A SINGULAR EPISODE IN OUR QUIET LIFE.
At this point I am reminded that I have not described uncle Bryan. A
few words will suffice. A tall spare man, strongly built, with no
superfluity of flesh about him; iron-gray hair, thick and abundant;
eyebrows overlapping most conspicuously, guarding his eyes, as it
were, which lurked in their caverns, as animals might in their lairs,
on the watch. He wore no hair on his face, his cheeks were furrowed,
and his features were large and well formed. He possessed the power of
keeping himself perfectly under control; but on rare occasions, a
nervous twitching of his lips in one corner of his mouth mastered him.
This always occurred when he was in any way stirred to emotion, and I
knew perfectly well, although he tried to disguise it from me, that it
was one of his greatest annoyances that he could not conquer this
physical symptom of mental disturbance. He was not only scrupulously
just in his dealings as a tradesman; he exercised this moral sentiment
with almost painful preciseness in his intercourse with my mother and
me. He had no intimates, and he determinedly rejected all overtures of
friendship. His habits were regular, his desires few, his tastes
simple. He appeared to be contented with everything, and grateful for
nothing. If love resided in his nature, it showed itself in a fondness
for flowers; in no other form.
I was nearly eighteen years of age, and the days--garlanded with the
sweet pleasures which spring naturally from a mother's love--followed
one another calmly and tranquilly. Nothing had occurred to disturb the
peaceful current of our lives. Uneventful as the small circumstances
of my past life were in the light of surrounding things, each scene in
the simple drama which had thus far progressed was distinctly defined,
and seemed to have no connection with what preceded it or followed it.
The first, which had occurred in the house where I was born, and which
ended with my father's death; the second, in which my mother had taken
so mournful a part, and which contained so strange a mingling of joy
and sorrow; the third, which was now being played, and which up to
this period had been the least eventful of all. A certain routine of
duties was got through with unvarying regularity. Uncle Bryan's trade
yielded, with careful watching, sufficient profit for our wants; but
I, also, was earning money now, and it was with an honest feeling of
pride that I paid my mother so many shillings a week--I am almost
ashamed to say how few--towards the expenses of my living. And so the
days rolled on.
But in the web of our lives a thread was woven of which no sign had
yet been seen, and chance or destiny was drawing it towards us with
firm hand--a thread which, when it was linked to our hearts, was to
throw strong light and colour on the tranquil days.
A very pleasant summer had set in, and uncle Bryan's flowers were at
their brightest. It had grown into a custom with my mother to come for
me two or three times a week during the fine weather, in the evening,
when my day's work was done. She would wait at the corner of the
street which led to my place of business, and we generally had a
pleasant walk, arriving home at about half-past nine o'clock, in time
for supper, a favourite meal with uncle Bryan. Now, my mother and I
had been for some time casting about for an opportunity to present
uncle Bryan with a token of our affection in the shape of a pipe and a
tobacco-jar; he was so strange a character that it was absolutely
necessary we should have a tangible excuse for the presentation. My
mother found the opportunity. With great glee she informed me that she
had found out uncle Bryan's birthday, and that the presentation should
take the form of a birthday gift. 'It will be an unexpected surprise
to him, my dear,' she said, 'and we will say nothing about it
beforehand.' On a fine morning in August I rose as usual at half-past
five, and made my breakfast in the kitchen; I slept now in the little
back-room on a line with the shop and parlour. Eight o'clock was the
hour for commencing work, and I generally had a couple of hours'
delightful reading in the kitchen before I started. Sometimes,
however, when we were busy, I was directed to be at the office an hour
or so earlier, and on this morning I was due at seven o'clock. I
always wished my mother good-bye before I went to work. Treading very
softly, so as not to disturb uncle Bryan, and with my dinner and tea
under my arm--invariably prepared the last thing at night, and packed
in a handkerchief by my mother's careful hands--I crept upstairs to
her room. She called me in, and I sat by her bedside, chatting for a
few minutes. This was the anniversary of uncle Bryan's birthday, and
our purchases were to be made in the evening.
