Part 16

After a time, however, peace was in some measure restored; the young folks silently resolved to achieve their end, while Farmer Joe loudly announced that, as the chap was bound to leave in two-three days, he’d keep his word to him for this time, but he’d be domned if he didn’t give him up if ever he showed his face there again.

After that he interfered no more, and though he was well aware that Jean and Molly continued their courting on the sly, he left them alone, and, except for an occasional sarcasm anent “Frenchies” and “frog-eaters,” made no attempt to molest Jean.

On the morning of the day fixed for the young man’s departure, however, he received news which changed his contemptuous indifference into active hatred and fury. He came staggering into the kitchen with an ashy-white face and starting eyeballs. Parson Bradley had been with him, and had announced to him the death of his son, Teddy, in foreign parts.

“They’n killed him,” he cried. “Those domned Frenchies ha’ killed my lad. See, here’s his name in th’ paper parson brought me. Eh, my lad—and I druv him fro’ the door! And now they’n killed him, the domned raskils!”

Molly gave a cry, and flung her apron over her head, and Jean came forward, full of genuine distress and sympathy. But at sight of him the old man’s face became suddenly suffused with a rush of returning colour; he babbled with inarticulate rage, and shook his fist threateningly.

“Soombry ’ll pay for this,” he cried, as soon as he could speak. “I’ll not have no murderers in my house. I’ll have blood for blood. Does not the Book say ‘an eye for an eye’? I’ll have life for life, I tell yo’. I’ll revenge my son!”

“Oh, father, father,” wept Molly, throwing herself at his feet, “dunnot say that! Dunnot look at John so wicked! He’s innocent, poor lad. The Book says more nor they things; it says, ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’ and, ‘Do as yo’ would be done by.’ We’n killed hundreds and thousands of Frenchmen, I reckon, but if poor Teddy were alive in the hands of his enemies yo’d think it a cruel thing if he were made to answer for it.”

With a volley of oaths the farmer was stooping forward to thrust her away, when there sounded of a sudden a tramping of feet without, and a heavy knock at the door.

“They’ve come for me!” said Jean, turning very pale. “Molly, my loved one, they will take me away; we shall—never meet again. Let us thank God for these happy days.”

She had risen and flown to him, and his arms were about her, when the knocking came again, loud and continuous.

“Open there, in the King’s name!” cried an imperious voice.

“Curse yo’, Molly, go to the door!” growled her father.

“Go, sweetheart,” said Jean, releasing her.

“Oh, father,” gasped Molly, as she crept with lagging steps across the room, “father, remember—yo’ gave your word!”

The door swung back, and in an instant the room, as it seemed to Molly, was full of soldiers. Their leader, after a brief glance round, which took in, apparently without any deep interest, the old man leaning forward in his chair, the trembling girl, and the fair-haired young labourer standing in the background, addressed himself to the master of the house.

“You are Farmer Rainford, I presume? I am in search of an escaped French prisoner of war, who, it is supposed, is in hiding in this neighbourhood. A suspicious-looking French craft has been hovering about Formby Cove since yesterday. May I ask if you’ve seen any stranger about your premises during the last few days?”

Old Joe lifted his heavy eyes, and gazed at the speaker stolidly, but without saying a word.

“Please to excuse my father, sir,” faltered Molly, coming quickly forward, “We’n just had bad news—terrible bad news, and he’s upset. We’n just heard as my only brother was killed by the French. See, there’s his name in the paper—Corporal Edward Rainford of the King’s Own.”

She snatched the paper from her father’s hand as she spoke, and pointed out the marked place with a trembling finger. Joe made an inarticulate sound, and then clapped his hand before his mouth.

“That’s a pity,” said the officer, with momentary compassion. “Well, Mr Rainford, we won’t trouble you. You can tell us what we want to know, my girl. You haven’t noticed any stranger about the place lately? Your labourers are all known to you? No ragged-looking fellow has come to the door to beg for alms?”

Molly had been shaking her head vigorously.

