CHAPTER XXXV.

JESSIE'S BIRTHDAY.

The morning of Jessie's birthday rose bright and clear. How well I remember it, and every trivial feature connected with it, which, apparently but little noted at the time, impressed itself indelibly upon my mind! Often afterwards, in thinking of that day--and how many, many times have my thoughts dwelt upon it I--a rift of light has pierced the black cloud which overshadowed it, and I have seen myself, as I stepped into the street soon after sunrise, stooping to pick up a pin which lay on the pavement. I have awoke in the night, sobbing in bitterest grief, and this smallest and most uneventful of incidents has been the clearest thing I have seen in connection with that day. Other incidents as trivial are clear to me--a costermonger wheeling his barrow, loaded with fruit; a policeman standing by a lamp-post chewing a piece of straw; a woman who brushed past me humming a line of a song. I see the exact arrangement of the fruit in the costermonger's barrow; the face of the policeman is as familiar to me as if he had been an intimate friend; I hear the few words the woman hummed, with the precise and delicate intonations she gave to them. And yet, had these incidents occurred at the North Pole, they could not have been more utterly disconnected from the great and sorrowful event which made the day memorable to me.

My mother had not been well during the past week, and for a day or two had been compelled to keep her room. On one of these days I had gone to Mr. Rackstraw's office for Jessie, and had learned that she had left an hour before my arrival. Hastening home, I found her by my mother's bedside, nursing my mother. Hearing my step on the stairs, Jessie had come to the bedroom door, and had whispered to me indignantly:

'If I had been in your place I think I should have stopped at home with my mother, knowing what a comfort my presence was to her, instead of running after a foolish wilful girl.'

Before I had time for reply, my mother had called out, in her thin sweet voice:

'Jessie, what are you saying to Chris?'

Then Jessie had left us together, and my mother, drawing my head on her pillow, told me how kind and gentle Jessie had been to her, and made my pulses thrill with delight by her praises of the girl whom I loved with all my soul. Something noticeable had occurred within an hour after that. Going into the parlour downstairs, I noticed that Jessie had a pair of new gold earrings in her ears. Now I was sure that she had not worn them when she met me at the door of my mother's bedroom. They were of a pretty and graceful pattern, and became her. I had not given them to her; who had? I looked towards uncle Bryan----but, no; he was not the giver, for his eyes were fixed upon them suspiciously and disapprovingly. It hurt me to see them in her ears, but I would not ask her about them, preferring the pain which lay in ignorance. Besides, I would show Jessie what confidence I had in her, by waiting until she chose to tell me of her own accord who was the giver. But Jessie said not a word on the subject.

On Jessie's birthday my mother was better, although not quite well. We had arranged between us that there should be a little feast at home in the evening, in honour of Jessie, and that Jessie should not be told of it beforehand. I contemplated another surprise for Jessie, and I consulted my mother concerning it.

'Nothing would please Jessie so much as having one of her friends at our little party.'

My mother looked doubtfully at me. Since we had lived in uncle Bryan's house, no stranger had ever sat down at our table.

'I don't think uncle Bryan can possibly object,' I said. 'It is only Josey West, Jessie's best friend, and one of the kindest-hearted creatures in the world. Before you knew her five minutes you would love her, and I believe she would even take uncle Bryan's fancy, strange as he is.'

'Will you ask him, or shall I, my dear?'

'You had better,' I answered; 'you have more patience with him than I. If he refused me, I should quarrel with him perhaps. Tell him she's deformed, and as good as gold.'

A few hours afterwards my mother said,

'Your uncle says we can do as we please. He consents, my dear.'

'Ungraciously, of course,' I added; 'but never mind, so long as Josey is here. Not a word to Jessie, mother.'

I enjoined secrecy also on Josey West, who was really glad of the opportunity of making my mother's personal acquaintance.

'I shall throw my arms round her neck,' said Josey, and kiss her the moment I see her. And as for you,' she added, with a fair disregard of sequence in her speech, 'you are a wise young man. Now what made you think of me at all?'

'Because I knew it would please Jessie,' I answered honestly, 'and because I want to make Jessie's birthday the happiest day in her life and mine.'

She pinched my cheek merrily, as though she understood my meaning.

