RUPERT'S RETURN.
No; mother wasn't her old self altogether; I soon found that.
The great blow of father's death had left a weakness. She was busy
and contented, and didn't murmur; but there was just a touch
of weakness. Most likely there always would be, the doctors said.
She took to calling me "Kittenkins" after I came back, and we
couldn't cure her of it; so soon we left off trying. It didn't
matter, so long as she was pleased.
There was always a sort of petting manner too, as if I was a little
child again; and I didn't wish to cure that. Sometimes we fancied
she was remembering how bitter she'd been against me, and was trying
to make up for it. Any way, I felt I had deserved the bitterness,
and I didn't deserve all this love.
Mother would often speak of father, but never of the way he was
killed, nor of my wrong behaviour before. Often she called me
"Poor little Kitten-kins!" in such a grieved voice, I thought she was
pitying me for having put him to pain; but one could not be sure.
We soon settled to live in Redland. The surroundings of Claxton would
be bad for mother, everybody said, bringing back her great trouble.
Besides, Mary could get any amount of work near Bristol, and in
Claxton it would be hard to keep ourselves afloat. Mother had a small
annuity, but not enough to live on in any comfort.
So I took to dressmaking with Mary, and grew to like it. Redland air
suited me, and I got stronger, and was able to sit many hours a day
at my needle without suffering. Mother was a help too, only we
couldn't let her do very much.
For some months Mary heard almost nothing of Walter or his wife. Then
he began to write again, and we soon found out why. He wanted money.
I think our being with Mary was a great protection for her.
He couldn't be always running in to screw money out of her, for he
didn't care to meet me; and he wouldn't have seen mother on any
account, or so we thought.
Mary made it a rule to tell us when she heard from him, and consulted
mother what to do when he wanted more money. She said mother was so
wonderful clear and sensible on all points of right and wrong, and
whether one ought or oughtn't to do a thing. There was a weakness,
it is true; but the weakness didn't touch that. And it was hard
for Mary to judge, being pulled by her love for Walter, and yet
knowing that the more she helped him the more reckless he grew.
I suppose the "few hundreds" that came with his wife were soon run
through. Then he got some sort of situation, and lost it, nobody knew
how; but Mary had a pretty clear inkling that it was the old trouble:
he couldn't be trusted. And he got another and much poorer situation,
and lost that too.
So then he said he would be off to Canada, which was a good thing
for Mary and us, but for nobody else. A man that can't succeed
in England, because of his unsteadiness and want of right principle,
isn't like to do better beyond seas. Why should he? Crossing the
ocean don't put right principle nor dependableness into a man!
However, it was settled he should go with his wife and baby—poor
little one, to have only such a father to depend on! I couldn't help
thinking how different my case had been!
Mary was to give a good big sum out of her hard-won earnings to help
them out. Walter wrote lots of letters, full of promises; and Mary
sighed over the promises, knowing how little they were worth.
What could one expect from a man who would say anything that was
convenient at any time, and never trouble himself to keep his word?
We didn't suppose he would come to see Mary before he went, but he
did. She had given him so much money, she couldn't afford to go
to him; and indeed mother and I hoped they would not meet, for there
could be only pain for Mary in seeing him.
Mother could bear to hear Walter's name by this time, near upon three
years having gone since father's death; but still she never talked
of him without a sort of shudder. I suppose that was the reason why,
when Mary heard from Walter that he meant to look in on a certain
day, she didn't tell mother nor me a word about it. She only settled
for us to go out for a walk. I couldn't think why she was so bent
on that, making me leave the sleeve I'd nearly finished, and refusing
any delay.
As it happened, never knowing or suspecting that Walter was to be
in Redland that day, mother and I for once went towards Bristol,
instead of on the Downs. Most likely Mary hadn't a doubt that we
should choose the Downs. We didn't, though, for it was close
upon Mary's birthday, and mother wanted to choose a present.
So we walked down Park Street, and into College Green, and spent
a good while looking into the shop windows. Mother had a difficulty
in making up her mind what to get, which wasn't like to herself
in old days; and I had to help her, and yet seem to leave her free.
At last it was all settled, and we were coming slowly back along
the White Ladies Road, having reached a quiet part not far
from home, when all at once I saw Walter Russell bearing down upon us
at full speed, like a steam-engine.
I don't know how it was we hadn't met him going down. He must have
gone round some other way.
