TAKEN BY SURPRISE.
After that first outburst of grief, Thomas Dawson did not speak much
of his trouble, but it was none the less deep for that. In fact, it
was so deep, and the wound was such a cruel one, it was almost more
than he could bear.
The thought of his dead daughter never left him. Through the day,
when he was at work, through the long evenings when he sat silent and
sad, gazing into the fire, and through the nights when he lay
sleepless, he brooded over the wrongs his daughter's husband had done
them all, and was full of remorse for his own hard-heartedness--as he
called it now--in not having forgiven her at once when she ran away
from her home. And more than all was he haunted by the thought of
her lonely death after her cruelly hard life. He pictured her lying
in her pauper's grave in an unknown burial-ground, away amongst
strangers, unknown, uncared for, unremembered, and these thoughts
aged him fast.
Jessie was too young to notice it, but those older saw how he began
to stoop, how his feet lagged as he walked, how the colour had faded
from his hair and from the bright blue eyes, which had been such a
noticeable feature of his face. All the life and fun had gone out of
him too; even Jessie could not rouse him.
Patience bore her grief in another way, it was merged to some extent
in her anxiety about her husband. With regard to Lizzie she felt
less anxiety and pain about her now than she had done when Lizzie had
been alive, and living a miserable life with the weak, ne'er-do-well
husband who had been the ruin of her happiness and theirs.
Trouble left its mark on Patience too, she became gentler and
quieter, she seemed to lose some of her strength and spirit, and to
lean more and more on her little granddaughter. And Jessie, pleased
and proud to be useful, and trusted and able to help, turned to with
a will, and by degrees took a great deal on her young shoulders.
She still went to Miss Grace Barley to be taught, for the hours
suited them all well, and though her grandmother protested often that
it was too much for Miss Grace to do, and declared that Jessie must
go to the school along with the others, Miss Grace begged to be
allowed to keep her.
"Jessie can repay me by coming and being our maid by and by," she
said laughingly--"that is if she wants to go out into service, and
you can spare her, Mrs. Dawson."
"I shall have to some day," said Mrs. Dawson, with a sigh and a
smile; "she will have to support herself, of course, when she grows
up, and it's our duty to see she has the training."
So it became the dream of Jessie's life to be Miss Barley's maid, to
live in the "White Cottage," and have the joy and honour of keeping
it in the beautiful order in which she had always seen it.
It had been a curious, uncommon education that the child had had, but
the results were certainly satisfactory. She could darn and sew
beautifully, make and mend, knit and patch, and read and write, cook
a little, and do all manner of housework, while she was quite clever
in her knowledge of flowers and their ways.
Every Saturday morning she devoted herself to helping her grandmother
clean the cottage and prepare for Sunday. It was her task to polish
all the knives and forks, to dust the bedrooms and the kitchen.
Her grandmother would not let her do the harder work, such as
scrubbing the floors or tables, though Jessie often longed to try;
but while granny was busy washing the floors, it was Jessie's great
delight to mount on a chair and clean the little lattice windows of
the kitchen and parlour.
When she was about ten years old her other longings were unexpectedly
realized, and the scrubbing fell to her to do too, for one chill
autumn morning Mrs. Dawson found herself too unwell to get up.
She had been ailing for a week or two. "'Tis the damp and cold got
into my bones," she had said, making light of it, "and they'll just
have to get out again, that's all. There is nothing like moving
about for working it off. If I'd sat still as some folks do, I
shouldn't be able to move at all by this time."
But on this morning even she was forced to give in. "I think the
cold has touched my liver," she said feebly, "and I don't feel fit
for nothing. I'll stay in bed for a bit, that's the best way," and
indeed she felt far too unwell to do anything else. Thomas called at
the doctor's house on his way to work, and came home early to dinner
to hear his report.
"He says it's the yellow jaunders," said Jessie, in an awed voice,
looking very grave and alarmed, "and he says I must not be frightened
if granny turns orange colour. Do you think she has been eating too
many oranges, granp? She had two on Sunday--big ones!"
Granp smiled, in spite of his anxiety. He knew that an attack of
jaundice was no trifling illness for a woman of Patience's age, and
the next day he did not go to work, but waited to see the doctor
himself.
