after a minute, “I understand as ye don’t care to give yer word to no
other chap just now. So we’ll let that be.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He took the door-knob in his hand.
“If I can do anything to ’elp ye, I’d be pleased,” he said. “And if it
should fall through arter all, and ye seemed to feel ye could change yer
mind, why in course I shall allers be willin’, ye know. I ain’t a
changeable man. Ye can bear in mind that it’d be a comfortable ’ome and
no worritin’.”
Bess lifted grateful eyes to his.
“You wouldn’t want it if ye knew all,” she repeated.
“Well, I ain’t a changeable man,” was his reply once more. “And I’ll be
willin’ to serve ye at any time. Good-arternoon.”
He left her and she sat still, gazing into the fire.
She was grateful to Jim Preston—very grateful to him; she felt that she
had one more friend in the world than she had thought to have an hour
ago; still, her perplexity and trouble were greater than anything else
could be. Jim Preston could do no more for her than what he had
done—than promise not to renew his suit. And she sat gazing into the
flames that had swallowed her last hope.
She saw her father join the young man at the garden gate, and walk with
him down the road; she saw him stop suddenly, shaking his stick in the
air, then stride forward, striking it furiously against the stones. She
knew that what he was hearing was in no way appeasing his wrath against
her; but she was past trembling, only she knew that she must make up her
mind at once—before he came home—as to what she must do.
Yes; and there was only one thing she _could_ do: go to Charley. Somehow
or other she must find him and go to him—_at once_. And still she sat
looking into the red embers, where fluttered the gossamer remnants of
her lost letter—the letter that would have told her what to do—where to
find him who alone could save her.
A lump rose in her throat, but she choked it down. That the letter
should have come at all showed that Charley was safe, and if he was safe
he loved her, he would protect her. Why should she cry? Surely she could
trace him somehow!
She swallowed her grief and set herself to think, seriously,
practically, as she had never been wont to think before. But the more
she thought the better she realized that she could not find Charley—that
she had no clue to his whereabouts—that there was nothing, nothing to be
done but to wait till he came.
Yet perhaps the letter had said that he was not coming, that he dared
not show himself, or that for some other reason it was best she should
come to him. Lady Day was past when he had promised her to return, and
perhaps that was the reason. He had told her in that letter where to
come to him, and the letter was gone, and its secret with it.
She rose, pressing her hands to her aching brow. How dared she wait for
him—even a week longer? A week would seem little to him, guessing naught
of her trouble: but if he knew, if he only knew!... For at any moment
her secret might be discovered, and then her father might kill her! Yes,
she believed he would kill her!
Ah, she must go, she must go at once. She must leave home, leave the
village; take refuge somewhere, in some place where she was not known,
and try to find work and invent some means of letting Charley know.
Her mother came into the room. She had her best dress on, but her eyes
were red and she had a scared look.
“What,” said she, looking round, “is he gone? Well, ’ave ye settled it?”
“Settled what?” replied Bess wearily.
“Why, bless the girl, settled to marry Jim Preston, to be sure,” said
Mrs. Benson, peevishly. “It ain’t no good to keep on a-beatin’ about the
bush. Ye’ll ’ave to do it sooner or later.”
“I can’t marry Mr. Preston, mother,” repeated the poor creature in a
dull voice. “I told you and father I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to
_him_ any ways. I’ve told ’im so, and ’e ain’t goin’ to ask me no more.”
Mrs. Benson let herself flop into a chair.
“Ye’ll be the death o’ me, Bess,” she whimpered. “Ain’t goin’ to ask ye
no more! Lord, what’ll yer father say?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl. “I told Mr. Preston he wouldn’t want to
marry me if he knew all, and he ain’t goin’ to ask me no more.”
Mrs. Benson lifted a pair of scared eyes before her daughter and looked
at her searchingly.
“Whatever did ye tell ’im?” whispered she.
“No more than that, mother,” said Bess. “But I can’t never marry nobody
but Charley Chiswick, and if I don’t marry ’im I must bide single.”
“Lord-a-mercy, and to think we must needs come to this!” moaned the
mother. “And we allers ’olding our ’eads so ’igh in the village and fit
to do it too! Nobody won’t be able to say no more that Mary Benson’s
nasty proud! I sha’n’t dare look folk in the face, I sha’n’t! I sha’n’t
dare go to church.”
“Mother,” said the girl, disregarding her complaint and suddenly and
desperately resolving to make one first and last appeal to the only
possible helper she had—“mother, won’t ye ’elp me to marry Charley
Chiswick? Won’t ye?”
