by a mere brat, a chit as ain’t fit to be tret as a woman at all? Am I
to be gainsayed by the likes o’ you?”
And he shook her violently by the arm.
“I don’t gainsay ye, father,” said she, quietly. “I ’aven’t said
nothin’. I ain’t got nothin’ to say.”
The words seemed to exasperate him to frenzy.
“Oh, you won’t speak, won’t ye?” cried he. “You ain’t goin’ to give the
young blackguard away, eh? Well, then, ye can take what I meant for
_’im_ instead.”
And with a violent jerk he threw her from him, kicking her even as she
fell.
She went down, striking the garden gate, which in her fear she had left
unlatched, and lay, huddled together, with her head in the dust of the
road, and her face as marble under the moon.
He looked at her a moment, muttering curses still, and lurched up the
path again, calling fiercely to some one within as he went.
“Ye’d best come and fetch this precious darter o’ yours, marm,” cried
he. “And ye’d better lock her up when ye get ’er. D’ye ’ear me? Lock her
up, I say! She’s not fit to be let out doors. I thought she were only a
chit,—but she’s a slut, that’s what she is—a dirty slut. But _I’ve_
punished ’er for it! Oh, and I’ll do it again if I find ’er at ’er
tricks! That I swear! So now ye both on ye know.”
A feeble, spiritless-looking woman appeared on the threshold. She gave a
little moan when she saw what had happened, but she attempted no
remonstrance, only ran foolishly crying down the path to where the
figure lay motionless in the dust.
But Bess, though stunned and bruised, was not dead. As her mother slid
an arm under her head to raise it, she turned towards her.
“Never mind,” she gasped, “it ain’t so bad. Father’s been drinkin’—’e
didn’t mean no ’arm. Take me indoors, mother, or the neighbours’ll see.”
Mrs. Benson looked round nervously. There was nothing she minded so much
in the world as “the neighbours seeing” anything.
But luckily it was night, farm work was over, and the farm buildings
that clustered close together opposite the house were deserted and
silent: and the village proper lay further down the hill.
Bess tried to sit up, and the woman helped her; she helped her with her
arm, but word of comfort for the young and sore spirit there was none.
“Whatever ye must needs go and take up with that young Chiswick for I’m
sure I don’t know,” whimpered she. “Ain’t there trouble enough a’ready?
You did ought to ha’ knowed better—your father so set on agin them
Chiswicks as ’e is! One’d think there weren’t no other chaps about! But,
Lor’, ye can’t count on girls!”
She had her arm round the slender waist and helped the drooping figure
up the path. And in the kitchen she set her in a chair and wiped the
blood from her forehead, and then took her up and put her to bed. It was
done deftly enough, but all the time the same moan went on till the
child was glad when the candle was taken away and she was left to her
thoughts.
For in her thoughts she could live over again the happy moments that
were so near in the past ... and of the future she would not think. That
was grim enough, for she guessed pretty surely that her home would give
her nothing but what it had given her to-night, and Charley was gone:
gone to some unknown spot in that vast and unknown London, that to Bess
was as the wilderness itself.
She had not put it too strongly when she had said that her fight would
be a worse fight than another’s.
It _was_ a bad fight, but it was a brave one. For a while there was a
lull in the persecution; either sobriety brought shame for the brutal
assault on his daughter, or the departure of young Chiswick from the
village removed his excuse, but anyhow Farmer Benson quieted down to
sullen moroseness within-doors, and to bitter attacks upon his neighbour
without.
Christmas came and went, and on Christmas Day Bess wore a face so bright
that her mother looked at her wondering, and her father swore beneath
his breath in sheer perplexity.
The night before a red-haired little maid had run into the kitchen with
eager eyes, and the girl’s heart had leapt into her mouth. Luckily there
had been no one by, but Bess had snatched the child in her arms and
carried her into the orchard, kicking and screaming at the indignity,
ere she had dared to ask her for what she carried. It was a letter,
addressed A. B., and was supposed to be for some person unknown.
Bess took possession of it, in exchange for a good scolding for
instructions of secret delivery not adhered to, and a bright penny for
acid-drops. And then she ran away into the wood.
The leaves were all off the trees, and lay rotting in the purple
brushwood; a hard sky looked on a hard and frozen land, and there was a
promise of snow in the air in place of the soughing of the wind in the
watching forest on that night when every gust had borne a tale of love
through the moonlight.
But Bess knew nothing of wind or weather: Charley was beside her once
more; his kisses made her heart beat again, and her face was hot in the
frost as it lay, in her thought, against his. He was well, he loved her,
he had never looked at another girl, he had got work at last, and he was
coming back for her soon. And she kissed the letter as girls do, and
cried over it in her joy.