The news in the morning, though, was slightly better, and although
Mrs. Dawson had to keep her bed for some time, their greatest anxiety
was lifted, and their spirits grew higher and more hopeful.
Jessie now was in her element. She swept and dusted, scrubbed and
polished, waited on her grandmother and took care of her grandfather
like any little old woman. All day long her busy feet and hands were
going, never seeming to tire; and in her joy at seeing her
grandmother getting well again, and her grandfather more happy, and
in her pleasure in taking care of them both, her spirits kept as
bright and gay, and her laugh as infectious and joyous as it was
possible for any one's to be.
So things were when that Saturday dawned which, undreamed of, was to
change everything for all of them.
It was a fresh bright autumn day, with the sun shining cheerfully,
but with just that touch of cold in the air which makes one realize
that summer is past and winter not so very far off. In the garden
the chrysanthemums were covered with a fine show of buds, and Jessie
looked at them eagerly to see if any would be out on the morrow, for
the doctor had said that Mrs. Dawson might get up for a little while
on Sunday and come down-stairs.
The news put them all in a great bustle. Jessie felt that all her
credit depended on everything, indoors and out, being just a little
cleaner and trimmer and more orderly than if her grandmother had been
about herself. Things had to be got from Norton too, so grandfather
took the train thither to do the shopping, and Jessie was left to
sweep and scrub and polish to her heart's content. She and granp
were up early on that important morning--indeed, there was little
likelihood of any one's oversleeping on that day, and so well did
they work that by the time Jessie went up to know what her
grandmother would like for dinner, the greater part of their tasks
were done and grandfather had already started for Norton.
"I don't want anything but a cup of tea and a piece of toast now,"
said her grandmother in answer to Jessie's question.
"Won't you have some of the jelly Miss Barley brought you?"
"No, child. I feel much more inclined for a cup of tea. If you've
got any fire in I'd like a slice of toast, but if you haven't I'll
have a piece of dry bread. I dare say you'd like one of the little
apple pasties Mrs. Maddock brought over."
Mrs. Maddock was the wife of the farmer who lived a little way from
them, along the road to the four turnings.
"Yes, I would," said Jessie, "I am hungry."
"I don't wonder," said her grandmother, smiling, "working as you have
been. Why, there won't be anything left for me to do when I get up.
Is the kettle nearly boiling?"
"Yes," said Jessie, "it is singing. I'll have to step over to Mrs.
Maddock's for the milk, and by the time I come back it will be ready.
Will you be all right, granny, while I'm gone? I won't be away more
than five minutes."
"Yes, I shall be all right, child; I'll promise not to run away, and
I don't suppose any burglar will break in here," she laughed gently.
"Well, I could soon catch you, if you did," laughed Jessie, "but I
don't know about a burglar, I would have to run to Mrs. Maddock's
again and borrow their dog. Good-bye, granny."
"Put on your hat and coat," granny called after her.
"Oh, need I?" asked Jessie, with just a shade of impatience in her
voice.
"Why, yes, child, it is quite chilly, and you have been so hot over
your work."
So Jessie stayed a moment in the kitchen to put on her hat and coat--
and oh, how glad she was of it before that night was ended--and
taking her milk-can in one hand and a penny in the other, away she
ran down the garden and out into the road. She stood for a moment
and glanced along the road in each direction, just to make sure that
there was no one near who would be likely to knock and disturb her
grandmother before she got back again, but there was not a living
creature in sight, that she could see, so on she ran to the farm.
Mrs. Maddock kept her a minute or two to inquire after Mrs. Dawson,
and to give her a flower to wear to church the next day, then Jessie
hurried away again as fast as her full milk-can would allow her.
The side entrance to the farm, to which Jessie had to go, was a few
hundred yards down a lane which branched off the main road. When she
came out and down this lane again, a man was standing at the end of
it where it emerged on to the high road. He was standing looking
down the lane very eagerly at first, but, as Jessie drew nearer, he
stepped back a pace or two, and looked nervously first over one
shoulder and then over the other, along the high road.