Her voice shook for the first time and she looked up piteously.
But the mother turned away her eyes.
“’Elp ye to marry Charley Chiswick!” echoed she stupidly. “Why, father’d
kill me for it, ye know ’e would, Bess! ’Ow can ye ask such a thing and
you knowing ’ow set on ’e is against it all?”
Mrs. Benson fell a-crying again, and Bess turned away with a sigh.
“Why, ’e told me I was to lock ye up if ye ’adn’t come to no
understanding with Jim Preston, ’e did. ‘Mary,’ says he, ‘she ain’t fit
to go out-doors, and out-doors she don’t go till she goes as Jim
Preston’s wife.’ Ye knows as well as me what father is. There ain’t no
gainsayin’ father.”
Bess raked the fire together. The last ashes of her letter had
disappeared.
“Very well,” said she quietly. “Ye needn’t trouble to lock me up,
mother. I won’t come down no more till father sends for me.”
She folded away the duster with which she had been doing her work and
went out of the room. And the mother sat there only feebly crying and
listlessly listening to the young footfall as it lightly shook the
rafters of the old chamber overhead.
The night had descended and the stars shone. There had been a row
down-stairs, and a woman’s scream had pierced to the bedroom where Bess
sat alone in the dark. She had held her breath a moment, but such scenes
were of too frequent occurrence for her to be deeply frightened, and
presently her mother came up carrying a candle in her hand and bringing
the bread-and-water that was to be her only food. She was still crying,
but she did not speak, not even when the girl, with a sudden tightening
at her heart, went up to her and threw her arms round her neck.
“Oh, mother, mother,” whispered she, “I’m real sorry to bring all this
trouble upon ye—I’m real sorry!”
She smoothed the thin, bleached hair and kissed the wrinkled brow, and
the mother cried more copiously, and for an instant strained her
daughter to her breast, but she quickly shook her head, and, as though
afraid of herself, hastened away as she had come, taking the light with
her.
And Bess sat down again and waited.
The twilight was gone, the stars brightened, and the darkness deepened.
The two pine-trees that stood over against the farm-buildings across the
road, shook their solemn heads against the inky sky out of which the
blue had been drained by the stars.
Bess was glad of the stars, for they gave her courage, but she was also
glad that there was no moon, and glad too that although she could hear
the footsteps of a belated labourer echo clear along the road, she could
scarcely see his figure under the opposite hedge.
That which she had to do needed darkness to cover it.
Slowly the house grew silent: her father had been out to the “Public,”
and had come in again; she had heard him grumbling and swearing in the
kitchen as he had grumbled and sworn so often before; then her mother
raked the fire out and the two came up-stairs slowly and went to bed.
Presently the heavy breathing that had put her to sleep many a night
through the thin partition, sounded again along the wall, only to-night
it did not put her to sleep.
When the night was two hours older and the village lay dead quiet, Bess
rose up and silently bade good-bye to all that she had known in her
short, young life: good-bye to the father whom she feared, to the mother
whom she dared not trust, good-bye to the virgin bedroom, good-bye to
all the foolish little keepsakes of childhood; and with dry eyes, with a
spirit that was too tremulous to grieve, yet with a trust as great and a
courage as high as ever, made her modest little bundle of clothes, and
slid noiselessly down the stairs.
She dared not unlatch the door, but the kitchen-window was low and she
managed easily to drop from it into the garden; the hens sat asleep on
their perch, and though the dog stirred it was only to wag his tail and
lick her hand at the first whisper of her voice.
She shivered as she felt the cold night air—shivered in spirit as well
as in body, but Charley was waiting for her, Charley would make all good
to her again, and she would not be afraid.
A bend in the lane was hiding the old house from view, and she turned
and looked at it for the last time: it was the home of her happy
childhood, before her father had become morose and savage, before her
mother had grown peevish and tearful—the only home she had ever known,
for was she not a child still? It was cold and silent, and smiled no
good-bye to her as she left it behind—left it wondering what home would
next be hers and when and if safely she might reach it.
But beside her as she walked lay the wood—barren now of leaves beneath
the wintry sky, but full of many and tender memories, and with the
thought of kisses upon her lips, she went gallantly forth to the
unknown.
The stars shone steadily: she lifted her eyes to them and was comforted,
for they smiled on her as the eyes of her lover. But one fell down the
sky as she looked—fell from its triumphant height, away into the
darkness below the edge of the world. She turned another corner, and was
lost in the deeper shadow of the wood.
