Part 14

The girl blushed. She was pretty enough, but she was thin and pale, not to say wan, and her cotton dress was poor covering for the wintry day, and her ill-fitting black jacket and shabby straw hat betokened an even greater poverty than was usual in the village.

She blushed as one who knew the tone and the words, and was wont to understand beneath them the insinuation, “You’re a tramp.”

But she was mistaken. The woman before her prided herself on knowing a respectable female when she saw her, and though poor and miserable, the girl did not look “a bad ’un.”

“I’m a-goin’ on further,” said she evasively.

“Oh!” said the woman again. Then, as not wishing to be inquisitive, she added, “Well, thank ye. I wish ye a good evenin’. It’s cold weather; it’s best to walk fast to keep warm.”

And she nodded, moving on quickly to suit her action to her words.

“Good evenin’,” said the girl.

But she did not follow the advice.

Though she carried but the smallest of little bundles, she rested it on the brick parapet as the women had done with their heavier loads, and stood looking down the river into the afterglow.

It was four o’clock. The sun had set, and the poplars that crossed the stream and the fields, dividing meadow-land from water-cress grounds, shot straight arrows against a pale crimson sky, that was cool even in its fire in the cold, crisp air. Every little bare twig on the slender, bare boughs of the poplars pointed upwards; the willows by the river, though less spare and less commanding, modestly followed their example; the sky might have been constraining with its tender glory, but the girl—after one glance around on the clear-cut winter landscape, so calm with the patience of waiting Nature, but so cruelly silent with the dearth of stirring life—fastened her eyes on the water and on the water alone.

The long strings of half-dead, slimy weed that swayed idly to and fro, attached and yet floating, like the traveller’s joy on a summer’s day a-moving in the wind—or better, yes, much better still—like some dank, clinging cotton stuffs, held to the gravel bed by some heavy weight, yet erring softly, saturated with much water, on the bosom of the stream—these seemed to fascinate her beyond the power to tear away her gaze.

At last she shivered—the frost was intense—and lifted her head and sighed, a long, miserable, moaning sigh. Then she put her hand in her pocket and drew forth a letter—a letter and a thimble.

The moon, that had risen in time to see the sun go down, had just crept high enough in the sky to shine through the bare branches of the elms in the meadow beside the lower stream: it shone now upon the paper which the girl held trembling in her hand.

“Don’t ye come back here,” said the letter. “There ain’t no work to be got ’ere, and I’ve my hands full enough to keep them as are left.”

There was more, but she did not read it. She crushed the paper in her hands, and let it flutter slowly down into the water, but the thimble she put back into her pocket. Then she rested her two elbows on the brick parapet and leaned her head in them and cried softly to herself, still looking down into the darkening water as it lapped to and fro over the swaying body of weeds.

A bell sounded from the village on the hill; it cut clear and sharp across the frosty air; it was the bell from the straw-plaiting factory, sending the girls home from their day’s work. She knew it well enough, and roused herself at the sound, moving her hand to take up her little bundle once more. But in the waning light she pushed it forward instead of grasping it, and, in spite of a quick clutch, it slipped over the rounded edge of the parapet and fell with a thud into the river below. She gave a little cry as she followed it with her eyes, leaning over a long way to try and descry it in the green water beneath.

But there was nothing to be seen but the same swaying, dank body of weeds. And presently she gave a low, harsh laugh, and shrugged her shoulders, and pulling her miserable little black jacket across her chest, as though to persuade it to cling more closely to her frail, shivering body, she turned away and walked quickly up the by-path that led to the high road above.

Lights were burning in the cottage windows along the village street, and from the little straw factory on the left-hand side beside the Baptist chapel, the women were pouring forth into the road—some gay, some weary, some young, and some middle-aged, some hurrying to other duties at home, some loitering to chatter and chaff—most of them noisy, but all of them busy with work done and to do.

The girl watched them askance, drawing back under the shadow of the hedgerow, for the moon had not risen far enough yet to illumine the way, and the shadows had grown dark. When all had passed by or dispersed she moved out again, and stepped up to the door whence they had issued, and which still stood ajar on to the road.

She knocked at it and a woman appeared.