'I must be off, mother,' I said, starting up; 'I shall have to run for
it.'
'Good-morning, dear child,' she said; 'I shall come for you exactly at
eight o'clock.'
I kissed her, and ran off to work. My mother was punctual in the
evening, and we set off at once on a pilgrimage to tobacconists'
windows. Any person observing us as we stood at the windows, debating
on the shape of this pipe and the pattern of that tobacco-jar, would
at once have recognised the importance of our proceedings. At length,
after much anxious deliberation, our purchases were made, and we
walked home to Paradise-row. My mother had suggested that I should
present uncle Bryan with the birthday gifts, and in a vainful moment I
had consented, and had mentally rehearsed a fine little speech, which
I prided myself was perfect in its way. But, as is usual with the
amateur, and sometimes with the over-confident, on such occasions, my
fine little speech flew clean out of my head when the critical moment
arrived, and resolved itself into about a dozen stammering and
perfectly incomprehensible words. Covered with confusion, I pushed the
pipe and tobacco-pouch towards uncle Bryan in a most ungraceful
manner. My mother saw my difficulty.
'We have brought you a little birthday present, Bryan,' she said,
'with our love.'
He made a grimace at the last three words, and I thought at first that
he was about to sweep the things from him; but if he had any such
intention, he relinquished it.
'How did you know it was my birthday?'
'I found it out.'
'How?'
'Oh,' replied my mother, with a coquettish movement of her head, which
delighted me, but did not find favour with uncle Bryan, 'little birds
come down the chimney to tell me things.'
'Psha!' he muttered impatiently.
'Or perhaps I put this and that together, and found it out that way.
You can't hide anything from a woman, you know.'
Her gay manner met with no sympathetic response from uncle Bryan. On
the contrary, he gazed at her for a moment almost suspiciously, but
the look softened in the clear light of my mother's eyes. Then, in a
careless, ungracious manner, he thanked us for the present. I was hurt
and indignant, and I told my mother a few minutes afterwards, when we
were together in the kitchen, that I was sorry we had taken any notice
of uncle Bryan's birthday.
'He would have been much better pleased if we hadn't mentioned it,' I
said.
'No, my dear,' said my mother, 'you are not quite right. Your uncle
will grow very fond of that pipe by and by.'
My mother always won me over to her way of thinking, and I thought the
failure might be due to the bungling manner in which I had presented
the birthday offerings. I walked about the kitchen, and spoke to
myself the speech I had intended to make, with the most beautiful
effect. It was a masterpiece of elegant phrasing, and every sentence
was beautifully rounded, and came trippingly off the tongue. Of course
I was much annoyed that the opportunity of impressing uncle Bryan with
my eloquence was lost. When we reëntered the room, uncle Bryan's head
was resting on his hand, and there was an expression of weariness in
his face, which had grown pale and sad during our brief absence. My
mother's keen eyes instantly detected the change.
'You are not well, Bryan,' she said, in a concerned tone, stepping to
his side.
'There are two things that disagree with me, Emma,' he replied, with a
grim and unsuccessful attempt at humour; 'my own medicine is one,
memory is another. I've been taking a dose of each. There, don't
bother me. I have a slight headache, that's all.'
But although he tried to turn it off thus lightly, he was certainly
far from well; for he asked my mother to attend to the shop, and
leaning back in his chair, threw a handkerchief over his face, and
fell asleep. My mother and I talked in whispers, so as not to disturb
him. Uncle Bryan was not a supporter of the early-closing movement,
for he kept his shop open until eleven o'clock every night. Very
dismal it must have looked from the outside in the long winter nights,
lighted up by only one tallow candle; but it had always a home
appearance for me, from the first day I entered it. The shop-door
which led into the street was closed, and so was the door of the
parlour in which we were sitting. The upper half of this door was
glass, to enable us to see into the shop. My mother's hearing was
generally very acute, and the slightest tap on the counter was
sufficient to arouse her attention; but the tapping was seldom needed,
for the shop-door, having a complaining creak in its hinges, never
failed to announce the entrance of a customer. On this night,
customers were like angels' visits, few and far between. It was nearly
ten o'clock; uncle Bryan was still sleeping; my mother, whose hands
were never idle, was working as usual; I was reading a volume of
_Chambers's Traits for the People_, from which many a young mind has
received healthy nourishment. I was deep in the touching story of
'Picciola, or the Prison Flower,' when an amazing incident
occurred--heralded by a tap at the parlour-door.
