Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "This is the boy, Mr. Laurence."]
MILES MURCHISON
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF
"MISS CON," "SWEETBRIAR," "READY, AYE, READY!"
"LEAST SAID, SOONEST MENDED," "FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS,"
"DAISY OF OLD MEADOW," "OLD UMBRELLAS," ETC.
LONDON
JAMES NISBET & CO.
21 BERNERS STREET
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. A DAY'S PLEASURING.
MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY.
II. ON THE WAY.
MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY, (continued).
III. HOW IT ALL HAPPENED.
MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY, (continued).
IV. FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW.
MRS. KINGSCOTE'S STORY.
V. RESULTS.
MRS. KINGSCOTE'S STORY, (continued).
VI. A STEP ONWARD.
MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY.
VII. A PLACE FOR MILES.
MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY, (continued).
VIII. A TALK WITH MR. LAURENCE.
MILES' STORY.
IX. TRUSTWORTHINESS.
MILES' STORY, (continued).
X. WISE COUNSEL.
MILES' STORY, (continued).
XI. A DIFFICULT MOMENT.
MILES' STORY, (continued).
XII. LITTLE MISS ADELA.
MILES' STORY, (continued).
XIII. "SPOILT," BUT "SWEET".
MILES' STORY, (continued).
XIV. IN THE PONY CART.
MILES' STORY, (continued).
XV. AN IMPROVED STATE OF THINGS.
MILES' STORY, (continued).
XVI. LOOKING BACK.
MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY.
MILES MURCHISON.
CHAPTER I.
A DAY'S PLEASURING.
MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY.
I NEVER shall forget that day,—never! Not if I live to be a hundred
years old.
Till then I hadn't known real trouble in life—worth calling trouble,
I mean. Of course there were worries and bothers, like in most
people's lives. Things went sometimes cross, as I suppose they must;
and clothes wore out too fast, and the children would be fractious
or naughty, and measles and chicken-pox had their turn, and there
wasn't always money enough to get what we needed.
But still, as I say, I hadn't known real trouble in all the sixteen
years I'd been married, nor in all the twenty years I'd lived at home
before that. I had such a happy home in my girlhood, and Jervis had
been all along such a good husband to me. I won't say he never spoke
a sharp word; but then I won't say I never did neither; and if he had
his faults, I had mine too. Anyhow, he worked hard and steady, and he
brought home his wages regular, and he didn't spend his time nor
earnings at the public-house, and we had a tidy little sum growing
at the Post Office Savings Bank, and he and I were in good health,
and the children were well.
We lived at Littleburgh, and my husband was foreman in the building
works, and he was trusted and liked. I didn't wonder neither—I who
knew him as only a wife can know her husband. Some men are trusted
and liked by outside people, and their own wives could tell a mighty
different tale if they chose to speak out, which most wives won't do;
but it wasn't so with Jervis and me.
For some time we had gone on, without so much as a day's journeying
away from home. Jervis wasn't given to gadding about, or finding his
amusements anywhere and everywhere except in his own home, nor
spending on pleasure what properly we'd ought to lay by for our
children. And as for me, why, I had every single thing to do in the
house—all the cleaning and cooking, and washing and working, and
looking after the children; and that means a deal more than the men
ever think. It wasn't likely I should have time for running about,
leaving things to take care of themselves.
Sometimes I do wonder, when I see maidservants in nice places, with
good food, and all sorts of comforts, and kind mistresses, and no
cares, I do wonder when I see them in such a hurry to go and get
married, and set up for themselves. Not as I'm saying a word against
girls marrying, when it's right and proper for them, if it's a good
sober steady man that's in question, and if he has regular work, and
if there's a store laid by against a rainy day, and if the girl is fit
to manage a little home and to do for her husband comfortably, and if
neither of them are in too great haste; why, of course, there's no
objection whatever. To have a little home of one's own sounds nice,
and it ought to be nice, and it may be nice; but folks don't know
beforehand what a deal of toil is wanted to keep it nice, nor how many
get tired of the toil in a little while, and let it go nasty and get
dirty and messy and untidy, more like to a pig-stye than a home.
More especially when a lot of children come, and when one don't feel
good for anything, and work never ends, morning, noon, nor night.
Well, as I say, I wonder sometimes, knowing all this. For the change
from a good place to married life in a cottage, or maybe in two or
three rooms, is oftentimes a change from light work to hard work, and
from ease to poverty. When a girl grumbles at what she has to do in
service, and wants to get married, she don't guess how much more
she'll have to do, when every single thing depends on herself. Seems
to me, a good husband is a gift from God, and a happy home's the same;
but there's none too many of either in the world.
I wasn't in service before I married Jervis, but I was the eldest of a
lot of children, and my mother made me work hard and no mistake.
So much the better. It was a good training for my married life.
But I always do think to this day that Jervis and I would have been
wiser, if we had waited just a few years, and had laid by more. Then,
instead of only a little sum being ready when trouble came, it might
have been enough to be a real help, and we shouldn't have been near
so dependent on others. It is all right telling us to trust for the
future; and so we ought; but all the same we've got to provide for
ourselves, and not to go on in a happy-go-lucky way, just taking our
pleasure, and hoping things 'll all come right somehow. That's not
trust; it's laziness and selfishness. People ought to think of their
children, if they should have any.
