CHAPTER XL.

WHAT THE NEIGHBOURS SAID.

Josey West's prediction proved to be right. When I rose the next morning uncle Bryan had not returned. Josey, looking as fresh as though she had had a good night's rest, told me that there had been no change in my mother's condition--that only a few words had passed her lips, and that those words were about me.

'There's a lot to do,' she said; you've got your work to look after, the shop must be attended to, and there's your mother to nurse. I really think, my dear, that if your uncle doesn't make his appearance, we had best take possession of the place. Two things we must be careful of--we mustn't let the business be ruined, and we must try to keep the neighbours from talking of what has occurred. When a lot of gossiping women get hold of a woman's name, with a story attached to it, they tear that woman's name to pieces with as much pleasure as they would eat a good dinner; and as for the story, my dear, when you hear it the next day you wouldn't know it, they twist and mangle it so. Stop here while I run round to my house; I sha'n't be gone ten minutes.'

During Josey's absence the doctor came.

'Your mother is no worse,' he said, after his examination; 'but I am not satisfied with her condition; it puzzles me. I can say nothing at present except that rest and freedom from agitation are imperative; there must be no noise in the house, no voices raised in anger, nothing that can in any way disturb her. Her life may depend upon it.'

By this I knew that he must have heard something more of what had taken place than what I had told him. Indeed, the gossips of the neighbourhood had commenced their work. I have puzzled my head many times to discover by what means they knew what they knew, but it was and is a mystery to me. They were familiar with matters which I had supposed no person outside our little circle could possibly be acquainted with. They knew that uncle Bryan and I were at daggers drawn, and that there had been a desperate quarrel between us; they knew that he had left the house, that Jessie had run away on her birthday, and that my mother was lying dangerously ill. Being in possession of these bare bones, they put them together with amazing ingenuity, and produced the most astounding results. The first thing they settled was, that uncle Bryan and I had quarrelled not alone with our tongues, but with our hands; and one of the pictures which grew out of the story as it was related by one to another represented uncle Bryan lying on the ground and me standing over him with a knife, while Josey West was rushing between us to prevent murder being done. Another picture represented uncle Bryan packing up in a handkerchief all his treasure in money (for, strange to say, I now learned for the first time that he bore the reputation of a miser, and that it was generally supposed he had large sums of money concealed), and stealing off in the dead of night in fear of his life. Another, and the worst, picture concerned Jessie and Mr. Glover. Mr. Glover, an enormously rich gentleman, had fallen desperately in love with Jessie, and she had consented to elope with him. The gossips gloated over the details. A carriage with a pair of gray horses was waiting at the corner of a certain street (name given) about a quarter of a mile away; Mr. Glover, in a large cloak, was on the watch at the appointed time; Jessie made her appearance, with a small bundle in her hand wrapped in a handkerchief; Mr. Glover lifted her into the carriage, jumped in after her, and away they whirled. Even if they had been inclined to doubt the truth of this story (which they were not), it was impossible for them to do so because of the exact and wonderful details which accompanied its relation. There were a coachman and a footman dressed in such and such a way, down to their very buttons; the carriage was painted blue, with edgings of yellow; Mr. Glover wore a smoking-cap, and his cloak had a fur collar, and two gold tassels attached to it. This cloak gave an air of mysterious romance to the picture, and added much to the enjoyment of it. It is worthy of notice that both uncle Bryan and Jessie left our house with something done up in a pocket-handkerchief. This occurs to me as an arbitrary feature in the painting of such pictures; and I have no doubt that, had a dozen persons been missing, each would have been portrayed as stealing away with something done up in a pocket-handkerchief in his hand.

Before the day was out, the whole neighbourhood was busy talking over these stories, and discussing their probable results.

Josey had returned within the ten minutes, and brought with her Matty and Rosy. The shop was opened, and a more than usually brisk business was done, in consequence of the gossips dropping in to pick up information; but I resolutely refused to go behind the counter. I would have nothing to do with it. I had already saved a little purse of money, and my earnings were good. I was determined to have no further connection with uncle Bryan in any shape or way whatever.

'Then I _must_ take possession,' observed Josey, after listening to my views, which I expressed in most unmistakable terms. It would be a pity to let such a business go to rack and ruin. If your uncle Bryan returns, I shall be able to render a proper account.'

She entered upon this as she entered upon everything else, with intense and thorough earnestness, and the business was carried on, and the duties of the house performed, as though nothing of importance had occurred to disturb them. She might have been born a grocer for the intimate knowledge she displayed of the requirements of the trade. When I expressed my astonishment, she said philosophically:

'My dear, nothing's difficult. One can do anything if one makes up one's mind to do it. All one has got to do is to go about it willingly.'

In the mean time I looked out anxiously for news of Jessie, but on the first day of her absence I learnt nothing. I went to Mr. Rackstraw's in the afternoon to make inquiries, but he received me coldly, and desired me not to call again--in such terms that I was certain Mr. Glover had made him my enemy. Then I went to Turk's new shop, and found him very busy, and sanguine of his prospects. But as he had no news of Jessie I listened to his relation of his plans with small interest.

'I shall be able to serve you, Chris,' he said, before I went away; 'I shall keep my eyes open.'