Jessie was ten years old, and accustomed to seeing strange
rough-looking men about, so that there seemed no reason why she
should feel frightened, but she did, and for a moment almost turned
and ran back to the friendly shelter of Mrs. Maddock's dairy.
Later on she often wished she had, but then, as she told herself, he
would probably have run after her and caught her.
With her heart beating very fast, but trying to look quite calm and
unconcerned, she walked sturdily on. As soon as she had got past
him, she thought, and had turned the corner, she would race home as
fast as her legs could carry her, and if she did spill some milk
granny would forgive her when she knew how frightened she had been.
But the man evidently did not intend that she should pass him, for as
she drew near he stood right in her path, and to prevent any chance
of escape he seized her by the wrist.
"I've been looking for you, this long while," he said roughly.
"Now don't make a noise," as Jessie screamed "help." "If you're
quiet I shan't hurt you, but if you make a noise and bring a crowd
round, I'll thrash you to within an inch of your life. Do you hear?"
"Let me go," wailed Jessie, struggling to release her wrist.
"I must go home, granny's waiting for me, she is ill."
"And I've been waiting for you longer than 'granny' has. I've been
waiting hours. Your grandfather's gone away, isn't he?"
"Yes, to Norton."
"That's all right."
"He'll be home soon," retorted Jessie, in the vain hope of
frightening the man. "Oh, do let me go, please! granny is ill, and
waiting for me to take her her dinner."
"I've waited longer for my dinner than ever she has. You shall bring
me mine instead. In bed, is she?"
"Yes," sobbed Jessie.
"That's all right."
"Oh, would no one ever come," Jessie wondered, looking frantically
about her.
The man read her thoughts and actions. "No, it isn't likely there'll
be anybody about just yet, they are all to market, or off somewhere.
I took care to choose my time well. Is your grandfather coming home
by train?"
"Yes," sobbed Jessie. "Oh, _please_ let me go. What do you want? I
haven't got any money--"
"It's _you_ I want, yourself, Jessie Lang."
Jessie looked up in surprise, wondering how he knew her name.
She had thought him a tramp only, though a particularly horrible one.
Now a deeper fear crept into her heart, causing her to feel sick and
faint with alarm, and a dread of she hardly knew what.
"Why do you want me?" she gasped, trembling, scarcely able to form
her words, so furiously was her poor little heart beating.
"Why do I want you? 'Cause I'm your own father, and I've been robbed
of you for five years! Natural enough, isn't it, that a man should
want his own child to come and look after him?"
"But I've got to look after granny and granp," gasped Jessie,
"they are old, and granny's ill, and--and they've taken care of me
all this time, and now I've got to take care of them. I'm very
sorry, but I can't look after you too."
"Dear me!" muttered the man. "How polite we are! But whether you
can or you can't, you've got to! I think it's a pity they haven't
brought you up better, and taught you your duty to your father.
Well, I can't be wasting any more time here. We've got a long
journey before us."
"Oh no, no!" cried Jessie, beside herself with dismay; "don't take me
away!--_please_, please don't make me leave granny!"
"Shut up that noise," interrupted her father roughly. "You've got to
learn that I never stand whining and bellowing; and the sooner you
learn it the better. Now I did mean to spare you all the trouble of
saying 'good-bye,' but on second thoughts I'll go in and explain a
bit to the old woman, so hurry along and lead the way. I don't want
any nonsense about putting the police on my track to find you and
bring you back, so it shall be all open and straight. You are mine
by law, and I am going to stick to the law."
Jessie was trembling so, she could scarcely drag her limbs along, but
she did her best to obey her father's command, a wild hope springing
up in her heart that if once she got within the shelter of home and
granny, all would be well.
As she opened the cottage door she heard her grandmother's voice
calling down to her. "Why, Jessie, wherever have you been? I was
afraid something had happened. The kettle has boiled over and over
until the fire must be nearly put out." But she had scarcely
finished speaking before Jessie dashed up the stairs and into her
room breathless, almost speechless, her face white, and with a look
on it that haunted Patience Dawson for many a long day.
"Oh, granny, he's come, father's come, and he's going to take me
away! Oh, granny, what shall I do! Save me! save me! don't let him
have me! I'm afraid of him!"
