WHAT JESSIE WOULD SAY
JACK felt that matters were coming to a crisis. He would do as the
Vicar had advised. He would see Jessie, and would put before her the
state of affairs, and would ask her to decide.
If she were willing to wait until he should be free to marry her, so
much the better. Jack felt that he could wait any number of years, with
a prospect of Jessie as his wife at the end. If she were not willing,
then he would have to give her up. He could not in either case fail
towards his mother. She was and had to be the first claim upon him.
It was not quite easy to get hold of Jessie alone. She was busy over
her dressmaking, and he was busy over plans and accounts; and by a kind
of tacit agreement, they had put off confabulations upon their own
affairs until other people's affairs should be settled. But Jack now
felt that a quiet talk with Jessie must come off before those affairs
of other people could be entirely settled. The question of the future
home of his mother and of himself might hang upon that quiet talk.
When once a person sets himself to have a thing done, it is usually not
long in being brought about. Despite business and other difficulties,
Jack found himself only two days later walking with Jessie outside Old
Maxham, through a muddy field under a grey sky.
Jessie was unusually silent, seeming more disposed to listen than to
talk, and Jack was desperately puzzled how to begin. He had conned over
so often beforehand what he had to say that it had grown to look quite
easy; and now he could remember nothing of it. So he and Jessie marched
along together in solemn silence.
"I thought you wanted particular to speak to me," Jessie at length said.
"I thought you'd talk to me," Jack answered, cowardly still as to what
he had to say.
"Me talk! Yes, of course, if you like." Then she started off full
swing, and chattered on every variety of subject. She allowed Jack no
loophole for his say, and this was worse than her previous silence. For
some minutes Jessie rattled on about the lifeboat, and the anonymous
gift, and who could have been the donor; and then she slid off to her
own work, and said how nice it was, and how well she was paid, and how
kind Mildred was in teaching her. Next she was skipping off to some
fresh subject; but she had afforded Jack an opportunity, and Jack at
last had the courage to avail himself of it.
"That's just what I'm thinking about."
"What, my dressmaking?"
"Yes, about what you've been saying. Things aren't the same now as they
have been, and I want you to see it."
"I don't see the good," pouted Jessie. "Look! Is that a chaffinch?"
"You've got to listen to me, Jessie, and I've got to say it. Don't you
see, you can go on making money now and laying it by, and I can't. I
shan't be able for ever so long. Every penny that I earn will have to
go to keeping my mother in comfort, and the children. They'll just all
depend on me."
"Well?" Jessie said. She hung her head so that he could not see her
face, and the tone sounded cold.
"I can't tell how long it may be. And it don't seem to me—I should be
right—to let you go on—not knowing—nor—"
Jack's faltering suggestions were nipped. Jessie raised her head,
looked him in the face, and said tersely: "So you want to break it off?
Very well."
"Jessie!" Jack had not expected this, and he was dumbfounded. He knew
now how certain he had felt in his heart of what her answer might be,
and the disappointment was great. A black cloud seemed to have settled
down upon him.
Jessie said no more, and they walked on side by side. Jack's shoulders
were rounded, and he dragged his feet like an old man. Jessie hung her
head once more, and a keen observer, glancing under her hat-brim, might
have detected a small smile quivering at the corners of her mouth.
"Well, you haven't said all you meant to say," she presently remarked.
"I told you—" Jack's voice was too husky to proceed.
"And I suppose you thought I'd want you to leave your mother to manage
for herself, while you just went on working for me? A nice thing to
think!"
Jessie's tone was full of scorn. This was not what Jack had expected
her to say, either. He ventured to look in her direction, and saw two
bright eyes sparkling with tears.
"Jessie—"
"Jack, you're a donkey; that's what you are! I wouldn't have thought
you could have been so stupid!" Jessie stamped her foot upon the grass.
"I wouldn't! You ought to have more sense."
"I've got mother and the children to see to," Jack said helplessly.
"As if I didn't know that! And as if I'd ever look at you again, if you
could go and leave your mother to get on as she could, while you were
only thinking of yourself—well, and of me, if you like! That 'ud mean
the same thing. If you could, I should despise you, Jack."
"Then you think I'm doing what's right?"
"You couldn't do anything else. I only wish I had a mother to work for.
But I have—almost," she added, under her breath.
"Only, you know, it may mean putting off our being married for ever so
long. I can't tell how long."
"There's no need to tell. Let it be put off. So much the better,"
declared Jessie. "I'm in no hurry to get married. Why should I be?
Girls like a bit of freedom first. And I'm comfortable as I am. As for
your mother—if you and me ever do get married, why then she'll be my
mother as well as yours, and I shall have a right to work for her too.
And if we have a home, that home will be hers as well as yours and
mine. So there!"
Jack was not to be at once pulled up out of despondency. "And you're
quite sure, Jessie—you don't think—you wouldn't rather give me up and
take somebody else?"
"Yes, of course I would! That's just what I should like, most
particularly," declared Jessie, with tartness. "Get rid of you and take
up with the first man I can find instead! It wouldn't matter who—not
one bit! O no, anybody would do. I'm not difficult to please, am I?"
Jessie broke into a queer laugh with a sound of tears in it. "O dear,
you men are funny! As if that was my way!"
"I don't want you to give me up. I'd wait any time for you. Only, it
may be years and years."