“What d’ye want?” said she.

Her tone was not unkind but it was sharp—the tone of a woman with her hands full of work, and no time for those who have theirs empty. The girl answered surlily.

“I want work,” she said.

“Well, there ain’t none to be ’ad ’ere.”

“I’m used to the straw-plaiting and shape-sewing too,” said the girl more humbly.

“Well, ye must go elsewhere. We’re full up ’ere,” said the woman, “and shall be for weeks, as far as I know. ’Ave ye got a reference?”

The girl nodded.

“Sort of, I s’pose,” said the woman shrewdly.

“I’ve got my character,” repeated the girl doggedly.

“Well, ye must take it elsewhere then,” said the woman again. “I’m sorry for ye. Good-night.”

And she shut the door quietly.

The girl turned away. She did not speak, nor even mutter, nor even sigh. But her wan little face was set and hard.

She looked down the road towards the open country, and up it where the cottages clustered, and she chose the forward way.

Wayfarers had almost cleared out of the village street, for it was quite dark now and bitterly cold; fires were burning and supper was preparing behind frosty windows and scanty window-curtains. Here and there a weary labourer or hurrying house-wife trudged past, but most people were indoors by now, most people were at home.

The girl walked on till she came near to the public-house near the village-end, where the signpost points separate fingers up the fork of the road.

There was a solitary lamp above the post-office hard by, and she stopped under it and put her hand in her pocket; the thimble and one halfpenny was all that she drew out, and she put them back again.

Then she looked behind her.

There was no one by, no one coming, and she crept stealthily up to the window of the “public,” and laid her face against the cold pane, gazing into the light and brightness and warmth within.

There were four or five men clustered round a table near the fire, and a few more standing at the bar with a couple of girls.

One of them at the table was singing in a loud voice; he was young—very young—and it was a good voice, and whatever were the words, the ditty seemed to please the company.

There was a roar of laughter every now and then, and whenever he stopped a cry of “Go on, Nat, go on, lad! That’s right,” and so forth.

The boy grew more and more excited, and the men cheered, and the girls clapped their hands and bent themselves double with laughter, and then the men laughed again till they coughed and choked with their merriment.

The song was funny, or the point lay in the youth of the singer.

And the girl outside listened.

Twice she crept to the door, twice had the knob in her hand to open and go in, and twice her pluck seemed to fail. The song stopped, there was a lull within; the warmth drew her as a magnet, and the third time she turned the handle. But she stood with the door ajar; for on a sudden there was a sound of chairs moved, of scuffling, of quick words and quick retorts within; the laughter was changed to angry altercation, words of which she could not catch the sense were flung to and fro, and all at once a man threw the door wide, and the lad who had been singing was suddenly flung forth into the road.

The girl started back at the first noise, then turned and fled into the darkness.

But the boy stood where they had hurled him, and the men slammed the door to again behind him.

There had been furious words in his mouth when he had made his ignominious exit, but they had died suddenly away as though frozen in his throat, and his limbs, that had struggled to deal revenge on his foes, had become paralyzed, his hot face had turned white with fear; he stood as one petrified, horror-struck, gazing after the thin cotton dress that flitted away in the gloom.

The clamour went on within, some angry, some grossly laughing, some striving to pacify.

The landlord had come down to the door, and after looking out through the glass, had half opened it and had glanced out. But the lad had drawn aside under the eaves.

“Why didn’t ’e keep ’is ’ands off what weren’t ’is?” one was saying angrily.

“’E’s gettin’ too cheeky by ’alf,” said another.

“Well, ’e shan’t come into my bar no more,” declared the landlord decisively, turning back into the room. “Many’s the time I’ve ’ad a mind to say so afore, when ’is pore mother used to come a-loiterin’ and waitin’ out there in the cold to try and fetch ’im ’ome. Mighty little ’e ever cared for ’er, nor anythin’ as _she_ might ha’ said. But so long as ’e be’aved I ’adn’t the right to turn ’im out. ’E’s done for ’isself to-night though, and ’e don’t come in no more.”

“Good riddance too,” said one of the girls, settling her hair that had been loosened in the scuffle; and the landlord closed the door and drew the curtain across it.

