CHAPTER XII.

A SINGULAR EPISODE IN OUR QUIET LIFE.

At this point I am reminded that I have not described uncle Bryan. A few words will suffice. A tall spare man, strongly built, with no superfluity of flesh about him; iron-gray hair, thick and abundant; eyebrows overlapping most conspicuously, guarding his eyes, as it were, which lurked in their caverns, as animals might in their lairs, on the watch. He wore no hair on his face, his cheeks were furrowed, and his features were large and well formed. He possessed the power of keeping himself perfectly under control; but on rare occasions, a nervous twitching of his lips in one corner of his mouth mastered him. This always occurred when he was in any way stirred to emotion, and I knew perfectly well, although he tried to disguise it from me, that it was one of his greatest annoyances that he could not conquer this physical symptom of mental disturbance. He was not only scrupulously just in his dealings as a tradesman; he exercised this moral sentiment with almost painful preciseness in his intercourse with my mother and me. He had no intimates, and he determinedly rejected all overtures of friendship. His habits were regular, his desires few, his tastes simple. He appeared to be contented with everything, and grateful for nothing. If love resided in his nature, it showed itself in a fondness for flowers; in no other form.

I was nearly eighteen years of age, and the days--garlanded with the sweet pleasures which spring naturally from a mother's love--followed one another calmly and tranquilly. Nothing had occurred to disturb the peaceful current of our lives. Uneventful as the small circumstances of my past life were in the light of surrounding things, each scene in the simple drama which had thus far progressed was distinctly defined, and seemed to have no connection with what preceded it or followed it. The first, which had occurred in the house where I was born, and which ended with my father's death; the second, in which my mother had taken so mournful a part, and which contained so strange a mingling of joy and sorrow; the third, which was now being played, and which up to this period had been the least eventful of all. A certain routine of duties was got through with unvarying regularity. Uncle Bryan's trade yielded, with careful watching, sufficient profit for our wants; but I, also, was earning money now, and it was with an honest feeling of pride that I paid my mother so many shillings a week--I am almost ashamed to say how few--towards the expenses of my living. And so the days rolled on.

But in the web of our lives a thread was woven of which no sign had yet been seen, and chance or destiny was drawing it towards us with firm hand--a thread which, when it was linked to our hearts, was to throw strong light and colour on the tranquil days.

A very pleasant summer had set in, and uncle Bryan's flowers were at their brightest. It had grown into a custom with my mother to come for me two or three times a week during the fine weather, in the evening, when my day's work was done. She would wait at the corner of the street which led to my place of business, and we generally had a pleasant walk, arriving home at about half-past nine o'clock, in time for supper, a favourite meal with uncle Bryan. Now, my mother and I had been for some time casting about for an opportunity to present uncle Bryan with a token of our affection in the shape of a pipe and a tobacco-jar; he was so strange a character that it was absolutely necessary we should have a tangible excuse for the presentation. My mother found the opportunity. With great glee she informed me that she had found out uncle Bryan's birthday, and that the presentation should take the form of a birthday gift. 'It will be an unexpected surprise to him, my dear,' she said, 'and we will say nothing about it beforehand.' On a fine morning in August I rose as usual at half-past five, and made my breakfast in the kitchen; I slept now in the little back-room on a line with the shop and parlour. Eight o'clock was the hour for commencing work, and I generally had a couple of hours' delightful reading in the kitchen before I started. Sometimes, however, when we were busy, I was directed to be at the office an hour or so earlier, and on this morning I was due at seven o'clock. I always wished my mother good-bye before I went to work. Treading very softly, so as not to disturb uncle Bryan, and with my dinner and tea under my arm--invariably prepared the last thing at night, and packed in a handkerchief by my mother's careful hands--I crept upstairs to her room. She called me in, and I sat by her bedside, chatting for a few minutes. This was the anniversary of uncle Bryan's birthday, and our purchases were to be made in the evening.

'I must be off, mother,' I said, starting up; 'I shall have to run for it.'