“No, sir! oh no, sir!” she now cried eagerly. “There’s nobody about but our own folks as has worked for us ever sin’ I can remember; and there’s nobody in this house but my father and mysel’, and old Winny the servant, and my sweetheart there.”

“Oh!” said the officer, laughing, “that’s your sweetheart, is it? He seems a likely lad. Why isn’t he out fighting for his country?”

“Oh, please sir, I couldn’t spare him!” cried Molly, laughing with white lips. “It ’ud fair break my heart if anything was to happen to him.”

Her feigned laughter was strangled by her sobs. Her father uttered a groan, and let his head drop forward into his hands.

“Dom they raskil Frenchies!” he cried: “they’n been and killed my only son!”

“Come, men,” said the officer, “we’ll take ourselves off. This is not a likely place for a French prisoner to take refuge in. You’d soon give him up, wouldn’t you, Mr Rainford?”

Joe Rain ford raised his head and looked at him steadily.

“Yo’n heerd what my lass telled yo’,” he said, doggedly; “there isn’t nobry here, nobbut me, and her,—and her sweetheart!”

THROUGH THE COTTAGE WINDOW

THE gable end of the cottage faced the shore, and I first became conscious of the window by the sudden appearance of a faint light behind its narrow panes. It was a stormy evening, the wind sweeping down between the dunes in sudden gusts that caught up the sand from their steep sides—which were indeed but sparsely covered with stargrass—and sent it driving seawards in blinding eddies. I had wandered overlong about the damp stretch of shore that bordered the remains of the submarine forest, interested first by the curious contrasts of colour to be noticed there—the silvery sweep of sand sloping downwards to the dusky purplish brown of the remnants aforesaid, in the irregular surface of which little pools and rivulets of water reflected the sky; the blue-green of the star-grass interspersed with patches of dwarf willows and bilberry plants, the foliage of which at this season had taken on a variety of tints. Later on, when the tide had come roaring and leaping in, I had been attracted by the magnificence of its fury, and had watched wave after wave roll towards me, gathering and swelling as though with suppressed rage, and finally breaking with a boom that went echoing through the hills, while the spray dashed ever higher and higher. Fascinated as I had been by the sight, I did not notice that the early autumnal sunset was over, until a sudden roller, more adventurous than its fellows, came rushing to my very feet, and, turning hurriedly to escape from it, I observed that the world behind me was wrapped in gloom, save for the lingering glare at the horizon. Almost at the moment that I became aware of the approach of night, I became also conscious that the gusts of wind before alluded to no longer carried stinging clouds of sand with them, but were laden with a cold mist of rain almost as painful to meet, a mist which, indeed, as I hastily threaded my way through the yielding sand, soon turned to a downpour.

Clearly, unless I wished to be drenched as well as benighted on this lonely waste, I must at once seek shelter; and, while I was disconsolately wondering whither I should bend my steps, a sudden ray of light drew my attention to the little habitation I had before noticed. Drawing my cloak closely round me I made my way thither with all the speed I could muster, and knocked loudly at the closed door; but my summons passed unheeded, being most probably unheard in the increasing fury of the gale; and, after repeated raps on the panels and rattlings of the latch, I went round to the window, in the hope that my efforts to attract attention might meet with some success from this point. No curtain hung behind the panes, and pressing my face close to them I peered into the room within. It was a small kitchen, kept with a neatness and cleanliness which one learns to expect among north-country folk. A small fire burnt upon the hearth, and a candle flickered in a tin sconce over the homely mantle-shelf. By the light of these I descried the figure of a woman sitting by the hearth; her hands were folded on her lap, and her eyes were fixed upon the fire. She might have been any age between fifty and sixty; the slight and erect form, and handsome face, rendered remarkable by strongly-marked black brows, would incline one to name the lesser figure, had not the deep lines about eyes and mouth, and the snow-white, if still abundant hair, inclined one to think her an older woman.

But I was in no mood to examine or criticise just then; with my face still close to the casement I tapped sharply on the topmost pane. The woman started, and turned her face towards me, grasping the elbows of her chair with both hands, but not otherwise attempting to move. I tapped again, more impatiently. Still remaining seated she stretched out both arms towards the window, a smile breaking over her face. Such a strange smile! Tender, even yearning, and yet one might almost say, fearful.