But the lad outside made no effort to re-enter. He did not seem to have heard what had passed within his earshot.

He stood stock-still as they had left him, slowly rubbing his head with a trembling hand.

“Rot,” said he at last, to himself, with a feeble attempt at a laugh. “Ghosts! There ain’t no sich things as ghosts!”

Then he took a few steps forward, slowly and unsteadily, for he was drunk; not, however, in the direction of the village, and of his rough and lonely lodging, but between the hedges of the narrow lane beyond, where the figure had flitted before him.

Perhaps he had made a mistake; down that lane to the left stood the cottage, deserted now, where he had spent all the years of his life, alone—ever since he could remember—with the mother whom he had neglected and ill-treated, whom they all told him that he had killed.

The words buzzed wearily through his aching brain.

“Mighty little ’e ever cared for _’er_, nor anythin’ as _she_ might ha’ said!”

Yes, it was jolly true too!

And his own words, spoken an hour ago, echoed back again: “Precious little I ever cared for the women-folk’s jaw!”

It was as they said: he had killed her, and he had never cared for her, he had never mourned her, he had been drunk the day of her very funeral; he never missed her now.

He stumbled on. The winter twilight had faded long since, and the moon had slipped behind a cloud. The lane was quite dark, and he could no longer make out the swish of the white cotton skirt which he had fancied he had seen against the hedgerow. Nevertheless he stumbled on.

The old home lay close at hand; the well-known turning to it struck off here to the left. It stood in a field a little back from the road; there was an apple-tree in front of it and behind it, in the meadow that stretched down to the river, their cow used to feed in the days before his mother had had to sell her.

He stumbled on. Here, by the fence, she was wont to come down of a morning to see him off to work, of an evening to welcome him home, and—yes—often and often o’ night time to watch for him along the dark and lonely road, when he was coming home—as he was coming to-night—full of drink.

Home? Yes, it was home _then_, little as he had appreciated it.

He stopped at the fence, and steadied himself on its worn and worm-eaten bar.

The moonlight was leaking through the cloud again, and dimly lit the thatched roof of the cottage, whose blank windows and sealed door looked sadly across the field at him.

The latched gate was close to his hand: he opened it and went in, and the moon shone out more brightly.

The apple-tree was bare, the climbing blush rose and hardy canary-creeper on the porch were barren and leafless, the frost lay hard and crisp on the neglected garden path where he had often seen her watering the peonies and the sweet-william, or dressing the hollyhocks in some leisure moment. It was cold and lifeless now in the cold moonlight, but he saw it in sunlight and in summer, when the vegetables were green in the tiny plot of land, when the few sweet-peas scented the air, or when the apples were red on the tree.

He had never noticed any of it then, but now he was sure there had been sweet-peas and hollyhocks, and that he had seen his mother cutting the cabbages beyond them.

He scratched his head, he could not make himself out.

If it had been daylight no power would have led him to open that gate and steal into this forgotten corner, but even so he could not make himself out.

The cold air had been sobering him fast, but he told himself that he was drunk.

It was “jolly true enough” all that they had said: he hated his home, and had been in it as little as might be; he had broken his mother’s heart, and now that she was dead how could it be that he should either miss her or mourn her? Of course it could not be.

But still he lingered; the drink that was in him kept him warm, and he forgot the frost and saw the summer again.

And as he looked, the moon left the last of the cloud behind and shone out brilliantly; and there, beneath the apple-tree, he saw again the spare figure of medium height in the faded print gown, standing still as large as life.

His heart seemed to stop beating: there might be no such things as ghosts, but who was that figure standing there under the apple-tree?

It stirred now. Was it coming to meet him? He felt a cold sweat break out over his brow. No, it moved in the opposite direction—across the grass, past the cottage; it was moving in the direction of the river.

And he followed—as though he were _obliged_ to follow; slowly at first, as in a dream, but as the figure quickened its pace—more quickly too.

What was it, where was it going?

It moved lightly, more lightly than _she_ had done of late, and now it was hurrying—hurrying across the crisp meadow, whose damp marshiness the frost had seized fast—hurrying towards the river.