'Good-morning, dear child,' she said; 'I shall come for you exactly at eight o'clock.'

I kissed her, and ran off to work. My mother was punctual in the evening, and we set off at once on a pilgrimage to tobacconists' windows. Any person observing us as we stood at the windows, debating on the shape of this pipe and the pattern of that tobacco-jar, would at once have recognised the importance of our proceedings. At length, after much anxious deliberation, our purchases were made, and we walked home to Paradise-row. My mother had suggested that I should present uncle Bryan with the birthday gifts, and in a vainful moment I had consented, and had mentally rehearsed a fine little speech, which I prided myself was perfect in its way. But, as is usual with the amateur, and sometimes with the over-confident, on such occasions, my fine little speech flew clean out of my head when the critical moment arrived, and resolved itself into about a dozen stammering and perfectly incomprehensible words. Covered with confusion, I pushed the pipe and tobacco-pouch towards uncle Bryan in a most ungraceful manner. My mother saw my difficulty.

'We have brought you a little birthday present, Bryan,' she said, 'with our love.'

He made a grimace at the last three words, and I thought at first that he was about to sweep the things from him; but if he had any such intention, he relinquished it.

'How did you know it was my birthday?'

'I found it out.'

'How?'

'Oh,' replied my mother, with a coquettish movement of her head, which delighted me, but did not find favour with uncle Bryan, 'little birds come down the chimney to tell me things.'

'Psha!' he muttered impatiently.

'Or perhaps I put this and that together, and found it out that way. You can't hide anything from a woman, you know.'

Her gay manner met with no sympathetic response from uncle Bryan. On the contrary, he gazed at her for a moment almost suspiciously, but the look softened in the clear light of my mother's eyes. Then, in a careless, ungracious manner, he thanked us for the present. I was hurt and indignant, and I told my mother a few minutes afterwards, when we were together in the kitchen, that I was sorry we had taken any notice of uncle Bryan's birthday.

'He would have been much better pleased if we hadn't mentioned it,' I said.

'No, my dear,' said my mother, 'you are not quite right. Your uncle will grow very fond of that pipe by and by.'

My mother always won me over to her way of thinking, and I thought the failure might be due to the bungling manner in which I had presented the birthday offerings. I walked about the kitchen, and spoke to myself the speech I had intended to make, with the most beautiful effect. It was a masterpiece of elegant phrasing, and every sentence was beautifully rounded, and came trippingly off the tongue. Of course I was much annoyed that the opportunity of impressing uncle Bryan with my eloquence was lost. When we reëntered the room, uncle Bryan's head was resting on his hand, and there was an expression of weariness in his face, which had grown pale and sad during our brief absence. My mother's keen eyes instantly detected the change.

'You are not well, Bryan,' she said, in a concerned tone, stepping to his side.

'There are two things that disagree with me, Emma,' he replied, with a grim and unsuccessful attempt at humour; 'my own medicine is one, memory is another. I've been taking a dose of each. There, don't bother me. I have a slight headache, that's all.'

But although he tried to turn it off thus lightly, he was certainly far from well; for he asked my mother to attend to the shop, and leaning back in his chair, threw a handkerchief over his face, and fell asleep. My mother and I talked in whispers, so as not to disturb him. Uncle Bryan was not a supporter of the early-closing movement, for he kept his shop open until eleven o'clock every night. Very dismal it must have looked from the outside in the long winter nights, lighted up by only one tallow candle; but it had always a home appearance for me, from the first day I entered it. The shop-door which led into the street was closed, and so was the door of the parlour in which we were sitting. The upper half of this door was glass, to enable us to see into the shop. My mother's hearing was generally very acute, and the slightest tap on the counter was sufficient to arouse her attention; but the tapping was seldom needed, for the shop-door, having a complaining creak in its hinges, never failed to announce the entrance of a customer. On this night, customers were like angels' visits, few and far between. It was nearly ten o'clock; uncle Bryan was still sleeping; my mother, whose hands were never idle, was working as usual; I was reading a volume of _Chambers's Traits for the People_, from which many a young mind has received healthy nourishment. I was deep in the touching story of 'Picciola, or the Prison Flower,' when an amazing incident occurred--heralded by a tap at the parlour-door.