Losing patience, I tapped again, and nodded. With arms still stretched out she slowly left her chair and dropped upon her knees.

Then taking advantage of a momentary lull in the storm I shook the crazy casement and shouted:

“Let me in; I shall be wet to the skin!”

At length she rose hurriedly to her feet; then, shading her eyes with her hand, made her way towards me.

“Eh, dear!” she cried, as she drew near; “it’s not him—’tis a wumman!”

“Oh, do let me in,” I pleaded. “See how it rains! I only ask for shelter until the storm is over.”

She signed to me to go round to the door, and in another moment my feet were on the sanded floor within.

“Dear o’ me,” she cried, “yo’re wet, ma’am; yo’re terrible wet. I wish I’d ha’ heerd yo’ before, but wind and rain were makkin’ sich a din I didn’t notice nothin’.”

“And when you did notice, you took me for a ghost, I think,” I said, laughing, but feeling still a little aggrieved.

No trace of the strange expression which I had noticed on her face when I had first summoned her lingered there as she admitted me, but at these careless words of mine I saw it come again.

“Coom nigh the fire,” she said, after a pause, during which she had gazed at me as one half awake.

“Did you take me for a ghost?” I persisted, as I drew near the hearth.

“I took yo’ fur—summat,” she answered doggedly. Then, after a moment’s silence, she began to press me hospitably to dry my “shoon,” and informed me that she would “mak’ tay in a two-three minutes.”

“Yo’re out late,” she added presently, gazing at me as I basked in the comfortable warmth. “Dun yo’ coom fro’ far?”

“I have walked along the shore from Saltleigh,” I said. “I am staying at the inn there. It is not very far. When the storm is over I shall make my way back by road.”

“Ah,” she commented, bending down to fill the little brown teapot from the now bubbling kettle.

As she did so I caught sight of the glitter of a wedding-ring upon the gnarled brown hand.

“Do you live here all alone?”

“Ah,” affirmatively.

“You’ve been married, I see.”

She nodded.

“Your husband is dead, I suppose?” Again the curious look, but no answer. I repeated my question.

“I reckon he is dead, ma’am,” she replied in a low voice. “Yigh, I met say I know he’s dead. It’s thirty-five year sin’ he went—he mun be dead.”

“Did he not die here, then?”

“Nay, ma’am, he wur a sailor. He deed at say on jest sich a night as this. He deed, and he thought on me.”

The smile which I had seen once before, which held so much of love, and yet had in it a suggestion of fear, hovered about her lips again for a moment, and was gone.

“Tay’s drawed nice now,” she said in a different tone. “Will yo’ please to pull up, ma’am?” motioning me to draw my chair nearer the table. “I’ve soom leet cake here as I’ll toast in a minute, but I have na’ a bit o’ butter, I’m sorry to tell yo’; yo’ mun mak’ shift wi’out.”

As I murmured my thanks for the generosity with which she had set before me the best her house contained, and emphatically assured her that I infinitely preferred light cake without butter, my hostess reseated herself in her elbow-chair, and gazed at me, while I ate and drank, with evident satisfaction. But she did not speak, and each furtive glance that I sent in her direction increased my curiosity.

It was such a handsome face, with its great dark eyes, its still beautiful colouring, its expression of reserved strength, of patience, of—what was it? Expectation or longing? A little of both, perhaps, but all placid and contained.

“You must be very lonely,” I said, pushing away my cup at length, and leaning back in my chair. She looked up quickly, sighed, and suffered her hands to drop together in her lap.

“I am that,” she said, half to herself.

“How long were you married before you lost your husband?”

“Nobbut a year,” she returned; “scarce a year.”

“So short a time! How very sad. It must have seemed hard to you that he should go to sea and leave you—but of course he had to do it.”

“Yigh, ma’am, he had to do it—but I took it very ill.”

Her voice had sunk, so that the words were scarcely audible; it seemed to me that there were tears in the dark eyes. Impulsively leaving my chair I knelt down by her side, taking the worn hands in mine.

