JESSIE'S BIRTHDAY.
The morning of Jessie's birthday rose bright and clear. How well I
remember it, and every trivial feature connected with it, which,
apparently but little noted at the time, impressed itself indelibly
upon my mind! Often afterwards, in thinking of that day--and how many,
many times have my thoughts dwelt upon it I--a rift of light has
pierced the black cloud which overshadowed it, and I have seen myself,
as I stepped into the street soon after sunrise, stooping to pick up a
pin which lay on the pavement. I have awoke in the night, sobbing in
bitterest grief, and this smallest and most uneventful of incidents
has been the clearest thing I have seen in connection with that day.
Other incidents as trivial are clear to me--a costermonger wheeling
his barrow, loaded with fruit; a policeman standing by a lamp-post
chewing a piece of straw; a woman who brushed past me humming a line
of a song. I see the exact arrangement of the fruit in the
costermonger's barrow; the face of the policeman is as familiar to me
as if he had been an intimate friend; I hear the few words the woman
hummed, with the precise and delicate intonations she gave to them.
And yet, had these incidents occurred at the North Pole, they could
not have been more utterly disconnected from the great and sorrowful
event which made the day memorable to me.
My mother had not been well during the past week, and for a day or two
had been compelled to keep her room. On one of these days I had gone
to Mr. Rackstraw's office for Jessie, and had learned that she had
left an hour before my arrival. Hastening home, I found her by my
mother's bedside, nursing my mother. Hearing my step on the stairs,
Jessie had come to the bedroom door, and had whispered to me
indignantly:
'If I had been in your place I think I should have stopped at home
with my mother, knowing what a comfort my presence was to her, instead
of running after a foolish wilful girl.'
Before I had time for reply, my mother had called out, in her thin
sweet voice:
'Jessie, what are you saying to Chris?'
Then Jessie had left us together, and my mother, drawing my head on
her pillow, told me how kind and gentle Jessie had been to her, and
made my pulses thrill with delight by her praises of the girl whom I
loved with all my soul. Something noticeable had occurred within an
hour after that. Going into the parlour downstairs, I noticed that
Jessie had a pair of new gold earrings in her ears. Now I was sure
that she had not worn them when she met me at the door of my mother's
bedroom. They were of a pretty and graceful pattern, and became her. I
had not given them to her; who had? I looked towards uncle
Bryan----but, no; he was not the giver, for his eyes were fixed upon
them suspiciously and disapprovingly. It hurt me to see them in her
ears, but I would not ask her about them, preferring the pain which
lay in ignorance. Besides, I would show Jessie what confidence I had
in her, by waiting until she chose to tell me of her own accord who
was the giver. But Jessie said not a word on the subject.
On Jessie's birthday my mother was better, although not quite well. We
had arranged between us that there should be a little feast at home in
the evening, in honour of Jessie, and that Jessie should not be told
of it beforehand. I contemplated another surprise for Jessie, and I
consulted my mother concerning it.
'Nothing would please Jessie so much as having one of her friends at
our little party.'
My mother looked doubtfully at me. Since we had lived in uncle Bryan's
house, no stranger had ever sat down at our table.
'I don't think uncle Bryan can possibly object,' I said. 'It is only
Josey West, Jessie's best friend, and one of the kindest-hearted
creatures in the world. Before you knew her five minutes you would
love her, and I believe she would even take uncle Bryan's fancy,
strange as he is.'
'Will you ask him, or shall I, my dear?'
'You had better,' I answered; 'you have more patience with him than I.
If he refused me, I should quarrel with him perhaps. Tell him she's
deformed, and as good as gold.'
A few hours afterwards my mother said,
'Your uncle says we can do as we please. He consents, my dear.'
'Ungraciously, of course,' I added; 'but never mind, so long as Josey
is here. Not a word to Jessie, mother.'
I enjoined secrecy also on Josey West, who was really glad of the
opportunity of making my mother's personal acquaintance.
'I shall throw my arms round her neck,' said Josey, and kiss her the
moment I see her. And as for you,' she added, with a fair disregard of
sequence in her speech, 'you are a wise young man. Now what made you
think of me at all?'
'Because I knew it would please Jessie,' I answered honestly, 'and
because I want to make Jessie's birthday the happiest day in her life
and mine.'
She pinched my cheek merrily, as though she understood my meaning.