A merry April day drew to its close. The buds on the elms had burst from
pink to green, the almond-blossom was at the rosiest of its bloom, the
daffodils along the garden-walk were crowning themselves with gold, the
blue-bells began to colour the brown earth in the graveyard of the very
leaves that had fluttered softly upon a pair of young lovers in October
last.
The sun had just set, and a line of ruddy light glowed behind the still
sparsely-clad trees of that same wood when Charley Chiswick stepped from
the train into the little station below the hill.
He fancied that the porter stared at him strangely, and that two
labourers who met him on the platform grinned as he passed, but he only
nodded to the one and passed the others by, and running quickly down the
steps, took the road to the farm.
A little red-haired maid was playing by the wayside. He stopped and
looked at her, considering.
“Will you take a bit of a letter up to Benson’s for me, little un?” said
he presently.
“Iss,” said she staring at him. “Will they give me a penny for it, same
as Bess used to?”
Something in the turn of the phrase struck a sudden chill to the lad’s
heart, but he shirked investigating the matter and only said:
“What, ’ave you took letters up there before?”
“Iss,” repeated the child. “I carried one up, and Bess giv me a penny.
But it was school-time when post-mistress giv me the other, so I giv it
to Mr. Preston for ’er. And Bess didn’t giv me no penny.”
“I’ll give ye the penny,” said Chiswick, “and another for this ’un if
ye’ll run with it. But ye mustn’t give it to no Mr. Preston. Maybe ’e
never give it to ’er. And ye’d best bide yer chance, and slip it into
’er ’and when nobody ain’t by.”
The child stared open-mouthed.
“But Bess ain’t at ’ome,” said she. “She ’ave goned away.”
His heart dropped.
“Gone away!” muttered he, stupidly.
“Iss, well-nigh upon a month ago,” said the little one.
He passed his hand across his forehead. He had told her to wait—for that
he had nearly got a home ready for her now, and that he was surely
coming to fetch her—coming very soon. She could never have got his
letter. But if she had gone she could only have gone to him. How was it
he had missed her? A horror came over him! Had he ever told her where he
lived in London? A month ago! Where had she been during that long month?
“Maybe she ’ave come ’ome agin now,” said he feebly. “You run up and
see, there’s a good little girl. And if she ain’t there, you ask Mr.
Benson if they ’aven’t got no news of ’er. But don’t say I sent ye,
mind. Only come and tell me arterwards and you shall ’ave a whole
sixpence. I’ll wait for you in the wood—see, yonder by the gate.”
The child nodded and ran away pleased, and Charley climbed the grassy
slope and cut across the common to the wood.
It was not till he was there that it struck him he was standing by the
very gate where he had stood one windy night, seven months ago—with
_her_. It had been a rough night then; yet, though sad indeed at
parting, they were full of courage and hope: the sky was blue now and
the world was full of promise, but in his breast he knew that hope was
dying.
He stood there, gazing. Behind the ricks and barns the smoke from the
farm-house chimney curled up to a cruelly placid heaven amid the budding
boughs of the elms; the sheep browsed peacefully upon the pastures, and
the little lambs played to and fro, but Bess did not come stealing forth
and running across amongst them, joyful too, as he had so often pictured
her to himself at this meeting. Bess did not come, and there was no
peace in his heart; he was frightened—frightened at the awful
“inevitable” that he saw marching upon him.
Presently the little maid issued forth alone, and crept crying across
the mead. It was long before she took courage to come to him, long
before he could still her sobs enough to hear her words.
Farmer had got hold of her, Farmer had sworn at her, and she was
frightened. For when she had asked for Bess, he had said a bad word, and
had talked very loud, and had looked very fierce, and had made her cry.
Pressed as to what he had said, she sobbed out that he had sworn “Bess
would never come ’ome no more,” that he “didn’t know where she was, nor
didn’t care, for ’e never wanted to see ’er no more,” and that any
person, little girl or other, who should come inquiring for her would be
treated “same as” herself.
The sobs had burst into a howl at the end of this speech, but Charley
stood as one dazed, gazing out through the soft evening light upon the
quiet landscape with a mist before his eyes. He attempted no comfort,
and the child cried on, stopping sometimes to gaze at him amazed. But at
last he seemed to shake himself, and, fetching a deep sigh, put his hand
in his pocket and gave a sixpence to the little one, bidding her run
home to tea.