That night I sat up with my mother until three o'clock, when Josey relieved me. My mother did not know me, and although I strove hard to make her recognise me, her eyes dwelt on my face as they would have done on the face of a stranger. What pain and grief this brought to me I cannot describe.

There was something different in the arrangement of the room, and I made a remark concerning it to Josey. The room was clearer, lighter. Josey explained it to me in a sharp tone, as though she desired not to be questioned.

'The doctor said the room must be made as airy as possible; he doesn't want a lot of lumber about.'

But the next morning it occurred to me that the box in which Jessie kept her clothes and nicknacks had been taken out of the room. I looked about the house for it, but could not find it.

'Where is Jessie's box, Josey?' I asked.

'Gone,' was the short and snappish reply.

'Gone where?'

'Well, I suppose you must be told. While you were away yesterday, Jessie sent for it.'

'Then you know where she is,' I cried excitedly, jumping to my feet, and tearing off my working-coat.

'Yes, I know where she is.'

I waited, but Josey did not volunteer further information. I looked at her reproachfully.

'I'll just tell you as much as I'm compelled to, master Christopher, and no more. I had a letter from Jessie yesterday---O, no; you'll not see it! It was meant for my own eyes, and no others. I said that Jessie would tell me the reason of her going away, and she has done so; and I know where she is, and I've sent her clothes and all her things to her. And that's all, master Christopher.'

'No, it isn't all, Josey. You will tell me something more. If I'm not to know where she is----'

'Which you are not,' Josey interrupted; 'not from me at least.'

'I may know whether she is well.'

'Yes, she is well in health.'

'And happy?'

'I don't know; I can't tell.'

'Did she do right in going away?'

She answered me in precisely the same words.

'I don't know; I can't tell.'

'Is she stopping with friends?'

'Yes, she is stopping with friends.'

'But what friends can she have that we don't know of?'

'Ah,' exclaimed Josey, more snappishly than before, 'what friends, I wonder?'

'Josey,' I said coaxingly, putting my arm round her waist----

'I tell you what it is, master Christopher. If you ask me many more questions, I shall run away;' but in spite of her assumed severity, her tone softened.

'I won't ask you many more, Josey,' I said, and I felt the tears rising to my eyes, 'but you might have some pity for me.'

'Bless the dear child!' she said, with a motherly air, I _have_ some pity for you! Why, you stupid boy, I'm as fond of you as though you were my own brother!'

'Then tell me if it was because of me Jessie went away.'

'You had nothing to do with it.'

It was a relief to me to hear this, for I had in some way got it in my mind that Jessie had run away to escape the proposal she suspected I intended to make to her. I approached a more delicate subject.

'You have heard the stories the neighbours are telling each other, Josey, about Jessie and Mr. Glover.'

'Oh, yes, I've heard them! The scandal-mongers! I'd like to wring their ears for them.'

That was sufficient for me; a great weight was lifted from my heart. There was another question that I must ask.

'Did Jessie in her letter say anything about me? Did she send me any message?'

'She did, and I wasn't to give it to you unless you asked for it. Perhaps I'd better read it.' She took the letter from her pocket and read: '"Chris will be sure to miss my box"--you see,' said Josey interrupting her reading, 'Jessie sent the letter to my house; she didn't know I was here; and I was to ask your mother to let me have her box, so that I might send it to Jessie without your knowing.'

'Then there's a message to mother in that letter?'

'There is, but I can't give it to her, poor dear!'

'Go on with what Jessie says about me, Josey.'

'"Chris will be sure to miss my box, and if he asks you if I have sent him any message, say that I hope he will not try to discover where I am, and that I hope also he will not think worse of me than I am. If we meet again----"' here Josey broke off with, 'But that's not for you, I should say.'

'It _must_ be for me, Josey. You have no right to keep it from me.'

'Well, if you will have it. "If we meet again, it must be at my own time and in my own way. Whether I am right or wrong in what I have done and what I intend to do, I have quite made up my mind, and no one can advise me." Now I hope you are satisfied.'

I was compelled to be. There were both balm and gall in the letter--balm because the tales that slanderous tongues were circulating were false, and gall because Jessie had written in such a manner as to give me but little hope that she reciprocated my love. If she loved me, she would have confided in me. Is it possible, I reflected with bitterness, that she could have led me on, knowing my feelings towards her, and making light of them? But the thought was transient; I would not entertain it. It would be a shame on my manhood to doubt her. What if she were not for me--would that prove her unworthy? But it was bitter to bear, and the scalding tears ran from my eyes as I laid my head on my mother's pillow. My sobs disturbed her, and she moved her fingers feebly towards my neck. It was the first sign of recognition she had displayed since her illness. I fondled her poor thin hand, and kissed it, and moved close to her lips, for she was murmuring faint words. But these words were addressed not to me, but to my father, who had been dead for so many years. She was speaking to him of their darling boy, and of the happiness he would be to them when he grew to be a man. I listened sadly; every soft word she murmured was a dagger in my heart, for I was beginning to learn the strength of her love and the weakness of mine. Heavy as was the blow which had fallen upon me, I felt that there might be comfort and peace even yet for me, if my mother lived to enjoy the outward evidences of my penitence and love, and that a curse indeed must fall upon my life if she died without blessing me.