I had fully resolved that on that day I would ask Jessie to be my
wife. Tortured almost beyond endurance by the doubts and difficulties
which surrounded me, I had in some way gathered courage to look my
position steadily in the face, and the moment I did so, the way seemed
clear before me. I became strengthened immediately, and the fair
promise which hope held forth appeared realised in anticipation. I set
aside all obstacles for future consideration, and mentally leaped out
of the entanglement of feeling which had brought so much discomfort
into our lives. 'It is for me to speak,' I thought, 'and to speak
plainly and manfully.' I painted the future in the fairest colours. My
prospects of success were growing brighter and brighter; my sketches
for the Christmas story which had been intrusted to me to illustrate
were approved of by the author and the publisher, and I felt I only
wanted opportunity to rise far above the sphere of life which, in the
natural course of things, I could have expected to occupy. 'Jessie's
love for the stage,' I thought, 'and her wish to become an actress,
only arise from her thoughtfulness of her future, and from her state
of dependence on uncle Bryan. Well, I can clear away all doubt; I can
offer her a good home; and I can release her from uncle Bryan, and, if
she wishes, can pay him what she thinks she owes him.' I resolutely
closed the eyes of my mind on my mother's declaration, that wherever
our home was, uncle Bryan must share it. I knew too well that it would
be impossible for Jessie and me to be happy together, with him as a
member of our household. All these things could be considered and
settled by and by, when Jessie had promised to be my wife. I
reproached myself that I had not spoken plainly to her before now; I
had, as it were, driven her by my faint-heartedness to do what she
might not have done, if she had had a protector whom she loved and who
loved her. All this and other reasoning of the same nature I carried
out exactly in the way which best suited my hopes, and at length I lay
in my cloud-built castles at peace with myself; for it was not to be
doubted that my dearest wishes would now be surely realised. I had an
instinctive consciousness that Josey West was thoroughly acquainted
with the position of affairs between Jessie and me, and knowing her to
be my friend, I was convinced that she would have warned me if she had
had any doubt of Jessie's affection for me.
So that it was all clear sailing. What would come, would come, but the
bliss which I should presently taste of, knowing Jessie to be mine and
mine only--the bliss which I was enjoying already in anticipation--was
all sufficient. Outside our own two personalities there was nothing
else to be considered. Nothing else? No one else? No; for this one
greatest of all joys secured, all difficulties which once seemed to
threaten to mar its fulfilment _must_ melt away, as surely as snow
melts before the sun. I pleased myself with this commonplace metaphor,
and utterly overlooked the common sense of things (common sense,
indeed, in this case being the very slave of sentiment)--utterly
overlooked the possibility that the current of others' feelings, of
others' likes and dislikes, of others' ideas of right and wrong, could
run in a different direction from that down which I was sailing with
my hopes realised. It is thus, I suppose, sometimes with other selfish
natures than mine.
I was up and out early in the morning. I could not sleep the night
before, and wishing to give Jessie a bouquet of fresh flowers, I had
determined to walk to Covent-garden to buy them. I had a bouquet made
of the sweetest and loveliest flowers, and I took it to our house by
the back way, and hid it in my workroom. How many times I looked at
it, and how in every delicate leaf I found a sentiment which formed a
connecting link between me and Jessie, it is unnecessary here to
describe. In the afternoon I had to go to the jeweller's for the watch
for Jessie, the inscription on which could not be completed before;
and when I held it in my hand and read the words, 'From Chris to
Jessie, on her eighteenth birthday. With undying love,' I saw Jessie's
beautiful eyes looking into mine, and I uttered an exclamation of
delight which must have satisfied the jeweller that his work was
approved of. Then there was the ivory brooch shaped in the form of a
true lover's knot. Perhaps Jessie would allow me to fasten it in the
bosom of her dress, as she had allowed me to take the ribbon from her
neck, which was now round mine, with the locket she had given me on my
birthday. No one but I had yet seen or knew of these offerings of
love. It was to be a day of delightful surprises.
I was at home with my flowers before breakfast.
'What made you go out so early this morning, Chris?' Jessie inquired
over breakfast.
'That's a secret,' I answered gaily; 'you shall know to-night.'
My mother had already questioned me in private, and I had easily
satisfied her. Something unusual occurred when we had finished
breakfast. Jessie went to uncle Bryan's side, and spoke to him.
'Do you know it's my birthday to-day, uncle Bryan?'
'I have heard so.' Then after a short pause: 'May it be a day of good
remembrance to you!'
