A CRUEL DESERTION.
A week or two before these painful events happened at "Norston's
Rest," Judith Hart had been expecting to see Storms day after day till
disappointment kindled into fiery impatience, and the stillness of her
home became intolerable. Had he, in fact, taken offence at her first
words of reproach, and left her to the dreary old life? Had her rude
passion of jealousy driven him from her forever, or was there some
truth in the engagement that woman spoke of?
Again and again Judith pondered over these questions, sometimes angry
with herself, and again filled with a burning desire to know the
worst, and hurl her rage and humiliation on some one else.
She was a shrewd girl, endowed with a sharp intellect and a will, that
stopped at nothing in its reckless assumption. To this was added a
vivid imagination, influenced by coarse reading, uncurbed affections,
and, in this case, an intense passion of love, that lay ready to join
all these qualities into actions as steam conquers the inertia of
iron. One day, when her desire for the presence of that man had become
a desperate longing, her father came home earlier than usual, and in
his kindly way told her that he had seen young Storms in the village
where he had loitered half the morning around the public house.
Judith was getting supper for the old man when he told her this; but
she dropped the loaf from her hands and turned upon him, as if the
news so gently spoken had offended her.
"You saw Mr. Storms in the village, father? He stayed there hour after
hour, and, at last, rode away up the hill-road, too, without stopping
here? I don't believe it; if you told me so a thousand times, I
wouldn't believe it!"
The old man shook his head, and replied apologetically, as if he
wished himself in the wrong, "You needn't believe it, daughter, if
you'd rather not. I shall not mind."
"But is it true? Was it Mr. Storms, the young gentleman, who took tea
with us, that you saw?"
"Of course, I don't want to contradict you, daughter Judith, but the
young man I saw was Richard Storms. He stayed a long time at the
public house talking with the landlord; then rode away on his blood
horse like a prince."
"Hours in the village, within a stone's throw from the house, and
never once turned this way," muttered the girl, between her teeth; and
seizing upon the loaf, she pressed it to her bosom, cutting through it
with a dangerous sweep of the knife.
"Did he speak to you?" she asked, turning upon her father.
"Nay, he nodded his head when I passed him."
"And the landlord, you said, they were speaking together?"
"Oh, yes, quite friendly."
"What did they talk about--could you hear?"
"Yes, a little, now and then."
"Well!"
"Oh, it was a word lifted above the rest, when Storms got into the
saddle."
"A word--well, what was it?"
"Something about a lass near 'Norston's Rest,' that folks say the
young man is to wed."
When Judith spoke again, her voice was so husky that the old man
looked at her inquiringly, and wondered if it was the shadows that
made her so pale.
She felt his eyes upon her, and turned away.
"Did you chance to hear the name--I mean _her_ name--the girl he is
going to wed?"
"If I did, it has slipped from my mind, but it was some one about
'Norston's Rest.' She is to have a mint of money when some people die
who are in the way."
"Did he say this?"
"Yes, daughter."
When Hart looked around, he saw that Judith had laid the loaf of bread
on the table, with the knife thrust in it, and was gone. The old man
was used to such reckless abandonment whenever Judith was displeased
with a subject, or disliked a task; so, after waiting patiently a
while for her to come back, he broke off the half-severed slice of
bread, and began to make his supper from that.
After a while Judith came into the room. Her color was all gone, and a
look of fiery resolve broke through the trouble in her eyes.
"Where has he gone, father--can you tell me that?"
"How can I say? He wasn't likely to give much of an account of himself
to an old man like me."
"Don't you think it strange that he should go off like that?"
"Well, no," answered the old man, with some deliberation. "Young
fellows like him take sudden ideas into their heads. They're not to be
depended on."
"And this is all you know, father?"
"Yes; how should I know more?"
"Good-night, father."
The girl went into the hall, came back again, and kissed her father on
the forehead three or four times. While she did this, tears leaped
into her eyes, and the arms around his neck trembled violently.