Well—there he was; and I saw in a moment that he was changed.
His dress was shabby, and his hair wasn't sleek, and he had a sort
of uncomfortable down-look, as if he didn't care to meet people.
I'm sure he didn't care to meet us, any way. And the jaunty air
was gone.
But, besides the change in him, there was a change in me. The three
years between seventeen and twenty do make a lot of difference,
you know, in a girl's mind and in what she likes. When I saw him
there came a sort of wonder—how could I ever have fancied I cared
for that man? Had I been crazy?
I didn't think for a moment that mother would notice him. I thought
she would pass him by. And I knew he would be glad to rush past,
as if he didn't know us. But she gave him a look, and stopped short
just in his path. So he couldn't choose but stop too.
"Is that Walter Russell?" says mother, and she turned pale as death,
while he went as red as fire.
"Er—yes," says he, with a sort of stammer, as if he wasn't sure.
"Have you been to see Mary?" says mother, fixing her eyes on him,
and I saw him shrink under them.
"Yes," says he sheepishly; "just to say goodbye."
I couldn't go on, for mother had hold of my arm, as she always liked
to do, and I didn't like to leave her, she looking so white. Mother
seemed to forget about me, and Walter and I didn't so much as give
a glance one at another.
"Ah!—to say good-bye!" says mother.
"I didn't think it right to go without," mutters he.
"Maybe not," says she; "if it wasn't a solid good-bye in the shape
of gold and silver you came to her for, Mr. Russell," says she;
and he got as red as fire again. "Ah, I thought so," says she,
as quiet as possible. "Mary is a good unselfish creature; but she's
got herself to provide for, and there's limits even to what a sister
can bear. If I was you, I'd be ashamed to come down on her for help.
She, a delicate woman, and you a strong man, with hands of your own,
and a head too."
Walter mumbled something about "last time he should be compelled—"
"Well, I hope it is," says she. "There's no sort of being compelled,
though, without it is by your own nature. Being compelled to evil
means giving in to evil, neither more nor less. And I can tell you,
Mr. Russell, I'll do my best to protect Mary and her earnings
from you. I say it, and I mean it," says she.
"Much obliged, I'm sure," says he, so I suppose he was angered.
"I've got to be off to my train," he says.
"There's no reason why I should keep you," says mother. "I'm glad
to have seen you this once, and I'm glad to shake hands with you—once
—because you have wronged me and mine in the past, and I have much
to forgive," says she.
Walter just let her take his hand, and then rushed off as hard as
ever he could go. And that was the last I saw of him for many and
many a long year—till I was a middle-aged woman, and he was
a middle-aged man. He'd lived through a peck of troubles of his
own making by then, and he was old before his time, and a poor weak
fellow still; but I won't say we hadn't hopes of him. Maybe he'd got
some wisdom out of his troubles at last.
Well, to go back to the time I'm telling about.
"Mother, why did you stop him?" I asked.
"I don't know, Kittenkins," says she. "I had a sort of feeling that
I must."
"To think that I ever cared for him!" I said.
"I doubt you didn't," says she.
"Oh, but I did, mother."
"You cared a deal for the fuss he made with you," says she. "That's
at the bottom of half the silly marriages that's made; and that's
a wonderful different thing from caring for himself." And then
she says, "He's a bad man."
"He isn't a good man, I'm afraid," said I.
"He's a long way off from that," said she. "There's different sorts
of badness, Kitty. A man may be resolute set on evil, or he may drift
into evil just from not caring. I don't know as it makes much odds
how he comes there—only I'd have more hopes of the resolute man
of the two. For if he came out of evil, he'd do it with a will,
and stay out; but if Mr. Russell's pulled out, he's as like as not
to drift in again."
And wasn't it true?
"Only you wouldn't say there was no hope for a weak man, mother?"
"No," she answered. "There's hope always for every man. God's grace
can keep firm the very weakest. All the same," says she, "I'd sooner
have to do with a man that's staunch by nature, than with a poor limp
thing that's bent by every puff of wind. There's a deal more to be
made of the one than the other," says she.
"Rupert wasn't limp," I said; and it was strange I should have spoken
of him just then. I don't know why I did, except that he'd been
a deal in my thoughts for a great while past. I often wished I could
just tell him I was sorry for all the hard words I'd said.
"Rupert? No," says mother. "Rupert was another guess sort of a man.