Whoever it was that knocked must not only have opened the street-door,
but must have silenced its watch-dog creak (by bribery, perhaps); or
else my mother's hearing must have played her very false. Again, it
was necessary to lift the ledge of the counter and creep under it,
before the parlour-door could be reached.
My mother started to her feet; and opened the door. A young girl, with
bonnet and cloak on, stood before us. I thought immediately of the
fairy in the cotton-print dress; but no, it was not she who had thus
mysteriously appeared. The girl looked at us in silence.
'You should have tapped on the counter, my dear,' said my mother.
'What for?' was the answer, in the most musical voice I had ever
heard. 'I don't want to buy anything.'
This was a puzzling rejoinder. If she did not want to buy anything,
why was she here?
'This is Mr. Carey's? asked the girl.
'Yes, my dear.'
'Who are you?'
Now this was so manifestly a question which should have come from us,
and not from her, that I gazed at her in some wonder, and at the same
time in admiration, for her manner was very winning. She returned my
gaze frankly, and seemed to be pleased with my look of admiration.
Certainly a perfectly self-possessed little creature in every respect.
Uncle Bryan still slept.
'Who are you?' repeated our visitor, to my mother.
'My name is Carey,' said my mother.
'Oh, indeed!' exclaimed the girl. 'That is nice. And who is he?'
indicating uncle Bryan.
'That is my brother-in-law, Bryan.'
'Mr. Bryan Carey. I've come to see him.' And she made a movement
towards him. My mother's hand restrained her.
'Hush, my dear! You must not disturb him.'
'Oh, I am not in a hurry. But I think you ought to help me in with my
box.' This to me. 'If I was a man, I wouldn't ask you.'
Her box! Deeper and deeper the mystery grew. When the girl thus
directly addressed me, my heart beat with a feeling of intense
pleasure. Hitherto I had been mortified that she had evinced no
interest in me.
'Come along!' she exclaimed imperiously.
I followed her to the door, like a slave, and there was her box,
almost similar in appearance to the box we had brought with us. It was
altogether such an astounding experience, and so entirely an
innovation upon the regular routine of our days, that I rubbed my eyes
to be sure that I was awake. My mother had closed the door of the room
in which uncle Bryan was sleeping, and now stood by my side. I stooped
to lift the box, and found it heavy.
'What is in it?' I asked.
'Books and things,' our visitor replied. 'I'll help you. Oh, I'm
strong, though I _am_ a girl! I wish I was you.'
'Why?'
'Then I should be a boy. There! You see I am almost as strong as you
are.'
The box was in the shop by this time. My mother was perfectly
bewildered, as I myself was; but mine was a delightful bewilderment
The adventure was so new, so novel, so like an adventure, that I was
filled with excitement.
'How did the box come here?' I asked.
'Walked here, of course,' she said somewhat scornfully.
'Nonsense!' I exclaimed; although if she had persisted in her
statement, I was quite ready to believe it, as I would have believed
anything from her lips.
'Oh, you don't believe in things!'
'Yes, I do; but I don't believe that thing. How _did_ it come?'
'A boy carried it. A strong boy--not like you. Isn't that candied
lemon-peel in the glass bottle?'
'Yes.'
'I should like some. I'm very fond of sweet things.'
Quite as though the little girl were mistress of the establishment, my
mother went behind the counter, and cut a slice of the lemon-peel.
'What a small piece!' exclaimed the girl, sitting on the box, and
biting it. 'I could put it all in my mouth at once; but I like to
linger over nice things.'
And she did linger over it, while we looked on. When she had finished,
she said:
'I suppose I am to sit here till he wakes.'