But before Mrs. Dawson, in her utter bewilderment and fright, could
take in what it all meant, heavy footsteps mounted the stairs
quickly, and she saw Harry Lang, the man she so detested and dreaded,
standing in the doorway.
"Don't make that row," he shouted roughly to the child, "nice way
that to carry on when your dear grandmother is ill! Do you want to
make her worse! Be quiet, can't you, and be quick. I've got no time
to waste."
Jessie subsided into silence, a little moan alone escaping her as she
clung to her grandmother.
"It's simple enough," he went on, turning to Mrs. Dawson, "I want my
daughter, and I've come to fetch her. You've had her for five years,
and now I want her for five--or fifteen, or fifty," he added, "just
as it suits me."
"You can't--you've no right--you deserted her. She is ours."
"That's just where you make a mistake, old lady," he sneered, his
face lighting up with an ugly mocking smile. "She is mine, not
yours, and I've every right to her. I didn't desert her, and you
can't prove I did, and I guess if we went to law about it, it would
be you that would be in the dock for stealing her, or receiving
stolen goods, so to speak, from her mother, who stole her."
"You knew where she was!" gasped Mrs. Dawson, stunned by this new
aspect of affairs. "You knew poor Lizzie had sent her here--you know
you did."
"Prove it," he said tauntingly. "That's all! Prove it!"
Then suddenly remembering that time was flying, he changed his tone.
"Well, anyhow, you can settle all that to your liking later on, I
can't stay to argue now. I've married again, and my wife keeps a
lodging-house, and wants some one to help her, some one strong and
healthy, like Jessie here, and I've come for her. I didn't see the
fun of paying a girl, when we could get a better one for nothing; and
I came for her to-day because I thought it would be nice and quiet,
not too many about, and not too many leave-takings. Now, Jess, say
good-bye to your granny, I want to be off before the old man gets
back, so as to spare him the pain," with a cruel laugh.
Was there no one to help them! No one to appeal to! Jessie and her
grandmother looked at each other despairingly. They could think of
no one within a mile or two, except Mrs. Maddock and her little maid,
and how could they reach them, and what could they do to help if they
did! A deep, hopeless despair settled on both of them.
"If you've anything you wants to bring along with you," said her
father curtly, "look sharp and get it. I don't s'pose it's more than
I can carry."
Jessie was too stunned to know quite what she was doing. In her room
she had a big old-fashioned carpet bag that her grandfather had once
given her because she so admired the flowers on its sides, and into
this she thrust some of her clothes without in the least realizing
what she was doing. When, though, she came to her little shelf of
books, to a box Miss Grace had given her, a work-basket her
grandfather and grandmother had bought her on her birthday, and a
picture which had been Miss Barley's present, she stayed her hand.
She would not take any of her treasures to be knocked about perhaps
in a busy lodging-house. She would leave them here, they would seem
like a link between her and home--for no other place would ever be
"home" to her, she knew.
She took her little Prayer-book, the one that had been her mother's,
granny had given it to her on her eighth birthday, and she treasured
it dearly; it had her mother's name and her own written in it, and
that seemed always to draw them nearer and form a little link
between.
It was all soon over, and Jessie, without daring to look around her
beloved little room again, crept away back to her granny, her eyes
blinded with tears.
"Granny, you'll 'tend to my rose for me, won't you," she whispered in
a choked voice, "till I come home again, and--and kiss granp for me,
and--oh, granny, granny, what shall I do, I can't go away! I can't!
I can't! I think I shall die if--"
Perhaps mercifully, her father cut the leave-taking short. No good
could be done, not a fraction of their misery lessened by prolonging
it, and before Jessie had finished sobbing out her last words, he had
picked her up and carried her down-stairs and out of the house.
"This way," he said, when he put her down in the road. "I like
seclusion when I take a walk. There's a station I prefer to
Springbrook, it's one I used to favour a good bit," with a meaning
little laugh, "and if I haven't forgot my way all these years, and
they haven't altered the face of the country, the shortest cut to it
lies through these very fields, so step out and put your best foot
foremost."