The day of parting came. He stood on the quay at Liverpool and watched
the great boat out of sight. A mist filled his eyes; but when, at
last, he turned on his heel and faced reality once more, a courage
rose within him, and he resolved to conquer or to perish. He would
conquer—conquer—conquer. All the way to London the train seemed to be
repeating that burden, seemed to be branding it, stamping it in
deep-bitten letters on his heart of hearts. And with that repetition
mingled an ineffaceable memory of her and her fine courage. They had
kissed good-bye that morning in the room of their hotel, and again in
the tiny cabin where there was scarce room to swing a cat. “Believe in
me,” he had whispered, her slim body close pressed to his own; and
once more “Believe in me, believe in me!”... “If I didn’t believe in
you,” she had answered, “I would just drop overboard, and no more
said.”... “And if there’s anything else, when you get over there,
you’ll tell me?” She had understood him.... “I’ll tell, of course I’ll
tell;” and then: “It’s no fun being a woman, is it, Jim?” she had
added, with a little laugh.... Now in the train he fed on those last
moments, and he would conquer or perish. “Conquer—conquer—conquer,”
echoed the on-rushing train.
He was in Seacombe that night, and had given notice next morning. “Got
another job?” asked the manager; and “Yes, in London,” answered young
Baker. The other seemed to envy him his chance of escape. A month from
then, armed with a first-class character and seven pounds in gold, Jimmy
set out for the metropolis. He had told his father as much as he dared
tell that unromantic old man. He hadn’t been home for his holiday this
year, he said, because he wanted to get away somewhere quiet and think
about his future. Now he had come to a decision. Unless one had capital
or influence, banking was no good; for a poor man it was best to learn
about some staple article like woollens or cotton or coal, and stick to
that. His father said: “We’ll see,” and the rest of that week-end passed
much as usual.... “D’you know, I think you’re right?” said the old man
on the Monday morning; “I never thought much of that banking, but your
mother says it’s a genteel trade, almost like parsoning or being a
lawyer.”
Jim Baker went up to London, and these West-Country folk being a sturdy
stock, no one at home, or even at Seacombe, had any doubt but that he
would find a living. Mamie, meanwhile, had removed to Buffalo, New York,
and had there begun her school teaching. Letters came and went; at first
by every post, then not quite so often, and at last it was agreed that,
when there was nothing of any consequence to say, a post-card would be
enough. “I don’t want you to be _worried_ by all this,” wrote Mamie;
“you’ve got your work to do, and I guess I’ve got mine.” Sometimes to
the romantic youth she seemed the least bit hard-hearted. He mustn’t let
the thought of her hinder him, she insisted; yet often she wrote two
letters to his one.
Baker’s business hours were spent in looking for the staple article. He
tried several before he dropped on to his feet; cocoa to begin with,
then clocks and watches, and, finally, leather. He resolved to stick to
leather—firstly, because everybody used it; and, secondly, because he
felt instinctively that the man who had engaged him was of the sort who
would give a fellow a chance. This gentleman, a middle-aged Scotsman,
Campbell by name, had a warehouse in Bermondsey, and to him young Baker
went as invoice clerk. Now he wrote leather to Mamie, who answered for a
while on cards. A suspicion flashed across him during this fancied
period of neglect; but she had said no word about _that_—and she had
promised. The suspicion died down with her first long letter. She had
removed to Cleveland, where she had taken a new position. That explained
it all, and Mamie was forgiven.
The next year he spoke French and German after a fashion of his own, and
could attend to foreign customers. In the autumn he was promoted to the
warehouse and allowed to sell. One day he went out and came back with a
contract running into four figures; and then, instead of an increase of
salary, he stipulated for a small commission. His employer made no
opposition; indeed, Mr. Campbell rather preferred this new arrangement.
Baker was beginning to put by money. And from across the ocean came an
answering whoop, shouts and ecstasies of triumph, as, step by step,
these two drew nearer to the Promised Land. Her letters had now become a
spur, a call—never a goad, never a lash; but there they were, egging him
on, a challenge and yet a support, a martial music playing him into
battle. In the night he blessed her; often he lay awake, groping for the
memory of that sweet slim body.... So passed the years till he had made
a home for her.