And he hurried too; without thought, blindly.

But the moon slid behind a cloud again, all grew dark, and the spirit—if spirit it was—was lost in the shadow.

Still he hurried; now he seemed to see it here—now there—he was not sure; perhaps it was all a dream. But his liquor had never served him so before—and he had often been worse drunk.

He was near upon turning back, when the moon fringed the cloud with silver again, and gradually showed him the figure, as clear as in daylight, standing upon the bridge that led across to the road.

He looked; it was facing him, but though in the white light and to his heated sense the features looked ghostly still, and the eyes wild and inhuman, there was something life-like about the creature, and even as he looked, it threw up its arms and took one leap forwards and downwards into the water.

Then he awoke; he was no longer drunk. He did not stop to think—he dashed forward, stripping off his coat as he ran, and pushed through the reeds on the river bank, and plunged into the stream.

The cold of the water was horrible—it took his breath away. But, as luck would have it, the stream here was not deep but swift, and it carried the body towards him; he clutched it, caught it, and, half swimming, half wading, brought it, in little more than a minute, safely on to the bank.

His teeth were chattering, but it was not with fright now; he had forgotten that he had once fancied this to have been a ghost.

It was a girl, and it lay motionless.

He stripped off the shoddy black jacket and wrung the water from it, then tried to wring it from the poor, clinging cotton skirts, that were stiffening with frost in the biting air; after that he chafed the cold body, and took off the worn boots and emptied the water out of them; and then he searched in his pockets, and drew forth a half-pint flat bottle, which he put to her lips.

A pungent odour of common spirit filled the air.

“It’s lucky I left a drop,” he murmured to himself, and a keener satisfaction than he had ever experienced even from drinking it himself filled him as he watched the colour slowly come back to the ashen face. But it took a deal of rubbing again before the eyes opened, before any breath seemed to come struggling through those pale lips. Several times he was for leaving her and running for assistance, because he was frightened.

But the village was far behind, and he was afraid she might die while he was gone; so he waited with a beating heart, and at last she moved and tried to speak.

“D’ye feel better now?” said he.

She nodded feebly.

He passed his hand under her head and set her up against his knee.

But the head drooped again, and she began to shiver.

“She didn’t ought to be ’ere,” he muttered to himself; “it’s freezin’ plaguey ’ard, and she soaked through.”

“D’ye think ye can walk?” said he to her ear.

She did not answer, and he scratched his head.

Then suddenly an inspiration came to him. He knew a way into the old home by the back; it would be empty and cheerless, but it would be safer than the frosty night air, and maybe he might be lucky enough to find a morsel of old wood with which he might light a bit of a fire.

It was worth trying, and without more ado he took the poor thing in his arms, and stumbled up the meadow with her.

She was light enough in all conscience, and she lay passive.

Yes, the rotten old door was broken, as he last remembered it, and he pushed it open and bore her in. The place was bare, but he lay her down beside the cold hearth, with her head against the chimney-corner, and ran to the outhouse. The luck was with him to-night as it was not wont to be: there were some remnants of brushwood scattered about; he swept together a handful, and with the matches that luckily were safe and dry in the pocket of the coat he had cast off, he soon kindled a bit of a blaze in the forsaken old dwelling-room.

Then he hung her jacket to dry and set to work again to rub her body.

The warmth revived her, she crept as close as she could to it, shivering still.

He took out the bottle again, his best notion of help; but she shook her head at the sight of it, and a sudden idea struck him.

“When did ye ’ave yer food last?” he asked.

She did not answer.

“Maybe ye’re ’ungry?” he said.

And as she was still silent, he turned out his pockets again, and produced a broken bit of dry crust.

“It’s all I left o’ my dinner,” he said, “but it’ll stay yer stomach till ye can get ’ome.”

She let him put it into her hand, but she did not eat.

“It’s a queer thing,” said he ruminatingly, “women don’t seem to ’ave no pecker when they ain’t fit.”

She shivered again.

“Now, look ’ere,” said he, drawing out the spirit bottle once more, “ye’ve got to have another go at this or I’m damned, and then ye’ve got to eat that crust.”