Whoever it was that knocked must not only have opened the street-door, but must have silenced its watch-dog creak (by bribery, perhaps); or else my mother's hearing must have played her very false. Again, it was necessary to lift the ledge of the counter and creep under it, before the parlour-door could be reached.

My mother started to her feet; and opened the door. A young girl, with bonnet and cloak on, stood before us. I thought immediately of the fairy in the cotton-print dress; but no, it was not she who had thus mysteriously appeared. The girl looked at us in silence.

'You should have tapped on the counter, my dear,' said my mother.

'What for?' was the answer, in the most musical voice I had ever heard. 'I don't want to buy anything.'

This was a puzzling rejoinder. If she did not want to buy anything, why was she here?

'This is Mr. Carey's? asked the girl.

'Yes, my dear.'

'Who are you?'

Now this was so manifestly a question which should have come from us, and not from her, that I gazed at her in some wonder, and at the same time in admiration, for her manner was very winning. She returned my gaze frankly, and seemed to be pleased with my look of admiration. Certainly a perfectly self-possessed little creature in every respect. Uncle Bryan still slept.

'Who are you?' repeated our visitor, to my mother.

'My name is Carey,' said my mother.

'Oh, indeed!' exclaimed the girl. 'That is nice. And who is he?' indicating uncle Bryan.

'That is my brother-in-law, Bryan.'

'Mr. Bryan Carey. I've come to see him.' And she made a movement towards him. My mother's hand restrained her.

'Hush, my dear! You must not disturb him.'

'Oh, I am not in a hurry. But I think you ought to help me in with my box.' This to me. 'If I was a man, I wouldn't ask you.'

Her box! Deeper and deeper the mystery grew. When the girl thus directly addressed me, my heart beat with a feeling of intense pleasure. Hitherto I had been mortified that she had evinced no interest in me.

'Come along!' she exclaimed imperiously.

I followed her to the door, like a slave, and there was her box, almost similar in appearance to the box we had brought with us. It was altogether such an astounding experience, and so entirely an innovation upon the regular routine of our days, that I rubbed my eyes to be sure that I was awake. My mother had closed the door of the room in which uncle Bryan was sleeping, and now stood by my side. I stooped to lift the box, and found it heavy.

'What is in it?' I asked.

'Books and things,' our visitor replied. 'I'll help you. Oh, I'm strong, though I _am_ a girl! I wish I was you.'

'Why?'

'Then I should be a boy. There! You see I am almost as strong as you are.'

The box was in the shop by this time. My mother was perfectly bewildered, as I myself was; but mine was a delightful bewilderment The adventure was so new, so novel, so like an adventure, that I was filled with excitement.

'How did the box come here?' I asked.

'Walked here, of course,' she said somewhat scornfully.

'Nonsense!' I exclaimed; although if she had persisted in her statement, I was quite ready to believe it, as I would have believed anything from her lips.

'Oh, you don't believe in things!'

'Yes, I do; but I don't believe that thing. How _did_ it come?'

'A boy carried it. A strong boy--not like you. Isn't that candied lemon-peel in the glass bottle?'

'Yes.'

'I should like some. I'm very fond of sweet things.'

Quite as though the little girl were mistress of the establishment, my mother went behind the counter, and cut a slice of the lemon-peel.

'What a small piece!' exclaimed the girl, sitting on the box, and biting it. 'I could put it all in my mouth at once; but I like to linger over nice things.'

And she did linger over it, while we looked on. When she had finished, she said:

'I suppose I am to sit here till he wakes.'

'No, my dear,' said my mother, who had been regarding her childlike ways with tenderness; 'you had better come inside. It will be more comfortable. But, indeed, indeed, you have bewildered me!'