“It is all forgiven now,” I said. “The few hasty words are forgotten, but the memory of the love remains.”

“Ah,” she said, still speaking half to herself, “all’s forgiven now—all wur forgiven long sin’—before he deed. He thought of me before he deed, and loved me jest same as ever. He looked at me so lovin’—God rest him! He was never one to bear a grudge.”

“But I thought you said he died at sea.”

“Yigh, he deed at say, fur sure,” she added, looking at me as though in surprise; “but I knowed he loved me and forgave me.”

“Some of his comrades told you all about it, I suppose?”

“Nay, nay, nobry towd me—nobbut hissel’. His mates was all drownded, too; naught was niver heerd on ’em at arter ship sailed that last time. Noan of ’em ever coom back—nobbut him, and he coomed to nobry but me.”

“Do you mean that his spirit came back?” I asked, half-incredulously, half awe-stricken.

“Ma’am, I can’t reetly tell you how he coom back, but it was him. He coomed to tell me he wur dead, and to let me know as he’d forgive me.”

“Was nothing ever heard of his ship?” I enquired.

“Naught was niver heerd of ship, nor captain, nor crew,” she said. “Noan of ’em coom back, nobbut my Will.”

The wind raging round the house drove the rain fiercely against the little window, and I glanced towards it fearfully; then, laughing inwardly at my own folly, I turned to the woman again.

“Don’t you think it may have been fancy?” I said. “You are so lonely here, you see, and you had been fretting perhaps because of your little quarrel, and because you had, I suppose, no news of him. And then you imagined you saw his face—at the window—was it? he used perhaps to come to the window—”

“Ah,” she interrupted, “he all’ays coom theer—all’ays fro’ the time when he wur a little lad. He’d coom theer, and press his face to the window, and tap three times same as yo’ did to-neet—he all’ays tapped three times. And I used to look up from my little stool i’ the corner and nod at him, and at arter a bit get up and stale out when feyther and moother wurna lookin’—fur they’d all’ays barge if they cotched me playin’ wi’ Will Davis. The Davises were cocklin’ folk—very rough—a bad lot ’twas said, and my feyther didn’t reckon to let me go wi’ ’em. But my Will, he was never same as t’others—a gradely little lad he wur, good at’s books and never up to no mischeef. ‘I’ll noan be a cocklemon same as my feyther,’ he’d say; ‘when I goo to say I’ll goo a bit fur’er off. I’ll sail fur, wheer theer’s no lond an’ no houses, an’ no naught, nobbut wayter, wayter, wayter—same as it says in my book.’ Folks thought it a wonderful thing to see a little chap same as him goin’ so reg’lar to school. But t’other lads ’ud laugh at him for goin’ barefoot; poor Will, he hadn’t niver a shoe to his foot.”

She broke off to laugh softly to herself; her eyes were again fixed, on the fire, and her mind had evidently conjured up a vivid picture of the lad as he had been in bygone days.

“Eh, I mind when he’d coom patterin’ ower th’ weet sand to this place he’d leave tracks o’s little bare feet all round the house; and my feyther ’ud barge and sauce me terrible if he coom out and saw them.

“‘Yon little raskil Will’s been here again,’ he’d say; ‘my word, I’ll thrash him if I cotch him here.’

“And moother, hoo’d tak’ me by the ear, and drag me across the kitchen and sit me down on my stool i’ th’ corner wi’ my patchwork. ‘If thou dar’s so mich as say a word to yon agin’, hoo’d say, ‘I’ll fetch birch-rod to thee.’

“But ’tweren’t o’ no use. Soon as ever I’d hear the three taps, and see the roguish e’en o’ Will laughin’ in at me through the window, I’d mak’ my way to him soom gate. Yigh, I wur terrible headstrong. Poor mother—hoo’d a done better to ha’ takken rod to me—but hoo never did more nor talk—hoo thought the warld o’ me, and so did my feyther.”

“Were your parents alive when you married?” I inquired, breaking in upon the somewhat lengthy silence which ensued.