Well, if I run off on this, I shall forget all about the story I've
got to tell; and that wouldn't do at all. Most folks would rather hear
a story than be preached to.
It came all as a sort of surprise to me one day, when my husband said
to me unexpected-like—
"Annie," said he, "I've set my mind on a day by the sea."
"You have, Jervis!" says I; for I couldn't think whatever he was at.
"A nice long day by the sea," says he. "I'll get a day off work—
they'll give it me, I'm always so regular—and we'll go early.
We'll get to Ermespoint by ten o'clock," says he, "and we won't be
home again till past nine at night."
"It'll cost a lot," said I.
"That's the first thought with you," says he. "And I'm not blaming
my little woman, either." He often called me his "little woman"—not as
I was so especial small, only I was sort of thin, and I'd small bones;
and though he wasn't uncommon tall, he was of a broad make, with big
hands, and very strong. "I'm not blaming you for it," said he. "If you
weren't such a careful body as you are, why, we shouldn't have such a
comfortable home as we've got. It's the woman of a house has to do
with that, I know well enough," says he. "But all the same, Annie,
I do think we've earned a day's pleasuring; and I don't think it'll be
money thrown away. I'd like to be out of it all for once. I spent
a day in Ermespoint years ago, and I've never forgot it; and I'd like
the children to have just such another day to look back on."
Well I didn't go against him, though I couldn't help thinking what a
nice sum all those fares together would make to add to our savings
in the Post Office Bank. Not only him and me, but Miles and Louey, and
Rosie and Bessie. And only the two youngest would go for half-fares.
Louey was over twelve, though she didn't look it; and some of the
neighbours advised us to pass her off for younger, but Jervis wouldn't
hear of it. "I'm not going to tell lies for nobody," said he in his
sturdy sort of way; "and I don't see as it's any less dishonest to
cheat the Company than to cheat a man. Louey's over twelve, and she
shan't make believe to be under."
That's how it was Jervis got to be trusted. Nobody ever found him out
in untruthful or crooked ways, and so they got to know they might
depend on him always.
Well, as I was saying, I wouldn't go against him, though I had my
doubts if he was wise, and I've often and often wished since that we
hadn't gone!
And yet maybe that's a foolish wish. For we did what we thought to be
right at the time, and nobody can do more. It's no manner of use
to judge, after things have happened, by what couldn't be guessed
beforehand. Besides, what did happen don't show that we were wrong
to go. Trouble don't always mean punishment. It's often sent just
to do us good, like medicine given to a sick child, and it may be the
very best thing that could happen. And if we hadn't gone to Ermespoint
that day, but had stayed at home, who's to say that something quite
as bad mightn't have come to us some other way?
Jervis had no difficulty in getting a day off from work, though it
wasn't a Bank holiday. He asked it so seldom, that the masters said
"Yes" at once. We had a fine day too. Right glad we were to see the
sun go down, with red streaks across the sky. Jervis said, "Red at
night is the shepherd's delight;" and then he told us there were other
good signs too, most likely meaning fine weather. The air was dry; and
the swallows had been flying high; and there wasn't too clear a view
of the distance.
He was in the right too. We woke up to a beautiful July day—
all sunshine and blue sky. I'm sure I didn't sleep much the night
before, and the children said they hadn't either; and we were all
ready for an early breakfast, so as to get off by the eight o'clock
train.
Jervis had on his Sunday coat, and he did look so nice in it, you
can't think. I always felt proud of my husband in that coat. Not that
I didn't feel proud of him in his working clothes too; but then
I suppose I was proud of him for what he was inside; and in his Sunday
coat I was proud of him for what he was outside. A woman does like her
husband to look nice, you know, and I'm pretty sure a husband likes
his wife to look nice. And though one may say folks don't love each
other for their looks, yet it is wonderful what a lot of difference
looks make in one's feelings. Anyhow, I know I liked to see Jervis
in his Sunday coat; and I know he liked to see me in my Sunday bonnet,
which was quiet but pretty. He wasn't too busy that very morning
to tell me how nice I looked in it. And I was proud, of course;
why shouldn't I be? What's the woman made of, I wonder, who doesn't
like her husband to tell her she looks nice?
We had to wait a while on the platform, because the train was late;
and Rosie and Bessie each held one of his hands, and Louey kept watch
over the lunch-basket, and Miles never left my side. That was always
the way. Louey had always been a quiet sort of independent child; and
the two little girls, but most of all our pretty Bessie, were my
husband's great pets; and Miles would do anything for me. If we had
any favourites among the children, I suppose Bessie was her father's
favourite, and Miles was mine; yet it isn't fair to talk of
favourites, when we loved them all so dearly. Miles was fourteen
and Louey twelve, and Rosie and Bessie were nine and seven. Nobody
could call Louey or Rosie pretty, but little Bessie was lovely.