The girl laughed, soft and low, and my mother's heart went out to her. The next minute we were in the parlour again. My mother motioned that she would have to be very quiet, and pointed to a seat. Before our visitor sat down, she took off her bonnet and mantle, and laid them aside. The presence of this slight graceful creature was like a new revelation to me; the common room became idealised by a subtle charm. But how was it all to end? An hour ago she was not here; and I wondered how we could have been happy and contented without her. She was exceedingly pretty, and her face was full of expression. That, indeed, was one of her strongest charms. When she spoke, it was not only her tongue that spoke. Her eyes, her hands, the movements of her head, put life and soul into her words, and made them sparkle. Her hair was cut short, and just touched her shoulders; its colour was a light auburn. Her hands were small and white; I noticed them particularly as she took from the table the book I had been reading.

Are you fond of reading?' she asked, in a low tone.

'Yes,' I answered. It really seemed to me as if I had known her for years. 'Are you?'

'I love it. I like to read in bed. Then I don't care for anything.'

Soon she was skimming through 'Picciola;' but looking up she noticed that my mother's eyes were fixed admiringly upon her. She laid the book aside and approached my mother, so that her words might not be lost.

'It makes it strong to cut it, does it not?' was the first question.

'Makes what strong?' My mother did not know to what it was our visitor referred. I made a shrewd guess, mentally, and discovered that I was right.

'The hair. To cut it when one is young, as mine is cut, makes it strong?'

'Yes, my dear. It will be all the better for being cut.'

'Why do you call me your dear?'

My mother replied gently, with a slight hesitancy: 'I won't, if you don't like me to.'

'Oh, but I like it! And it sounds nice from you. It will be all the better for being cut! That's what _I_ think. It was nearly down to my waist. Do you like it?'

'It is very pretty.'

'And soft, is it not? Feel it. When I was a little child, it was much lighter--almost like gold. I used to be glad to hear people say, "What beautiful hair that child has got!"'

'It will get darker as you grow older.'

'I don't want it to. I'll sit in the sun as much as ever I can, so that it sha'n't grow darker.'

'Why, my----'

'Dear. Say it, please!'

'My dear, have you been told that that is the way to keep hair light?'

'No, but I think it is. It must be the best way.' This with a positive air, as if contradiction were out of the question.

'If you are so fond of your hair, what made you say just now that you wished you were a boy?'

'Because I do wish it. I think it is a shame. Persons ought to have their choice before they're born, whether they would be boys or girls.'

'My dear!'

'Yes, they ought to have, and you can't help agreeing with me. Then I should have been a boy, and things would have been different. All that I should have wanted would have been to grow tall and strong. Men have no business to be little. But as I am a girl, I must grow as pretty as I can.'

And she smoothed her hair from her forehead with her small white hands, and looked at us and smiled with her eyes and her lips. All this was done with such an utter absence of conscious vanity that it deepened my admiration of her, and I was ready to take sides with her against the world in any proposition she might choose to lay down. That she saw this expressed in my face, and that she, in an easy graceful way, received the homage I paid her, as being naturally her due, and did her best--again without conscious artifice--to strengthen it, were as plainly conveyed by her demeanour towards me as though she had expressed it in so many words. It struck me as strange that my mother did not ask her any questions concerning herself, not even her name, nor where she lived, nor what was her errand; and although all of these questions, and especially the first, were on the tip of my tongue a dozen times, I did not have the courage to shape them in words. My mother not saying anything more to her, she turned towards me.

'Are you generally rude to girls--I mean to young ladies?'

'No,' I protested warmly, ransacking my mind for the clue.

'You were to me just now. You said that I spoke nonsense.'

'I am very sorry,' I stammered; I beg your pardon; but when you said your box walked here----'

'You shouldn't have asked foolish questions. Never mind; we are friends again.' She gave me her hand, quite as though we had had a serious quarrel, which was now made up. Then she nestled a little closer to me, and proceeded with 'Picciola.'

