore open the envelope, that his
misty eyes could scarcely make out what was written, or take in the
meaning.
"Dear Father and Mother "--for seconds he was unable to read beyond
that beginning, so strange yet familiar it seemed after all these
years of silence--"I hope you will not refuse to open a letter from
me, and I hope that you will try to forgive me for all that's past,
and for what I am about to do. You would if you knew all. I wrote
to you and told you I had married Harry Lang. I hope you had the
letter and read it. I was happy enough for a time, but Harry has had
no work to speak of for more than a year, and though we've sold all
the little I'd got together, we have been nearly starving many a
time. At last, though, Harry has got a good job offered him in a
gentleman's racing stables. It is a fine berth to have got, the
wages is good, and there are rooms to live in, and we can't refuse it
after all we have been through, but they won't allow no children.
"If work hadn't been so hard to get, and we starving, we would have
waited for something else, for it nearly kills me to part with my
Jessie, but I've got to, and, dear father and mother, I hope you will
forgive me, but I am sending her to you. She is all I've got, and I
am nearly crazy at losing her, but I don't know what else to do.
Life is very hard sometimes. I know you will be good to her, and you
can't help loving her, I know. She is very good and quiet, and she
will not give mother very much trouble, and I pray with all my heart
she may be a better child, and more of a comfort to you than I have
ever been.
"Your broken-hearted but loving,
"Lizzie.
"P.S.--She is five years old and strong and healthy. I had her
christened Jessamine May to remind me of the jessamine and the
May-trees at home, for I love my old home dearer than any place in
the world. Forgive me, dear father and mother, and be good to my
precious darling."
For minutes after he had reached the end of the letter, poor Thomas
Dawson sat with tears running fast over his weather-worn cheeks.
"My little maid," he kept saying to himself, with a sob in his
breath, "my Lizzie starving! starving! and me with a plenty and to
spare!" It was his own child he was thinking of, his own Lizzie, the
little maiden who had been the apple of his eye, the joy and pride of
his life--and this was what she had come to!
The kettle sang and boiled on the hob, the fire burnt clear, but the
loaf lay on the table uncut, and still the old man sat staring before
him at the letter spread on the table, heeding nothing until a
thought came which roused him completely--though only to a deeper
sense of trouble. "However am I going to break the news to mother,"
he groaned. "Oh, my! but it'll upset her something cruel--and that
lazy, good-for-nothing fellow that she could never abide, have
brought it all upon us!"
His thoughts and his wonderings, though, were brought to a sudden
stop by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. "Why, Thomas, you were
so quiet I thought you must be asleep, or ill, or something, and I
was so worried I had to get up at last and come down and see."
Then, as her husband turned to her, and she caught sight of his face,
she grew really alarmed. "What is it? What has happened? There is
trouble, I can see it. Tell me what it is, quick, for pity's sake.
Don't 'ee keep me waiting."
He rose, and gently putting her into the chair he had been occupying,
he handed her Lizzie's letter. "That's the trouble, mother," he
said; "it might have been worse--that's all I can say. You must read
it for yourself, it'd choke me to do so if I was to try," and he went
away to the door and stood there gazing out at the sunny garden where
the daffodils bowed gently before the soft breeze, and the crocuses
opened their golden cups to the sun. But he saw nothing, all his
mind was given to his wife, and the letter she was reading, and to
wondering how she would bear it, and what he could say to comfort
her.
At last a long low cry reached him, and he turned hastily back into
the kitchen; but, instead of seeing her white and shaken and weeping,
as he was prepared to see her, the face that looked up to him was
quivering with eagerness and love and joy.
"She's sending us her little one, father!" she gasped in a voice
quavering with glad excitement. "Lizzie's little girl, our own
little grandchild! We shall have a child about the place again,
something to love and work for. You see, Lizzie turns to us in her
trouble, poor girl, and it must be a terrible trouble to her," with a
momentary sadness dimming the joy in her eyes. "But, oh, I am so
thankful, so happy." Then, springing to her feet, "I am well now!
this is the medicine I wanted. Father, when do you think she will
come? I must get the place all nice and tidy, and a room ready for
her, in good time too, and it seems to me I'd best set to work at
once or I shall never get a half done!"
Thomas did not say much, his heart was too full for speech, but the
inexpressible relief he felt showed in his face and his blue eyes.
"I'm glad you takes it like that, mother," he said simply, "I was
afraid."
"Afraid! afraid of what? That I shouldn't want her!"
But at that moment the kettle boiled over with a great hiss, and
brought them back to everyday affairs again.
"Well, any way," said Thomas, with a happy smile on his pleasant old
face, "we can allow ourselves time for a bit of breakfast, or maybe
when she does come we shall be past speaking a word to show her she's
welcome," and while both of them laughed over his little joke, he
made the long-delayed cup of tea, and, though both were too excited
to eat, they sat down together to their breakfast.