I had fully resolved that on that day I would ask Jessie to be my wife. Tortured almost beyond endurance by the doubts and difficulties which surrounded me, I had in some way gathered courage to look my position steadily in the face, and the moment I did so, the way seemed clear before me. I became strengthened immediately, and the fair promise which hope held forth appeared realised in anticipation. I set aside all obstacles for future consideration, and mentally leaped out of the entanglement of feeling which had brought so much discomfort into our lives. 'It is for me to speak,' I thought, 'and to speak plainly and manfully.' I painted the future in the fairest colours. My prospects of success were growing brighter and brighter; my sketches for the Christmas story which had been intrusted to me to illustrate were approved of by the author and the publisher, and I felt I only wanted opportunity to rise far above the sphere of life which, in the natural course of things, I could have expected to occupy. 'Jessie's love for the stage,' I thought, 'and her wish to become an actress, only arise from her thoughtfulness of her future, and from her state of dependence on uncle Bryan. Well, I can clear away all doubt; I can offer her a good home; and I can release her from uncle Bryan, and, if she wishes, can pay him what she thinks she owes him.' I resolutely closed the eyes of my mind on my mother's declaration, that wherever our home was, uncle Bryan must share it. I knew too well that it would be impossible for Jessie and me to be happy together, with him as a member of our household. All these things could be considered and settled by and by, when Jessie had promised to be my wife. I reproached myself that I had not spoken plainly to her before now; I had, as it were, driven her by my faint-heartedness to do what she might not have done, if she had had a protector whom she loved and who loved her. All this and other reasoning of the same nature I carried out exactly in the way which best suited my hopes, and at length I lay in my cloud-built castles at peace with myself; for it was not to be doubted that my dearest wishes would now be surely realised. I had an instinctive consciousness that Josey West was thoroughly acquainted with the position of affairs between Jessie and me, and knowing her to be my friend, I was convinced that she would have warned me if she had had any doubt of Jessie's affection for me.

So that it was all clear sailing. What would come, would come, but the bliss which I should presently taste of, knowing Jessie to be mine and mine only--the bliss which I was enjoying already in anticipation--was all sufficient. Outside our own two personalities there was nothing else to be considered. Nothing else? No one else? No; for this one greatest of all joys secured, all difficulties which once seemed to threaten to mar its fulfilment _must_ melt away, as surely as snow melts before the sun. I pleased myself with this commonplace metaphor, and utterly overlooked the common sense of things (common sense, indeed, in this case being the very slave of sentiment)--utterly overlooked the possibility that the current of others' feelings, of others' likes and dislikes, of others' ideas of right and wrong, could run in a different direction from that down which I was sailing with my hopes realised. It is thus, I suppose, sometimes with other selfish natures than mine.

I was up and out early in the morning. I could not sleep the night before, and wishing to give Jessie a bouquet of fresh flowers, I had determined to walk to Covent-garden to buy them. I had a bouquet made of the sweetest and loveliest flowers, and I took it to our house by the back way, and hid it in my workroom. How many times I looked at it, and how in every delicate leaf I found a sentiment which formed a connecting link between me and Jessie, it is unnecessary here to describe. In the afternoon I had to go to the jeweller's for the watch for Jessie, the inscription on which could not be completed before; and when I held it in my hand and read the words, 'From Chris to Jessie, on her eighteenth birthday. With undying love,' I saw Jessie's beautiful eyes looking into mine, and I uttered an exclamation of delight which must have satisfied the jeweller that his work was approved of. Then there was the ivory brooch shaped in the form of a true lover's knot. Perhaps Jessie would allow me to fasten it in the bosom of her dress, as she had allowed me to take the ribbon from her neck, which was now round mine, with the locket she had given me on my birthday. No one but I had yet seen or knew of these offerings of love. It was to be a day of delightful surprises.

I was at home with my flowers before breakfast.

'What made you go out so early this morning, Chris?' Jessie inquired over breakfast.

'That's a secret,' I answered gaily; 'you shall know to-night.'

My mother had already questioned me in private, and I had easily satisfied her. Something unusual occurred when we had finished breakfast. Jessie went to uncle Bryan's side, and spoke to him.

'Do you know it's my birthday to-day, uncle Bryan?'

'I have heard so.' Then after a short pause: 'May it be a day of good remembrance to you!'