Nothing further was said until the scene assumed another aspect. I was looking over the pages of the story with her, when, raising my eyes, I saw that uncle Bryan was awake. His eyes were fixed on the girl, with a sort of bewilderment on his face as to whether he was asleep or awake. He looked neither at my mother nor me, but only at the girl. Her head was bent over the book, and he could not see her face. I plucked her dress furtively under the table, and she looked up, and met my uncle's gaze. Then I noticed his usual sign of agitation, the twitching of his lips.

'What is this, Emma? he demanded, presently, of my mother.

My mother had been waiting for him to speak. 'This young----'

'Lady,' added the girl quickly, as my mother slightly hesitated, and rising with great composure. 'Say it. I like to hear it. This young lady----'

Completely dominated by the girl's gentle imperiousness, my mother said, 'This young lady has come to see you.'

He glanced at her uncovered head; then at her bonnet and mantle. A flush came into her cheeks, and she exclaimed,

'Oh, I don't want to stop, if you're not agreeable. I only like agreeable people. But if you turn me out to-night I don't exactly know where to go to; and there's my box----'

'Your box!'

'Yes, with all my things in. It's in the shop. You can go and see if you don't believe me. But if you do go, I sha'n't like you. You have no right to doubt my word.'

Her eyes filled with tears, and these and the words of helplessness she had spoken were sufficient for my mother. She drew the girl to her side with a protecting motion.

'Are you a stranger about here, my dear?'

'I don't know anything of the place,' replied the girl, in a more childlike tone than she had yet used. 'I have no idea where I am--except that this is Paradise-row. I shouldn't like to wander about the streets at this time of night.'

'There is no need, my dear, there is no need. There, there! don't cry.'

'But of course,' continued the girl, striving to restrain the quivering of her lips, 'I would sooner do that than stop where I am not wanted.' She would have said more, but I saw that she was fearful of breaking down, and thus showing signs of weakness. I looked somewhat angrily towards uncle Bryan; my mother's arm was still around the girl's waist. With a quick comprehension he seized all the points of sentiment in the picture.

'Ah,' he growled, this is more like a leaf out of a story-book than anything else. You'--to the girl--'are injured innocence; you'--to my mother--'are the good genius of the oppressed; and I am the dragon whom St. George here'--meaning me--'would like to spit on his lance.'

'I am sure, Bryan--' commenced my mother, in a tone of mild remonstrance; but uncle Bryan interrupted her.

'Don't be sure of anything, Emma. Let me understand matters first. How long have I been asleep--days, weeks, or years?'

'Nearly two hours, Bryan.'

'So long! There was a man once who, at the bidding of a magician, but dipped his head into a bucket of water----' he paused moodily.

'Yes, yes!' exclaimed the girl eagerly, advancing a step towards him, with a desire to propitiate him. 'Go on. Tell me about him. I'm fond of stories about magicians.'

He stared at her. 'Injured innocence,' he said, 'speak when you're spoken to.' She tossed her head, and retreated, and uncle Bryan again questioned my mother. 'How long has this little----'

'Young lady,' interposed the girl, with rather a comical assertion of independence.

--'This little girl--how long has she been here?'

'About an hour, Bryan.'

'Long enough, I see, to make herself quite at home.' He seemed to be at a loss for words, and sat drumming his fingers on the table, moving his lips as if he were holding converse with them, and with his eyes turned from us.

In the silence that ensued, the girl stole towards him. My mother's footstool was near his chair, and she sat upon it, and resting her hand timidly on his knee, said, in a sweet pleading voice,

'I wish you would be kind to me.'

Her face was upturned to his. He looked down upon it, and placing his hands on her shoulders, said in a tone which was both low and bitter, which was harsh from passion and tender from a softer emotion which he could not control,

'For God's sake, child, tell me who you are! What is your name?'

'My name is Jessie Trim.'