She needed no second persuasion, and when she was gone he turned slowly
away and went down the hill to the station. He had made up his mind now.
If Bess had gone, she had gone to try and find him. He must go back to
London, he must go back to every place in that vast and terrible city
where he had ever set foot. He would not let himself remember that it
was an absolutely foolish and bootless search: it was all he could do,
and he must do it at once.
But at the station they told him that there was no train for an hour and
a half, and he turned into the “Public” hard by to get something to keep
up his spirits before starting.
The bar was full, for it was a Saturday, and tongues were wagging
noisily. But there was a lull as he came in, and he was sure—yes, he was
quite sure this time—that men looked at him curiously.
He nodded carelessly to those whom he knew, and walking up to the
counter ordered his drink.
A young man stood beside it: a short, thick-set young man with flaxen
hair. He didn’t know him, and they did not speak, but a lad of about his
own age lounged up to him.
“Well, Charley Chiswick, gettin’ on pretty fair since ye left the old
place?” asked he.
The fair young man turned round and looked at Charley on hearing this;
he noticed it.
“Yes, thank ye,” said he to the questioner, “nicely. It were a fight at
first, but I’ve got my foot well in now.”
“London?” inquired an old labourer laconically, between the puffs of his
pipe.
“Yes,” replied the lad.
“What trade?” asked a third.
“Carpentering,” said Charley. “I’m in a good firm now—City ways.”
There was a pause, and then the first speaker volunteered the
information that “Farmer Benson ain’t come to no better mind ’bout that
right o’ way, and ’ave took to drink wus nor ever,” and that he didn’t
suppose “Farmer Chiswick’d give in neither.”
“I never knowed my father to give in,” said Charley, half sadly.
“No,” agreed the other, “if old folks weren’t so darned obstinate, there
mightn’t be so much mischief in the world as what there is! It serve ’em
right—it do!”
Charley looked up quickly. There seemed somehow to be more in this
speech than it said; but the fellow who had spoken it slunk away and
retired into the background, and again the lad felt as though many eyes
were upon him; and he began to guess why: folk pitied him. He drank his
glass in silence, and thought he would go and wait in the lanes till his
time was up.
But some one in the background wanted to have his word too, and called
out cheerily:
“So now ye ’ave come back to look arter the young ’ooman yourself, eh? I
call it real ’ansome of ye, Charley, on’y it’s a bit late.”
There was a murmur of “Hush!” all round, but the speaker, who seemed to
have had a drop too much, would not be silenced.
“Preston ’ere’s the one to tell ye most obout _’er_,” laughed he. “’E
’ad the last buss. That old rascal up at the Farm’d ’ave made ’er wed
’im, but ’e can thank ’is stars ’e’s well out o’ _that_.”
Folk surrounded the mischievous talker, and argued with him, and Preston
accosted young Chiswick.
“Don’t ye believe a word of it,” said he in an undertone. “Your girl
wouldn’t ’ave none o’ me. She told me so flat. And I guess that’s why
she runned away.”
“Thank ye,” said Charley huskily, holding out his hand which the other
grasped.
“I’d never ’ave asked ’er if I’d ha’ known the rights of it,” added the
young farmer, “but I live over t’other side o’ the county, and I hadn’t
heard no talk then. But she were true to ye, and if she’d ’ave ’ad a
sight o’ that letter....”
“Ay,” said the lad eagerly, “that was my letter ... what of it?”
“Why, t’ old villain burned it afore ’er very eyes, and she not read a
word of it,” said Preston.
Charley clutched the counter; he was dizzy. He knew now that his last
hope had vanished: it was impossible that she should know where to seek
him in London. His head dropped forward.
“But you mustn’t believe one word o’ what they say agin ’er,” began the
farmer once more, “for I’d take my oath....”
He did not finish his sentence, for the head went up again.
“Say agin ’er?” repeated the lad slowly, but in a clear voice.
Preston looked foolish, but the meddler in the background, whom the
peacemakers had not been able to quiet, pushed up to the bar.
“Well, ’say agin ’er’” mimicked he. “And what shouldn’t they say agin
’er? You’re well out of it, my lad, and Preston ’ere too. She’s no
better nor she should be. Why, ’twas plain to every eye.”
The boy’s face went crimson and then dead white again.
“Ye lie,” said he in a clear voice again, looking round steadily on the
little company: “ye lie.”