He forced it on her, and she submitted, and then he added: “And as soon as ye can walk ye ought to go ’ome. Ye’ll catch yer death in them damp clothes.”

She was silent, and he stood watching her nibbling the crust, while he took a pull at the spirit himself.

A notion seemed to occur to him, and he paused with the flask in his hand.

“What did ye go and jump into the water for?” he said at last, perhaps thinking that what she _wanted_ was to “catch her death.”

And as still she was dumb, he added another to the string of his questions: “Where d’ye live?”

Then at last she answered.

“Nowhere,” said she bitterly.

He started.

“What, ain’t ye got no ’ome?” asked he.

“No,” she said.

He whistled.

“No more ’aven’t I,” he said.

“Nor yet no mother?” he added in a low voice after a while.

“No,” she said.

He looked round the ghostly, deserted old home—at the figure huddled by the hearth where another had been wont to cook his meals, at the empty window where a familiar chair had once stood.

“No more ’aven’t I,” he said. And after a pause he added with a half laugh, “P’raps ye ’aven’t even got no work?”

“No,” she replied for the third time.

And he laughed outright as he added again: “No more ’aven’t I!”

He walked to the window, and she struggled to her feet.

“So I guess ye _wanted_ to catch yer death,” he muttered.

She stood hanging over the blaze that was beginning to flicker down, and he with his back to her at the window gazing out into the garden, where the moonlight lay white and hard on the frosted walk and on the dreary, empty potato patch.

If his mother had been up-stairs she would have known what to do now. She had always known what to do somehow. And suddenly there crossed his mind a vision of her taking into the house a poor starved dog that had been hooted down the road by the village boys.

Yes, she would have known what to do. But she was not up-stairs.

“I s’pose there’s plenty as wouldn’t mind a-catchin’ their death,” murmured he, half to himself. “Folk as ’ave made a mess of it, or as ’aven’t got no one to work for.”

The girl at the fire threw up her head almost proudly.

“I ain’t what yer might think,” she said. “I ain’t done nothin’ wus than starve. They turned me off at the factory, but it weren’t no fault o’ mine.”

“Weren’t ye drunk?” asked the boy simply.

Her wan face flushed purple.

“Drunk!” said she. “I ain’t never been drunk in my life.” And she moved from him.

Then he flushed too—ashamed.

“I beg yer pardon,” he stammered. “It’s what they turn me off for—but o’ course ... I beg yer pardon!”

“Granted,” said she. “It’s likely ye should think so. But my dead mother might see me and welcome, for all the ’arm I’ve a-done, and that’s the truth!”

He shivered at the words and looked round.

“I wish I could say as much,” said he.

She looked at him and came a step nearer, but the sob that had risen in her throat at his unintentional insult had turned to a fit of coughing, and she could not speak.

He turned quickly to the hearth, and kicked the bits of stick together with his foot; but there was no more life in them, they were burnt out, and there were no more.

“Ye’re catchin’ yer death o’ cold,” repeated he testily. “I dursen’t advise ye to stop ’ere no longer. Let me show ye the way to the next village, if ye’re a stranger to the place. Leastways, I think there’s a parcel o’ ’ouses afore ye come to it, where ye might get a night’s lodgin’.”

She laughed harshly, and he stopped—confused.

He guessed her meaning.

“’Aven’t ye got no money?” asked he after a minute or two, timidly.

“No,” she answered, struggling fiercely with tears again. “I’ve been out o’ work this three weeks. Ye’d ha’ done best to leave me where I was!”

“Don’t say that,” said he quite gently. “The luck’s bound to turn.”

She stood quietly wiping a tear now and then, and he beside her turning his hand round and round in his breeches pocket.

At last he pulled the hand out and held it towards her: there was a silver coin in it.

“Ye’d best take it,” said he sheepishly. “I ’ad my week’s wage to-day, though they _’ave_ a-turned me off, and I can spare it nicely. It’ll get ye a bed and a bit o’ supper anyways.”

Her face flushed and her lip quivered again. But she took it.

“Ye’re very kind,” said she. “I ought to thank ye, I’m sure. If mother was alive...”

Her voice shook, and she didn’t finish the sentence.