Part 9

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.

“Yes, yes,” said he soothingly, “p’r’aps there will. Anyways,” he added 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.