The long-awaited day had dawned at last. His commissions had reached the
sum they had agreed; with his savings he had taken a modest house and
furnished it. She had only to walk inside. He told his chief, now become
his friend; he took him into his confidence and unfolded their whole
story.
“So that’s what put the devil inside you!” cried Campbell, and slapped
him on the back. “Go you off to Liverpool,” he added, “and don’t come
back till you’re wanted. Make it a week, Baker; for you’re not
indispensable, though you think you are. And tell the dear girl I sent
you, and that I want to shake hands with her—she’s given me the best
salesman in all Bermondsey, d’ye hear that?”
Jimmy heard it and laughed; and there was a pride in his laughter as
well as a deep joy. Few men had a wife like his, he knew—scarce one in
all he had run across these six hot years. Arrived home that night, he
found the last letter she had posted from the other side.
“Husband and lover,” she wrote, “hold on to something tight. I have a
dear surprise for you. I am bringing your boy to his father. I never
told you before, because I wanted you to be free, because I wanted you
to go ahead and not bother about me and about us. He was born in the
spring, when I only sent post-cards. That was why I only sent
post-cards, and that was why I removed to Cleveland afterwards. I had my
marriage paper to show, so it didn’t matter much, and I let out and
worked for the two of us; and now he’s close on six years old. He’s just
like you, Jim: the same sturdy limbs, the same clear forehead, and good
blue eyes. With him I have been able to bear all this separation. He
knows you and loves you, and to-day he is mad with joy, because, at
last, we are going to live with father. Forgive me for hiding this from
you; but I didn’t want to be a drag upon you. I wanted you to have a
clear road and go the shortest way. When you meet us at Liverpool,
you’ll tell me whether I did right.”
“My God,” cried Jimmy Baker, “my God, I’ve got a son as well! And it was
like her, too—like her to say nothing and stand aside for me!”
V
In Liverpool Baker met them, and the boy was just as she had described
him, with his father’s eyes and forehead, and strength of chest and
limb. That subtle something which makes blood know its own blood, flesh
its own flesh, united these two on the landing-stage. Mamie stood aside
holding in her tears, as father and son hugged one another for the first
time. He had kissed her before the child, and she was glad of that. His
quick embrace, his look of pride, had been a reassurance, a reward, that
wiped out in one stroke the pain of those long years, their doubts,
their fears, suspenses, and privations. From a slip of a girl she had
grown into splendid womanhood; and he, the lad that she remembered, was
standing there—a man.
They left the boy with grandparents and aunts, a whole cloud of new
relations; and then alone they stole off to Seacombe and Dunster, and
the shadow of Dunkery Beacon.
It was May. Earth, sea, and sky were tender with their own tenderness;
in the youth of all things green, new fledged, or bursting into flower,
they found echo and symbol of their own renewal. Lovers they had been
here, when he had served in “that old bank”; and lovers they were once
more, now that steadfastness and self-mastery had brought them a far
deeper passion.
“Would you go through it all over again?” he asked her, knowing her
answer ere he spoke.
“Over and over again, if it had to be—but God is merciful to lovers,”
she replied. “I have learnt that thinking—thinking how it all happened.”
“I too,” he said. Few things there were that these two had not thought
together, though time and ocean rolled between.
London claimed them, and work and their new home. Mr. Campbell invited
himself to supper on the evening of their arrival.
“The living image of you, Baker,” he said, when Jimmy, junior, was
introduced, “the living image!” And then, “I want you to stay on with us
in Bermondsey; you can have a share—call it ‘Campbell & Baker,’ shall
we, Mamie?” For the old ruffian had insisted on addressing Mamie by her
Christian name.
The offer was accepted, and in parting, “Only one man in a thousand
could have done what you have done,” said Mr. Campbell; “and only one
woman in a hundred thousand, Mamie. You’ve done the impossible; you’re
geniuses,” he ended, laughing at them; and, as an afterthought, “If my
boy ever gets married on the quiet and plays the fool, I’ll break his
blethering neck for him!”