For a moment there was a disagreeable silence, and in that silence there
flashed suddenly into the lover’s mind the true explanation of this
awful aspersion upon his girl.
He was a father! More than ever now must he find her. He would find her,
but first of all he would avenge her. He stood stock still, and those
who watched him wondered perhaps at the strange variety of expression
that flitted across his face.
Bess was true to him, Bess was the mother of his child ... and he waited
for his adversary to come on.
For he knew well enough that the word he had spoken would not pass
unnoticed; the man to whom he had said it was in drink, and his rage was
the quicker and the more unreasoning.
But lest there should be any mistake, Charley repeated the word.
“You lie,” he said again. “And if ye don’t like that ye may come on.”
And the man came on. The others no longer attempted to hold him back;
they only watched to see fair play.
But they did not watch long.
Charley’s adversary was a little man, but he had the strength of two
ordinary men, and, if the poor lad had known it, was the best boxer in
the county.
He did not know it, but it would not have made any difference.
He staggered under the first blow, but dealt a good one in return, and
prepared for the second. But the second threw him.
There was a laugh, and they looked to see this man, who was so quick to
take offence yet was so easily beaten, get up to defend himself.
But Charley did not get up.
There was a confused murmur that gradually grew to dismay. Those nearest
the door went out, and those surrounding the boxer dragged him quickly
after them, as the landlady—summoned by the barmaid—came hastily round
to the front.
She threw a scathing word at the gaping knot of ne’er-do-wells that was
left. In a moment the place was cleared of all but one man, who knelt
with her beside the prostrate body: it was young Preston.
“Shall I fetch the doctor?” he said.
“The barmaid’s gone,” answered the woman.
She did what she could for him, but she shook her head.
Once he opened his eyes, but his mind was gone before.
“Is it a boy or a girl, Bess?” he said. And then he murmured—“Bless
you—my wife!”
It was his last word.
When the doctor ran in it was too late; Charley Chiswick was dead. He
had struck his head in falling against the iron of the fender; and there
was another cause too—a faulty heart. It wouldn’t even be manslaughter
at the inquest.
But Charley Chiswick was dead.
When Jim Preston got home that night he found a letter waiting for him.
It was from the Sister-in-charge of a London Hospital, and told him that
Bess Benson had died that morning after prematurely giving birth to a
son. The girl had asked her to write to him and to beg him to find
Charley Chiswick, and tell him that he was a father. After that she had
sunk into unconsciousness, and had not known that her babe had passed
away before her.
Jim Preston stood dazed with the letter in his hand. He remembered how
he had offered to serve her that day when he had told her that he should
not change, though he would trouble her no more. She had taken him at
his word, she had trusted him, unwelcome lover though he had been; yes,
she had trusted him—and him only. He was grateful to her.
He gazed at the message—the useless message from a dead mother and a
dead child to the father who had followed them before it had reached
him. Then he put the letter in his breast-pocket and buttoned his coat
tightly across it.
A BROKEN TRYST
A BROKEN TRYST
“Lor’, yes, ’Melia be off to the ’op-pickin’ again, sure enough,”
grumbled a shrivelled and careworn little woman, who stood bent over an
ironing-board just inside of a poor cottage on the brow of the hill.
“Though, as I says to ’er, it’d be more worth my while for ye to stay at
’ome to-day and help me with this washin’, for it be more than one pair
of ’ands can do to get all them shirts ready to go ’ome to the Priory
to-night.”
“Why, ye ought to make that girl mind ye better, Mrs. Shaw, indeed ye
ought,” declared the neighbour to whom this feeble complaint was
addressed, and who stood poised on the threshold, twisting the pinch of
starch that she had come to borrow in a paper, and throwing back her
advice as she prepared to descend the steps into the road.
“Well, it don’t seem much use talkin’ to girls now-a-days,” moaned the
mother helplessly. “They be all so mighty sure they know all about it.
In my time it weren’t considered respectable for a young woman to go
’op-pickin’ all by ’erself like that; but, Lor’, things be all changed
since I were young.”
“Maybe they ain’t so much changed as you think for, ’Liza Shaw,” nodded
the neighbour—Martha Jones by name—sententiously. “There be some as say
she be too much with the men, be your daughter; there be some as says as
she be too fond o’ feathers and fashions and sick-like; and there be
some as can chaff her about them dark lanes of a summer night.”
Mrs. Shaw flushed all over her poor wrinkled, sallow face as she put
down one iron and took up another with a trembling hand, holding it to
her cheek to test the heat.