Miles had just done with his schooling, and Jervis hoped soon to get
him into the building trade. The worst of the matter was, that Miles
didn't care to be a builder. He was a quiet boy, fond of books, and
fond of writing; and he'd always had a hankering after something
different. But Jervis said that was nonsense, and of course the boy
must do as he had done. So there was just a little difficulty between
the two, and I suppose that was why Miles turned more than ever to me.
He knew I felt with him always, whether or no I could help him.
Miles had such a pleasant face. I don't think it was only because I
was his mother that I thought so. He wasn't handsome, and handsomeness
don't matter much, but he had such a bright look, and he was so true,
and he never was rude or rough; and if a gentleman or lady spoke to
him, his cap was off in a moment. To be sure, I'd been particular
about my boy's manners, which is more than some mothers can say, and
he's thanked me for it since. I've never had no notion of letting my
children grow up like a set of young bears, without a thought of how
to behave themselves.
The train came puffing up, and we all got into a third-class
compartment, where nobody else was. The children were delighted,
because they could move about and chatter without disturbing folks.
Presently Miles said to me,—"That's the life I should like, mother,"
as we passed a farm house, standing all by itself in the country.
"Perhaps you wouldn't if you tried it," said I; for I knew there
wasn't a chance of any such life for him.
"I should, though," said he. "I know what I like."
Then Bessie asked her father, "Is Ermespoint a very pretty place?"
I suppose the children had asked this question a hundred times, but
Jervis never grew tired of answering it.
"It's the prettiest place I ever saw," said he. "There's high cliffs,
you know, and a sandy beach; and rocks here and there; and beautiful
waves rolling in. I've only been once, but I did say then, if I could
choose a home for myself, I'd choose to be there. Likely as not,
if that came about, we'd be wishing ourselves back at Littleburgh."
I wondered if he'd heard Miles and me the minute before.
The train was a slow one, and it stopped at all the stations. When we
had gone by a good many we came to a biggish town, and there we waited
longer than usual. My husband got out to stretch his legs, and we all
thought somebody was sure to get in. The children didn't want this,
for they knew I wouldn't let them chatter and move about, if it would
be a bother to other people. I've no notion of letting my children be
a plague and trouble, so that everybody must dislike them. I mean
I hadn't in the days when they were children.
Up till just the last moment nobody came; and when the bell was rung,
and the guard was slamming the doors, we thought we were safe. But
just at that moment a young gentleman came rushing along the platform,
full speed, with a porter after him, carrying a bag. "Anywhere!
third-class will do," says he; and the porter opened our door, and he
came in with a leap, just as the whistle sounded, and the train began
to move; and Jervis helped to pull in the bag.
So we weren't alone any longer, and I can remember how disappointed
the children looked, and how quiet they got, all of a sudden.
Nobody spoke at all at first, except that the young gentleman said
"Thanks" to my husband. I think that was all he could say, for he
seemed to have had a desperately hard run, and he just sat panting
for breath.
It comes back to me how he looked that day—the first time I ever set
eyes on him; little thinking he and we should have so much to do with
one another. He didn't seem older than Miles, though he really was
near two years older; and he had the brightest blue eyes, all ready
for a laugh, even when he could hardly draw his breath. A lot of
curly light hair peeped out from under his cap, and there was a colour
in his cheeks that I shouldn't have liked to see in my children's
cheeks—such a bright pink patch, and all round his lips as white as a
tablecloth, with the run and the breathlessness. I wondered if his
mother felt anxious about him. The panting lasted longer than it ought
to have done, though he tried to hide it; and I could see that he
didn't like to be noticed.
Presently he seemed better, and I saw him looking at the children, and
they at him. Then he fixed his eyes on Bessie, and tried to get her
to smile. She always had a smile ready, so he got what he wanted;
and then she turned shy, and hid her face on Jervis' shoulder.
"You're not afraid of me, are you?" says the young gentleman.
"She isn't used to strangers, sir," said my husband.
"Then we won't be strangers," said he. "Look here!"—and he pulled
a toy out of his pocket, a thing with legs, and when a string was
pulled it whirled round, and the legs flew out like mad. He made
Bessie pull the string, and soon she was laughing, and as pleased
as anything. "You'd like to have it for your own, wouldn't you?"
said he. "I meant to take it to my little sister, but I'll get
something else for her, and you shall have this." Then he put the toy
into Bessie's hand, and he looked up at Jervis in that frank easy way
of his, and asked,—"Where are you all going?"
"Just for a day's pleasuring, sir, on the shore at Ermespoint,"
says my husband.
"Ermespoint! Why, that's my home,—only I haven't been there yet,"
says he.
He should call a place his home when he had not seen it; and I suppose
we looked puzzled, for he went on to explain. His father was just made
Rector there, and the family had gone down a week or two before; but
the young gentleman himself had been staying with friends for the
first few days of his holidays. So now he was on his way to "make
acquaintance" with his new home.
"My father's name is Kingscote," says he—"The Rev. Philip Kingscote.
And if you're down on the beach, I dare say I shall find you out
by-and-by. I always go to the shore, one of the first things, when I
am near the sea. Won't it be jolly to live there always?" says he.