'No, my dear,' said my mother, who had been regarding her childlike
ways with tenderness; 'you had better come inside. It will be more
comfortable. But, indeed, indeed, you have bewildered me!'
The girl laughed, soft and low, and my mother's heart went out to her.
The next minute we were in the parlour again. My mother motioned that
she would have to be very quiet, and pointed to a seat. Before our
visitor sat down, she took off her bonnet and mantle, and laid them
aside. The presence of this slight graceful creature was like a new
revelation to me; the common room became idealised by a subtle charm.
But how was it all to end? An hour ago she was not here; and I
wondered how we could have been happy and contented without her. She
was exceedingly pretty, and her face was full of expression. That,
indeed, was one of her strongest charms. When she spoke, it was not
only her tongue that spoke. Her eyes, her hands, the movements of her
head, put life and soul into her words, and made them sparkle. Her
hair was cut short, and just touched her shoulders; its colour was a
light auburn. Her hands were small and white; I noticed them
particularly as she took from the table the book I had been reading.
Are you fond of reading?' she asked, in a low tone.
'Yes,' I answered. It really seemed to me as if I had known her for
years. 'Are you?'
'I love it. I like to read in bed. Then I don't care for anything.'
Soon she was skimming through 'Picciola;' but looking up she noticed
that my mother's eyes were fixed admiringly upon her. She laid the
book aside and approached my mother, so that her words might not be
lost.
'It makes it strong to cut it, does it not?' was the first question.
'Makes what strong?' My mother did not know to what it was our visitor
referred. I made a shrewd guess, mentally, and discovered that I was
right.
'The hair. To cut it when one is young, as mine is cut, makes it
strong?'
'Yes, my dear. It will be all the better for being cut.'
'Why do you call me your dear?'
My mother replied gently, with a slight hesitancy: 'I won't, if you
don't like me to.'
'Oh, but I like it! And it sounds nice from you. It will be all the
better for being cut! That's what _I_ think. It was nearly down to my
waist. Do you like it?'
'It is very pretty.'
'And soft, is it not? Feel it. When I was a little child, it was much
lighter--almost like gold. I used to be glad to hear people say, "What
beautiful hair that child has got!"'
'It will get darker as you grow older.'
'I don't want it to. I'll sit in the sun as much as ever I can, so
that it sha'n't grow darker.'
'Why, my----'
'Dear. Say it, please!'
'My dear, have you been told that that is the way to keep hair light?'
'No, but I think it is. It must be the best way.' This with a positive
air, as if contradiction were out of the question.
'If you are so fond of your hair, what made you say just now that you
wished you were a boy?'
'Because I do wish it. I think it is a shame. Persons ought to have
their choice before they're born, whether they would be boys or
girls.'
'My dear!'
'Yes, they ought to have, and you can't help agreeing with me. Then I
should have been a boy, and things would have been different. All that
I should have wanted would have been to grow tall and strong. Men have
no business to be little. But as I am a girl, I must grow as pretty as
I can.'
And she smoothed her hair from her forehead with her small white
hands, and looked at us and smiled with her eyes and her lips. All
this was done with such an utter absence of conscious vanity that it
deepened my admiration of her, and I was ready to take sides with her
against the world in any proposition she might choose to lay down.
That she saw this expressed in my face, and that she, in an easy
graceful way, received the homage I paid her, as being naturally her
due, and did her best--again without conscious artifice--to strengthen
it, were as plainly conveyed by her demeanour towards me as though she
had expressed it in so many words. It struck me as strange that my
mother did not ask her any questions concerning herself, not even her
name, nor where she lived, nor what was her errand; and although all
of these questions, and especially the first, were on the tip of my
tongue a dozen times, I did not have the courage to shape them in
words. My mother not saying anything more to her, she turned towards
me.
'Are you generally rude to girls--I mean to young ladies?'
'No,' I protested warmly, ransacking my mind for the clue.
'You were to me just now. You said that I spoke nonsense.'
'I am very sorry,' I stammered; I beg your pardon; but when you said
your box walked here----'
'You shouldn't have asked foolish questions. Never mind; we are
friends again.' She gave me her hand, quite as though we had had a
serious quarrel, which was now made up. Then she nestled a little
closer to me, and proceeded with 'Picciola.'