That was why her face shone over the plum-pudding as it used to do when
she was a little maid, and that was why the Christmas bells were sweet
to her.
But Christmas went by, and New Year went by, and the frost held
unrelenting sway, and Bess drooped. The crispness went out of her pretty
hair, and her tall young figure grew quite too slim, and her fair, fresh
skin became wan and transparent. The mother sighed, as any mother must,
but dared make no remark, for she lived in terror of her man, and if it
was for love of one whom he had said must not be loved that Bess grew
pale,—pale she must grow, and there was no help: Farmer Benson never
changed his mind, other folk had to change theirs.
But it was not only with the hunger of love unsatisfied that Bess was
growing white; her health was strange, and a great fear was growing in
her mind. Yes, young as she was, she was too much of a country girl not
to know very well what things meant, and an awful chill struck at her
heart.
What should she do? Whither turn for help, with whom consult, in whom
confide?
Her mother? She loved her mother, and would never have dreamed of
blaming her for being what she was; but was it wonderful that she should
feel the burthen would only weigh the heavier on herself for
endeavouring to share it with one who was too weak to bear any part of
it? Perhaps—perhaps if she had known more of mother’s love she would
have trusted it a little, and perhaps she might have been right; perhaps
even that wavering heart would have swelled to a sense of its greatest
duty, have yearned to protect that which it had borne. But Bess never
gave it a thought.
“Not to worry mother” had always been her motto, it was her motto still.
The one person in the world who should have helped her, she held to be
useless; the one person in the world who would have helped her was far
away, and knew naught of her distress.
For that one cherished Christmas letter was the only one that she had
had, and in that he had given her no address to which she could have
written, even had she dared. He had said that he was changing it, and he
had said that he was coming—coming very soon.
So she waited, hoping every day that “very soon” might mean the morrow;
but her smile grew rarer and sadder, and her eyes more wistful and her
cheek more white.
One Sunday in early February, when the sun was shining gay upon the
crisp snow and icicles hung rainbow-tinted from the cottage-eaves,
Farmer Benson strode into the farm kitchen. His wife was busy mixing the
Sunday pudding, but Bess, contrary to her wont, was sitting listless in
a chair. She rose quickly as her father entered, but not before he had
had time to notice her attitude.
“Now what’s that puling face for, pray?” said he sharply. “Let’s ’ave
none o’ them airs and graces ’ere. It won’t pay wi’ me, I can tell ye!
No, nor get ye a ’usband, neither!”
Bess looked up with a new fear in her face, and Mrs. Benson said,
half-appealing: “What, Lor’, she don’t want a ’usband yet awhile, do
she, John? She’s but a child, sure_ly_.”
“Get out wi’ yer ‘_do she, John_!’” snarled the man. “Most women’s
pleased to get their darters out o’ hand, but you’re such a lazy one ye
want to keep ’er ’angin’ round to do yer work for ye, I suppose? But
whether you want or whether _she_ wants, she’s got to ’ave one. A child
she is, but if she’s woman enough to play tricks, she’s woman to ’ave a
’usband. And a child does as it’s bid.”
Bess gave a great start and went paler than ever, and her father held
his bleary eye fixed fast on her.
“Yes, _she’s got to ’ave a ’usband_,” repeated he doggedly, emphasizing
every word, “and ’igh time too!”
“What d’ye mean, father?” faltered the girl faintly.
“I mean what I says,” insisted he, still watching her. “Ye’ve got to
’ave a ’usband if ye can get one, and one o’ my choosin’ too, and that
in just about as jolly quick time as I can do it in! Ye’ve got yerself
talked about i’ the parish, a-prowlin’ round with a young vagabond at
dead o’ night, and I ain’t a-goin’ to ’ave no girl o’ mine talked about,
not if I knows it!”
“It’s ’ard lines, that it is,” sniffed the woman irrelevantly. “And we
with on’y that one.”
“It’s ’ard lines to ’ave such a slut for a darter,” snarled the man,
drawing up his bloated figure to its awful height and turning his
drink-sodden face upon his wife. “The Bensons ’ave been respectable folk
ever sin’ I can remember, though _you_ be a bit of a fool, Mary, and I
ain’t a-goin’ to ’ave ’em blowed upon.”
“I _can’t_ get married,” faltered Bess, with a break in her voice.