Stuff enough there, Kittenkins. And you might have had him,"
says she, with a queer look at me; "only you thought you'd sooner
have a limp thing for a husband."
"O mother, it's no good to talk of that now," I said. "Rupert's
married long ago, I don't doubt."
"I do," says mother, very low.
"And if Mr. Russell wasn't Mary's brother, I'd never give a thought
to him again," I said.
"No, and we won't," says mother, and she patted my hand that lay
on her arm. She had grown so endearing in her ways, much more than
she was used to be before our troubles.
Well, we got home, and mother went upstairs. Mary was in, and I told
her all about what had happened.
Mary said, "Ah! I wanted to spare your mother seeing him!"
But I don't think she was sorry it had happened. She put down
her work and went after mother.
So I was left alone; and I pulled off my hat and sat down to the
sewing-machine. I hadn't been working it for five minutes, when there
was a heavy step in the passage—the front door having been left open—
and then a tap at the dining-room door.
"Come in," I said.
But there was only a second tap.
"Come in," I said again; and as nobody came in, I got up and opened.
"Does Mrs. Phrynne live here?" says a voice which I seemed to know,
yet I didn't directly think whose it was.
A man was standing there, in a big rough greatcoat; not very tall,
but broad and strong. Our passage was always so dark, I only had
a glimpse of a rugged plain sort of face.
"Yes," I said; "this is Mrs. Phrynne's room."
"May I come in?" says he.
"Yes. She is upstairs; but I'll call her," I said.
"No, don't," says he.
And he walked in and shut the door. For one second I was frightened;
then—
"Kitty!" says he, "don't you know who I am?"
"Rupert!" I cried out. "O Rupert, I'm so glad!"
The change that came into his face! I don't think words can tell it.
I called him "plain" just now, but he wasn't plain then.
The ruggedest face can be made beautiful, if the light of a great joy
is shining through it.
"Kitty, do you mean it? Kitty, you're not glad really! Tell me that
again," says he, all hoarse and shaky.
"Of course I'm glad," said I. "Don't you know how unkind I was before
you went away? I have always wanted to tell you I was sorry."
"O Kitty!" says he, and he couldn't go on.
"But you don't know why we are here, or about poor father?" I said.
"Yes, yes, I've heard all," said he. "I went to my mother first,
and she and Mr. Armstrong told me everything. But I wouldn't let them
write. I wanted to find you out, and see for myself."
He didn't say what it was he wanted to see.
"Where have you been all this while?" I asked. "Sit down, Rupert."
I was noticing how he'd grown taller, and how he was readier
in speech, and didn't slouch as he used.
"Ah! I've lots to tell you," said he. "Been in Scotland all this
while. Got into a goods-yard, and had to begin at the bottom,
as there wasn't anybody to speak for me. And I'm working my way up.
But I'll find something to do nearer home, as soon as ever I can.
And, Kitty—"
"And you never wrote once to your mother all this while!"
"No," said he, "I didn't; and it's been wrong. I didn't see that
so clearly till lately, but it's been wrong, and I told my mother so.
She don't mind now, though, now I'm back. And, Kitty—"
I suppose I knew what was coming. Any way, I didn't try to stop it.
I just sat still.
And when he asked over again the same question he had asked once
before, I never thought of running away. For I was willing to have
him.
* * * * * * * * *
We could not marry for a good while. Rupert had to work his way,
and he had to look after his mother and sister. He had done wrongly,
as he said, staying so long away, and he owed them a lot of help
and kindness.
But I promised I would be his wife one day, when the right time
should come, which wasn't for a matter of four years and more.
Mother and Mary and Mrs. Bowman and everybody was pleased. Rupert had
his faults, there's no doubt; still he had right principle, and he
was warm-hearted, and he did work hard and try to get on. Father and
mother always had said there was "stuff" in him, and it showed more
and more as years went by. Any way, I've never had reason to be sorry
for the answer I gave, the second time he asked me to marry him.
He's been a good husband to me.
I don't say he has ever been my father's equal, for that he isn't;
and Rupert would say so himself. I know he would. But that's not
saying he isn't what he is; and I wish there were a lot more men
as good as my Rupert.
Twenty years later still, Rupert was appointed stationmaster
at Claxton. So then I went back with him to the dear old home
of my girlish days.
That's where I have written all this long story.
THE END.
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