Nothing more; not a kiss, not even a hand-shake. And yet she invited it in the tenderest manner, as she stood before him, bright and beautiful, in a new light print dress, with a small lilac flower. I never see a dress with such a pattern without an odd sensation at my heart. She did not move from the spot until he, after some mental communing, I think, turned from her and went into the shop. I experienced a feeling very much like hatred towards him for his hardness and insensibility.

My mother took Jessie's hand.

'May your life be bright and happy, dear child!'

She hid her face in my mother's bosom for a little while in silence; then she raised her face, and they kissed each other. Ah, the world was bright with such a flower in it!

'And you, Chris?' she said presently, holding out her hand to me.

'I shall wish you nothing until to-night,' I said, with an effort of great self-restraint, 'except in my heart.'

She nodded, and smiled, and then busied herself about the room, insisting that my mother should sit and rest while she did the work of the house. But my mother, laughing, said that she could not allow it, as Jessie would find out all her secrets; then ensued fond coaxing and teasing, which ended, as I was afraid it would do, in my mother whispering to Jessie that we were going to have a little feast that night in her honour, and that Josey West was coming to spend the evening with us.

'A nice one you are to keep a secret,' I called merrily after them as they went out of the room with their arms around each other's waist, like mother and daughter; 'it's a good job I didn't tell you everything.'

What with my work and other duties, I saw but little of Jessie during the day; and in the evening I dressed myself in my best, and went for a walk, with the intention of not coming home until past eight o'clock, when Josey West would be at our house, and when everything would be prepared to celebrate Jessie's birthday in a befitting manner. I carried out my programme faithfully, and entered the parlour with a beating heart and flushed face. The room was very bright. My mother had on her best cap and dress, and in the rapid glance I cast at uncle Bryan, who was behind the counter, as I walked through the shop, I fancied I detected some change for the better in his appearance; I fancied also that he expected to see some one with me. Josey West was in the parlour, and the dear little soul was holding my mother's hand in hers with tender feeling. They were already the best of friends. My mother stood on tiptoe to look over my shoulder.

'Whom for, mother?' I asked.

'I was looking for Jessie, my dear. Has she not been out walking with you?'

'No, mother.'

'Ah,' exclaimed Josey West briskly, 'she'll be in presently. I dare say she is going to surprise us with something.'

Unable to keep my secret any longer, I said that I had something to surprise Jessie with when she came in; and I brought the flowers from my workroom, and placed them on the table. Then I showed them the brooch and the watch; before I knew it, Josey had opened the case, and read the inscription, and pointed it out to my mother.

'And is it so, really?' Josey asked tantalisingly.

'Why, you knew it was so,' I answered, very hot and red.

And my mother left Josey, and came and pressed me fondly in her arms.

But where was Jessie? She was nowhere in the house.

'Perhaps she's at mine,' suggested Josey; 'run round, and bring her. I dare say she's waiting for you there.' This with the wickedest of laughs.

But Jessie was not at Josey West's house, nor was she at home when I returned. Our perplexity soon turned to alarm. We looked at each other, to see whether any one of us held the key of Jessie's absence; my suspicions lighted on Josey West, but a frank look assured me that I had no right to suspect her. For an hour I walked about the street watching for Jessie.

'Can anything have happened to her?' my mother asked.

Uncle Bryan was in the room when my mother spoke. He also, in his own way, shared our alarm.

'Mother,' I said, inspired by a sudden thought, if Jessie comes while I am away, do not let her go out again. I shall not be long.'

My thought was to go to Mr. Rackstraw's office to make inquiries, although I knew full well that the office was closed hours ago. But I could not remain still. As I turned to go from the room, a boy's voice in the shop arrested my steps. He was inquiring for Mr. Bryan Carey and my mother. Uncle Bryan, answering the lad, came in with a letter, addressed to my mother. I saw that the writing was Jessie's, and I took the letter from his hand.

'I _must_ open it, mother,' I said. The letter contained these words:

'I have gone away, and shall not return. Forgive me for all the trouble I have brought among you, but I think I have not been entirely to blame. Do not be sorry that I have gone; I have caused you too much pain already. It will be useless, if you find where I am, endeavouring to prevail upon me to return. I would starve rather than enter the house again.

'JESSIE.'