“Oh, can’t ye!” sneered the father. “We’ll soon see about that,
leastways if there’s a man fool enough to take ye. And that’s where I’m
comin’ to. Jim Preston, from over Harraden way, is a-comin’ in this
arternoon to ask ye to walk out wi’ ’im. ’E’s not much to look at, but
’e can keep a wife, and ’e saw ye over in the town one day, and was flat
enough to fancy ye. Ye’re lucky to git the chance, and ye’d best catch
’old of it. Leastways, if ye don’t, I’ll know the reason why.”
“I can’t git married, father,” was all Bess said again.
And then the man went up to her with his heavy fist raised above his
head, as on the night when she had come home from her tryst in the wood.
She shrank against the dresser, and Mrs. Benson murmured frightened
words beneath her breath.
But he seemed to think better of it, for his arm dropped at his side,
and he turned from her with a muttered curse.
“Yes, I’ll know the reason why, so sure as my name’s John Benson,” he
repeated. “And if I find you sittin’ pulin’ and whinin’ ’ere over that
darned scapegrace lad o’ Ben Chiswick’s—damn ’im!—I tell ye fair and
square I’ll turn ye out of ’ouse and ’ome.”
“I knowed it’d come to this,” moaned the mother.
“Come to this?” laughed he. “Ay, and it’ll come to wus afore I’ve done
if ye can’t make ’er mind my orders, marm. Ye may think it’s tall talk,
miss,” he added, turning to his daughter again, “but as sure as this is
the Sabbath Day and there’s a God above us, I’ll turn ye out sooner than
see ye wed to Ben Chiswick’s son. I’ll turn ye out, be the disgrace what
it may.”
He brought his great fist down on the dresser with a thud that made the
plates and dishes rattle on the rack, and turned upon his heel.
At the door he faced her once more, with the latch in his hand.
“Jim Preston ’ll be round somewheres about three o’clock,” said he.
“Ye’d best look alive arter dinner and smarten yerself up.”
After that first shrinking from his hand, Bess had not moved while he
had been speaking. She had not even dropped her eyes. And now that he
was gone, she just sat down again quietly, but with a sort of slowness
that told of momentarily spent energy though not of waning courage.
“Ye’ll give the young man a nice welcome, leastway, Bess,” begged the
mother, half frightened without knowing it, of this silent daughter,
whose moods and intentions were as a foreign tongue to her. “Even if ye
did fancy young Chiswick a bit, ’e’s left the place, and out o’ sight ’s
out o’ mind wi the men, they say. Very like ’e knowed it weren’t no go,
for they do say th’ old man’s as set agin father as father’s agin ’im. I
call it main reason’ble o’ the lad to take ’isself off: most girls fancy
another lad afore the one they weds. I did myself—’andsomer than John ’e
was—but, Lor’, what’s to be, ’ave got to be. And there’s no tellin’ ye
mightn’t take to this Preston chap once ye got used to ’im. Anyways
ye’ll speak the man civil. I don’t know whatever I shall do wi’ father
if ye don’t.”
“All right, mother,” said Bess quietly, “I’ll speak ’im civil.”
The winter evening fell softly.
Jim Preston had been and gone.
He had proved to be “not much to look at;” indeed, a stout, plain young
man, with a scanty wit, but Bess had been kinder to him than if he had
been smart, for he had paid her no court, and for the matter of that had
scarce spoken half-a-dozen words to her.
And now he was gone, and for a while at least he would not come back,
and she sat alone, trying to think what she should do.
The garden stretched away on the right towards the common, but at its
foot it ended in a sort of dry water-cress moat, beyond which were
pastures where the cattle grazed in summer, but that were now deserted
and barren, staring at the barren trees that flanked their two sides.
Snow lay white over them and clung to the broad frost-bitten leaves of
the winter cabbages in the garden; snow was sprinkled on the privet
hedge, and the skeleton boughs of the beeches and maples that began the
wood were set clear and black upon a brilliant frosty sunset. The sky
was the softest thing to be seen; and all unconsciously Bess kept her
eyes on the sky, and forgot the hard earth, and dreamed of love again.
Her song still had the same old rhythm; there had crept into it first
one little natural womanly moan of regret because Charley had not heeded
her presentiment—had not taken her with him, but the burthen of it had
not changed: she loved Charley—Charley loved her; Charley would come
back, he would come back soon. It was only a matter of waiting, of being
plucky a little longer, and all would be well yet. To be brave, to be
silent, to let matters take their course, and to wait and to trust—that
was her only instinct, and that instinct she obeyed.
So when her father came in that night from the “Public” he found her
restored to her usual simple sweet serenity, and was appeased in his
wrath; the silly girl had thought better of it, said he to himself, and
would be safely married yet before the year was much older.