"It won't be, though. I'm going to make lots of money, and I shall work
all the harder now, thinking about your mother. Why, Jack, don't you
know I'm pretty near as fond of her as you are, and I'd like nothing
better in all the world than to give her a home and to make her happy.
I've never had a mother of my own—anyhow, I can't remember her—and to
be always with your mother would be lovely. She's the dearest thing,
and she never grumbles. She isn't a scrap like aunt Barbara. The only
thing is that you might get jealous. I'm not sure, but I almost think I
love her more than I love you; and I don't mind telling you so, either.
And as for giving you up,—if you are tired of me, I'll give you up this
minute, and I'll say good-bye, and I'll tell you not to cross my path
again in a hurry. And if you're not tired of me—why—then—things can go
on as they have gone on. And if you can't lay by yet for me, I can lay
by for your mother, and we can wait a while longer and make the best of
it. So you needn't be a donkey again, Jock—that's all."
Jack's answer to these various "ifs," though wordless, was unmistakable.
He told his mother about his talk with Jessie. Jack had not meant to do
so at first, only he was used to telling her everything that touched
him closely. He tried not to let her know that the question of her
support had played a prominent part; but her womanly penetration was a
great deal too much for Jack's duller wits. A few adroit questions drew
the whole from him, including Jessie's hot little speeches and loving
words about herself. A curious light came into Mrs. Groates' face, and
her eyes, which had of late been dimmed with tear-shedding, shone again
with almost their old look.
"And you think I'm going to sit with my hands before me, Jack, and you
do all the work?"
"Why, no; you'll keep things going in the house, and there 'll be the
children to see to. You'll find plenty to do,—no fear!"
"I shall take a share of earning money too. I can tell you that. I
don't mean to be a useless burden on anybody. Not even on you."
"You'd never be useless, come what might. And it isn't only me that's
going to work. Miss Pattison has offered to teach Mimy dressmaking, so
that by-and-by she can get work in some of the New Maxham shops. We
didn't mean to bother you about it for a day or two, but Mimy likes
the notion, and I don't think you'll have anything against it. Just
like Miss Pattison, isn't it? And Ted will be through his schooling in
less than three months, and then we'll have to find something for him
to do too. He's a handy little chap, you know. But you and the three
little ones are going to be my charge,—till they can begin to work for
themselves too, which won't be yet awhile. And you will be my charge
always, mother,—mine and Jessie's too, in time, for she says so."
"Bless you both for meaning it! All the same, I'm going to take my
share."
"I'll not have you go out charing. Nothing of that sort. You're not fit
for rough work."
"There's things enough to be done. I'm used to turn my hand to most
things. I'm good at fine needlework; and I can cook first-rate; and
I shouldn't mind a spell at nursing now and then. You won't keep me
in idleness, Jack; thank you all the same. And I'll try to get some
needlework."
Jack protested in vain; and as days went by, he became convinced that
his mother would really be the happier for having a certain amount of
employment. The children would be away a great part of the day, except
in holiday time, and the tiny cottage which was to be their home would
scarcely afford scope enough for so active a little person in mind and
body as Mrs. Groates.
It was quite true, as she had told Jack, that she was not only a very
good needle-woman, but also an efficient cook, and a reliable nurse—not
trained up to full modern requirements, but experienced in divers
illnesses. These gifts might in coming months be turned to good account.
Meanwhile, the move out of the old home into a new one had to be done.
A small cottage, on the outside border of Old Maxham, had been found
for a moderate rent; and enough furniture to make it habitable was
taken thither from "Groates' Store," the rest being parted with to Mr.
Mokes, together with the stores of grocery and aught else that the shop
held.
The act of removal, and settling in, helped to rouse Mrs. Groates, and
to give her new interests in life. It was a pretty little cottage, with
small but not inconvenient rooms, and a tiny garden behind, which Jack
proposed to cultivate in leisure hours.
Since Jessie had not taken him at his word, and had not wished to
break off the engagement, he was glad still to make his home in Old
Maxham. He was by nature very much of a "home-boy," and he did not love
change or novelty. To be within easy reach of Jessie was cheering; and
the daily walk in and out of New Maxham would do him no harm. As Mr.
Gilbert had foretold, Jack gave great satisfaction at the grocer's
where his work now lay; and very soon, from having been taken on for
his Mother's sake, he was highly valued for his own.
"The fact is, I can always trust Groates," Ward was heard to say to a
friend. "There's no shilly-shally about him. He don't pretend to be out
of the way clever; but give him a thing to do, and you may be sure that
thing 'll be done, without any more bother. And the time that's due to
me, he don't spend in amusing himself. I'd trust Jack Groates with a
five-hundred-pound note, and not a doubt in my mind. Yes, it was a good
thing for myself that I ever got him here, and I don't mind saying so,
though it wasn't for my sake, nor for his, that I did get him."
Somebody took the trouble to repeat the main part of this speech to
Mrs. Groates; and any mother will know how pleased she was to find Jack
so well understood.
Jessie heard the same tale, and Jessie took it rather differently, as
girls will. She tossed her head, with disdain. "Anybody might know that
of Jack. He is honest enough, dear old fellow. But he is awfully stupid
sometimes, and there's no denying it."
Jessie was thinking about a certain walk in muddy fields, one dull
afternoon, not far back; and she quite forgot that if Jack had followed
a different tack, and had shown himself too confident, she herself
would have been the first to blame him for conceit.