Nothing more; not a kiss, not even a hand-shake. And yet she invited
it in the tenderest manner, as she stood before him, bright and
beautiful, in a new light print dress, with a small lilac flower. I
never see a dress with such a pattern without an odd sensation at my
heart. She did not move from the spot until he, after some mental
communing, I think, turned from her and went into the shop. I
experienced a feeling very much like hatred towards him for his
hardness and insensibility.
My mother took Jessie's hand.
'May your life be bright and happy, dear child!'
She hid her face in my mother's bosom for a little while in silence;
then she raised her face, and they kissed each other. Ah, the world
was bright with such a flower in it!
'And you, Chris?' she said presently, holding out her hand to me.
'I shall wish you nothing until to-night,' I said, with an effort of
great self-restraint, 'except in my heart.'
She nodded, and smiled, and then busied herself about the room,
insisting that my mother should sit and rest while she did the work of
the house. But my mother, laughing, said that she could not allow it,
as Jessie would find out all her secrets; then ensued fond coaxing and
teasing, which ended, as I was afraid it would do, in my mother
whispering to Jessie that we were going to have a little feast that
night in her honour, and that Josey West was coming to spend the
evening with us.
'A nice one you are to keep a secret,' I called merrily after them as
they went out of the room with their arms around each other's waist,
like mother and daughter; 'it's a good job I didn't tell you
everything.'
What with my work and other duties, I saw but little of Jessie during
the day; and in the evening I dressed myself in my best, and went for
a walk, with the intention of not coming home until past eight
o'clock, when Josey West would be at our house, and when everything
would be prepared to celebrate Jessie's birthday in a befitting
manner. I carried out my programme faithfully, and entered the parlour
with a beating heart and flushed face. The room was very bright. My
mother had on her best cap and dress, and in the rapid glance I cast
at uncle Bryan, who was behind the counter, as I walked through the
shop, I fancied I detected some change for the better in his
appearance; I fancied also that he expected to see some one with me.
Josey West was in the parlour, and the dear little soul was holding my
mother's hand in hers with tender feeling. They were already the best
of friends. My mother stood on tiptoe to look over my shoulder.
'Whom for, mother?' I asked.
'I was looking for Jessie, my dear. Has she not been out walking with
you?'
'No, mother.'
'Ah,' exclaimed Josey West briskly, 'she'll be in presently. I dare
say she is going to surprise us with something.'
Unable to keep my secret any longer, I said that I had something to
surprise Jessie with when she came in; and I brought the flowers from
my workroom, and placed them on the table. Then I showed them the
brooch and the watch; before I knew it, Josey had opened the case, and
read the inscription, and pointed it out to my mother.
'And is it so, really?' Josey asked tantalisingly.
'Why, you knew it was so,' I answered, very hot and red.
And my mother left Josey, and came and pressed me fondly in her arms.
But where was Jessie? She was nowhere in the house.
'Perhaps she's at mine,' suggested Josey; 'run round, and bring her. I
dare say she's waiting for you there.' This with the wickedest of
laughs.
But Jessie was not at Josey West's house, nor was she at home when I
returned. Our perplexity soon turned to alarm. We looked at each
other, to see whether any one of us held the key of Jessie's absence;
my suspicions lighted on Josey West, but a frank look assured me that
I had no right to suspect her. For an hour I walked about the street
watching for Jessie.
'Can anything have happened to her?' my mother asked.
Uncle Bryan was in the room when my mother spoke. He also, in his own
way, shared our alarm.
'Mother,' I said, inspired by a sudden thought, if Jessie comes while
I am away, do not let her go out again. I shall not be long.'
My thought was to go to Mr. Rackstraw's office to make inquiries,
although I knew full well that the office was closed hours ago. But I
could not remain still. As I turned to go from the room, a boy's voice
in the shop arrested my steps. He was inquiring for Mr. Bryan Carey
and my mother. Uncle Bryan, answering the lad, came in with a letter,
addressed to my mother. I saw that the writing was Jessie's, and I
took the letter from his hand.
'I _must_ open it, mother,' I said. The letter contained these words:
'I have gone away, and shall not return. Forgive me for all the
trouble I have brought among you, but I think I have not been entirely
to blame. Do not be sorry that I have gone; I have caused you too much
pain already. It will be useless, if you find where I am, endeavouring
to prevail upon me to return. I would starve rather than enter the
house again.
'JESSIE.'