But he did not quite know his gentle daughter. To him she was a child
still; he did not guess that in the last few months she had become a
woman: a woman strong to suffer because she loved.
Lady Day drew near, Lady Day when Charley had promised to come back and
fetch her that they might be wed. But there was no news of him; no
letter had come save that one long ago, and the fear that had come upon
Bess was a certainty, and she knew that she could not wait much longer.
March that had come in as a lion bid fair to go out like a lamb. A
sudden fit of balmy spring weather had sprung upon the heels of the
cruel winter; the wood had a tender flush over its brown bareness that
told of tiny buds struggling forth into the new world, a hope and a
promise of green leaves and of blossoms, of summer and the sun. A few
primroses opened pale petals to the unwonted warmth, like the wondering
eyes of little children; a few violets in warm, moss-covered corners
burst their buds amid sheltering leaves; the almond tree in the garden
began to look pink, and the old thorns on the common to stud their black
boughs with the tiny white stars that first tell of a winter that is
past; the birds twittered and Bess sang, for it was Lady Day—the spring
was come and the sun of love shone fair.
But, lo! a shower struck across the world; the sky had grown black in a
moment, the geese on the common huddled drearily together, the ducks
waddled disconsolate beside the pond, the chickens in the yard stood
under shelter, and the little newborn lambs ran to their mothers for
comfort in the meadow.
Through the sheet of wet a thick, squat figure pounded along the shining
road towards the farm. Bess could see it from the parlour window where
she was dusting the china. It was Jim Preston, and her heart sank a
little and she wished the rain would not patter so against the window;
she noticed weather now-a-days as she never used to do.
He undid the latch of the gate and came up the garden path.
Bess drew back behind the window-curtain; somehow she hoped he would not
see her, she hoped she might not have to see him. She had seen him
several times since that day of her father’s brutal bidding, but she had
never been frightened of him, for he got so little—so very
little—“forrarder,” but to-day a sudden instinct bade her beware. It was
a working day and she had not expected him.
He knocked, but she did not move.
“Bess,” called her mother from the kitchen, “open the door, I can’t go
just now.”
Still she did not answer.
The woman pushed open the door of communication.
“Don’t stand gapin’ there, child,” whispered she. “Didn’t you ’ear a
knock? Why, Lor’, it’s Mr. Preston,” she added, peeping through the
muslin and seeing the broad back on the threshold. “It’s a good job
you’ve got a clean frock on. Look sharp, I ain’t fit to be seen. I must
go up-stairs and change.”
And she went into the kitchen again and closed the door softly.
There was no help for it; Bess opened the front door.
Preston turned round, he looked a bit shame-faced; he had on his best,
but it was wet and he looked his worst; he put down his umbrella and
stood there fumbling with it.
“Won’t you step in?” she said at last.
He crossed the threshold, and then she saw that he had a letter in his
hand. Something in the look of it made her heart beat. She pushed open
the door of the sitting-room and went in before him.
“I come across a little maid down at the foot of the ’ill,” said he,
closing the door after him, “and she asted me if I was a-comin’ up to
the farm. I don’t know how she guessed I might be, but she said I was to
give ye this ’ere letter ’cos she’d got to go to school, and she’d come
up in the arternoon for the penny.”
Bess held out a trembling hand and he put the letter into it.
“But it ain’t for you, are it?” said he, puzzled.
There did not seem to be much blood in the whole of the girl’s body
before, but all there was rushed to her face now; her eyes shone and a
faint smile flickered across her lips.
“Yes, yes,” murmured she, forgetting caution in her joy; “it’s for me!”
She did not open it, she held it in her hand gazing at it. She knew well
enough what it said—it said that he was there, waiting for her, coming
to her, loving her: the knowledge that she had it to read when she liked
was enough.
“You’re never ’vertising for a situation,” said Preston, aghast, “and
your father so well to do!”
The words recalled her to herself.
“No, no,” she said quickly. “O’ course not.”
Preston looked away, twirling his cap in his hands. He did not like to
ask her why her own name was not on the letter; that would have seemed
like prying. So he was silent.
“Won’t ye sit down?” said Bess, in a minute. “Father’s out, but he’ll be
back soon, and mother ’ll be down in a minit. Unless ye’d like to leave
a message?”
“No, I ain’t got no message,” said he. “I seed yer father this morning.”
He paused, and then added nervously: “If the truth’s to be known, I come
to see _you_.”
Bess did not answer. She was not surprised, and it did not occur to her
to pretend to be so. She was vexed, but looking down at the letter in
her hand she was so happy that she forgot it.
He woke her from that dream.