Nothing further was said until the scene assumed another aspect. I was
looking over the pages of the story with her, when, raising my eyes, I
saw that uncle Bryan was awake. His eyes were fixed on the girl, with
a sort of bewilderment on his face as to whether he was asleep or
awake. He looked neither at my mother nor me, but only at the girl.
Her head was bent over the book, and he could not see her face. I
plucked her dress furtively under the table, and she looked up, and
met my uncle's gaze. Then I noticed his usual sign of agitation, the
twitching of his lips.
'What is this, Emma? he demanded, presently, of my mother.
My mother had been waiting for him to speak. 'This young----'
'Lady,' added the girl quickly, as my mother slightly hesitated, and
rising with great composure. 'Say it. I like to hear it. This young
lady----'
Completely dominated by the girl's gentle imperiousness, my mother
said, 'This young lady has come to see you.'
He glanced at her uncovered head; then at her bonnet and mantle. A
flush came into her cheeks, and she exclaimed,
'Oh, I don't want to stop, if you're not agreeable. I only like
agreeable people. But if you turn me out to-night I don't exactly know
where to go to; and there's my box----'
'Your box!'
'Yes, with all my things in. It's in the shop. You can go and see if
you don't believe me. But if you do go, I sha'n't like you. You have
no right to doubt my word.'
Her eyes filled with tears, and these and the words of helplessness
she had spoken were sufficient for my mother. She drew the girl to her
side with a protecting motion.
'Are you a stranger about here, my dear?'
'I don't know anything of the place,' replied the girl, in a more
childlike tone than she had yet used. 'I have no idea where I
am--except that this is Paradise-row. I shouldn't like to wander about
the streets at this time of night.'
'There is no need, my dear, there is no need. There, there! don't
cry.'
'But of course,' continued the girl, striving to restrain the
quivering of her lips, 'I would sooner do that than stop where I am
not wanted.' She would have said more, but I saw that she was fearful
of breaking down, and thus showing signs of weakness. I looked
somewhat angrily towards uncle Bryan; my mother's arm was still around
the girl's waist. With a quick comprehension he seized all the points
of sentiment in the picture.
'Ah,' he growled, this is more like a leaf out of a story-book than
anything else. You'--to the girl--'are injured innocence; you'--to my
mother--'are the good genius of the oppressed; and I am the dragon
whom St. George here'--meaning me--'would like to spit on his lance.'
'I am sure, Bryan--' commenced my mother, in a tone of mild
remonstrance; but uncle Bryan interrupted her.
'Don't be sure of anything, Emma. Let me understand matters first. How
long have I been asleep--days, weeks, or years?'
'Nearly two hours, Bryan.'
'So long! There was a man once who, at the bidding of a magician, but
dipped his head into a bucket of water----' he paused moodily.
'Yes, yes!' exclaimed the girl eagerly, advancing a step towards him,
with a desire to propitiate him. 'Go on. Tell me about him. I'm fond
of stories about magicians.'
He stared at her. 'Injured innocence,' he said, 'speak when you're
spoken to.' She tossed her head, and retreated, and uncle Bryan again
questioned my mother. 'How long has this little----'
'Young lady,' interposed the girl, with rather a comical assertion of
independence.
--'This little girl--how long has she been here?'
'About an hour, Bryan.'
'Long enough, I see, to make herself quite at home.' He seemed to be
at a loss for words, and sat drumming his fingers on the table, moving
his lips as if he were holding converse with them, and with his eyes
turned from us.
In the silence that ensued, the girl stole towards him. My mother's
footstool was near his chair, and she sat upon it, and resting her
hand timidly on his knee, said, in a sweet pleading voice,
'I wish you would be kind to me.'
Her face was upturned to his. He looked down upon it, and placing his
hands on her shoulders, said in a tone which was both low and bitter,
which was harsh from passion and tender from a softer emotion which he
could not control,
'For God's sake, child, tell me who you are! What is your name?'
'My name is Jessie Trim.'