"Why, what has come over the girl?" said the old man. "I'm not angry
about the supper, child. One can't always expect things to be hot and
comfortable. There, now, go to bed, and think no more about it."
"Go to bed!" No, no! the girl had no thought of sleep that night. Far
into the morning the light of her meagre candle gleamed through the
window of her room, revealing her movements as she raved to and fro,
like a wild animal in its cage--sometimes crouching down by the window
as if impatient for the dawn--sometimes flinging herself desperately
on the bed, but always in action.
Hart went to his work very early the next morning, and did not see his
daughter, who sometimes slept far beyond the breakfast hour. He was
very tired and hungry that night, when he came home from work, but
found the house empty, and saw no preparation for supper, except that
the leaf of a table which stood against the wall was drawn out, and an
empty plate and spoon stood upon it.
Finding that Judith did not appear, he arose wearily, went into the
pantry, and brought out a dish of cold porridge in one hand, with a
pitcher of milk in the other. With this miserable apology for a meal,
he drew his chair to the table and began to eat, as he had done many a
time before, when, from caprice or idleness, the girl had left him to
provide for himself. Then the poor old man sat by the hearth, from
habit only; for nothing but dead ashes was before him, and spent a
dreary hour waiting. Still Judith did not come, so he went, with a
heavy heart, into a small untidy room where he usually slept, carrying
a candle in his hand.
As he sat on the bed wondering, with vague uneasiness, what could have
kept his daughter out so late, the old man saw a crumpled paper,
folded somewhat in the form of a letter, lying on the floor at his
feet, where some reckless hand had tossed it. When this paper met the
poor father's eye, he arose from the bed, with painful weariness, and
took it to the light. Here he smoothed the heartless missive with his
hands, and wandered about a while in search of his iron-bound
spectacles, that shook in his hand as he put them on:
FATHER --Don't fret about me; but I am going away for a while.
This old place has tired me out, and there is no use in
starving oneself in it any longer. The wages you get is not
enough for one, to say nothing of a girl that has wants like
other folks, and is likely to keep on wanting if she stays with
you against her will. I might feel worse about leaving you so
if I had ever been of much use or comfort to you; but I know
just as well as you do, that I haven't done my share, and
nothing like it. I know, too, that if I stayed, it would be
worse instead of better; for I couldn't stand trying to be good
just now--no, not to save my life!
You won't miss me, anyhow; for when I'm gone, the people you
work for will ask you to take a meal now and then; besides, you
were always handy about the house, and know how to cook for
yourself.
I would have come in to say good-by, but was afraid you might
wake up and try to keep me from going. Now don't put yourself
out, or let the neighbors fill your head with stories about me.
There's nothing to tell, only that I have taken an idea to
get a place and better myself, which I will before you see me
again. If I do, never fear that I will not send you some money.
Your daughter,
JUDITH
The old man read this rude scrawl twice over--the first time shaking
like a leaf, the last time with tears--every one a drop of
pain--trembling in his eyes and blinding them.
"Gone!" he said, wiping his eyes with the soiled linen of his sleeve.
"My lass gone away, no one knows where, and nothing but this left
behind to remember her by! Poor thing!--poor young thing! It was
lonesome here, and maybe I was hard on her in the way of work--wanted
too much cooking done! But I didn't mean to be extravagant--didn't
mean to drive her away from home, poor motherless thing! It's all my
fault! it's all my fault! Oh! if she would only come back, and give me
a chance to tell her so!"
The poor old man went to his work that day, looking worn out, and so
downcast that the neighbors turned pitying glances at him as he passed
down the hill, for he never had stooped so much or appeared so forlorn
to them before. One or two stopped to speak with him. He said nothing
of his daughter, but answered their greetings with downcast eyes and
humble thanks, not once mentioning his trouble, or giving a sign of
the gnawing anguish that racked his bosom and sapped his strength. She
had left him, and in that lay desolation too dreary for complaint.