“I seed yer father this morning,” he was repeating. “He said ’e thought
I’d best not wait till Sunday come round again.” He paused once more,
and then with a blush blurted forth—“’E said as ’ow ’twas ’is opinion I
was a-beatin’ about the bush too much, and you’d sooner ’ave the thing
done and settled with off-’and.”
“Done and settled with,” faltered Bess quite awake now!
“Yes—regardin’ me and you,” he went on more courageously. “It’d be a
good marriage. I ain’t no beauty, nor yet much for smartness, may be.
But I can give ye a comfortable ’ome, and I ain’t got no bad ’abits. I’d
make ye a good ’usband, s’elp me God.”
She put her hand to her head. The words recalled something to her, but
she was so dizzy she could not remember what. Then it flashed across her
that Charley had used them down there in the wood, under the falling
leaves the night when he had kissed her good-bye.
She sat down, looking at her letter.
“I’ve been to blame,” she said. “I oughtn’t to ha’ let ye come at all. I
ought to ha’ told ye at the first.”
“What?” said he.
She looked up at him with contrite eyes.
“I couldn’t wed ye,” she answered. “I couldn’t—no ways. Ye wouldn’t wish
it if ye was to know.”
“I know they say there’s another chap,” said Preston bluntly. “But they
say ye can’t ’ave ’im anyways, so ye might just as well ’ave me as set
and fret ’ere. Ye’d ’ave a comfortable ’ome and no worry. I ain’t a
worritin’ sort.”
“Ye wouldn’t wish it if ye was to know,” repeated Bess softly. And then
she rose and made a step towards him. Something was on her tongue,
something inspired by his honest, stolid face. But it was never said.
A door banged in the background, a heavy step ground the kitchen floor;
her hand fell at her side and her mouth twitched, and her father flung
the door open and stood before them.
He looked at them both and laughed.
“Well, ’ave ye settled it at last, Jim?” said he. “My word, we was
spryer at catchin’ ’em o’ my time.”
There was silence and his face turned sour.
“Well, out wi’ it, man,” said he.
“Miss don’t seem to fancy me,” said the poor fellow, driven to speak.
“What?” roared the farmer, turning to her.
His ruddy colour became purple, his eyes grew small and wicked;
travelling downward from her face they fell upon the letter which she
still unconsciously held.
“What’s that?” said he, snatching it from her.
She drew in her breath with sudden dismay and held out a trembling hand.
“Don’t, ah, don’t!” she cried. “It ain’t for you.”
He laughed harshly.
“It ain’t for you, anyways,” he said, looking at the superscription.
“And as I don’t know some one o’ the name o’ A. B. in this ’ere ’ouse,
I’d best open it and find out who _’tis_ for.”
And he tore the cover as he spoke.
The girl tottered where she stood, and stretched out a hand to steady
herself against the mantelpiece.
Preston had made two steps towards the door, but a furious gesture from
the farmer had been more than he dared disobey, and he stayed where he
was, still twirling his hat in his hands.
The old man’s face grew livid as he read; then, with a muttered curse,
he crushed the paper in his hand and tossed it into the fire.
Bess made no effort to save her property; the flames curled round it and
swallowed it at once. Her lips had parted as though she would have cried
out, but no sound came from them; she only leant a little more heavily
against the mantelpiece and her face went white.
Her father made a step towards her, and pushed her into a chair.
For an instant he glared at her; then slowly putting his hands in his
pockets, he turned to the crest-fallen suitor.
“Ye ain’t pressin’ enough, man!” laughed he unpleasantly. “Try her
again. She won’t say ye nay. That’s on’y coyness. Oh, no, she won’t say
ye nay.”
And he slapped Preston loudly on the back, laughing again, and so passed
back into the kitchen, still muttering, “Oh, no, she won’t say ye nay.”
But still Farmer Benson reckoned without his host.
Bess sat still, and the young man looked at her askance from time to
time.
“Were the letter from t’other chap?” asked he at last.
“Yes,” she said.
“It’s a pity ’e burned it,” declared Preston sympathetically. “P’r’aps
it might ’ave told ye somethin’ as ye wanted to know.”
“Yes,” assented Bess, “it’s a pity ’e burned it.”
“D’ye think it might ha’ been to tell ye the lad had changed ’is mind?”
asked he.
She did not smile. She shook her head.
“No,” she said. “He’s a-comin’ back to fetch me.”
“Oh,” said Preston, “he is, is he? Will yer father stomach it then, d’ye
think?”
“I don’t know,” said Bess, looking at him. “But there’ll be some way.”
No misgiving occurred to her in confiding her secret to this new suitor;
instinctively she felt he was her best friend.