“Nay, ma’am, they deed both on ’em, when I wur eighteen year of age. My aunt coomed to live wi’ me then for a bit, but we didn’t get on so well. Will had been sailorin’ for nigh upon five year then, and I only seed him now and agin. Eh, I mind well the time he coom at arter feyther and moother deed. I had my blacks on, fur it were market day, and me and my aunt had been down to th’ village. We had afallin’ out as we coom we’re ways awhoam again, and my aunt hoo’d gone straight to her chamber, and hoo said hoo didn’t want no tay, and hoo’d pack up and go next morn and leave me alone, for I wur but an ill-mannered, ill-tempered wench. Well, I coom in and sot me down here in cheer, and I got a-gate o’ cryin’, for I wur feelin’ quite undone to think o’ my aunt goin’ that gate, and I wur thinkin’ how lonely I was, and what a miserable thing it war for a lass to be left same as me wi’out feyther nor moother, when all of a sudden I heerd Will knockin’ at the pane. Didn’t I jump up, and didn’t I run out, and didn’t he cotch me in’s arms and kiss me same as nobry’d ever kissed me afore! ‘Why, my lass,’ says he, ‘wast thou cryin’? I never see those bonny e’en o’ thine wi’ tears in ’em afore. Why, what wast thou cryin’ for, Molly?’

“I looked up in his face—eh, it was a bonny face, and so kind and anxious like, that I fair burst out again. ‘Coom, lass,’ says he, ‘we’s ha’ no more tears, but thou mun tell me all about it.’ ‘Eh, well,’ says I, ‘I’m cryin’ because I am a cross, bad-tempered lass and nobry can’t a-bear to live i’ th’ house wi’ me.’ ‘Coom, is that all?’ says he, and he laughed till he fair shook; ‘I know soombry as could manage very well to live i’ th’ same house as thee. Coom, give over—I thought ’t were summat war when I see thee i’ thy blacks and all.’

“‘Nay, but it is war,’ says I, ‘feyther and moother are dead o’ the fever, and I am left wi’ nobry but my aunt Jane, and her and me cannot agree, and we had words coomin’ awhoam fro’ market, and hoo says hoo wunnot live wi’ me no more.’

“‘Eh, dear, eh, dear, there’s a tale,’ says he; ‘coom, will Aunt Jane eat me, dost thou think, if I ax to coom in?’

“Hoo cannot eat thee if hoo wants to,’ says I, howdin’ up my head. ‘This house belongs to me now, and I am missus.’ We were steppin’ inside then, and Will put his two hands o’ my shoulders and turned my face to the leet.

“‘Thou’rt missus, art thou?’ says Will, ‘but thou’ll’t tak a master soom day, my wench.’

“‘Master,’ says I, half laughin’ and half cryin’; ‘I dunno. I don’t fancy callin’ nobry my master.’

“He looked down at me so earnest for a bit, and then he smiled. ‘Dunnot tell me that tale,’ says he. ‘Who was it I see cryin’ when I looked in; cryin’, because hoo was so lonely?’

“‘I don’t want a master, as how ’tis,’ said I.

“‘Well then,’ says he, ‘give it another name. Say husband, Molly.’

“‘And what husband?’ says I, knowin’ very well what he was at, but lettin’ on I didn’t understand. ‘Not a farmer,’ says I, ‘for I’m not good enough to be a farmer’s missus; and not a cottager’s,’ says I, ‘for I’m too good to be a poor man’s slave; and not a soldier fur sure, for soldiers goes to the wars and gets killed; and not a sailor—’

“‘And why not a sailor, Molly,’ says he. ‘Sailors has half a dozen wives they sayn,’ I answered him back as impudent as you please, ‘and what good would it do me t’ wed wi’ a mon who was always at say?’

“‘Sailors gets paid off ship now and again; then they likes to think there’s a little whoam and a little wife waitin’ for ’em. ’Tis a miserable thing,’ says he, ‘to know as theer’s nobry lookin’ out for yo’, nobry as cares whether you are dead or wick, no place wheer yo’re made welcome.’

“‘Poor Will,’ says I, wi’ my face turned away, and my e’en cast down.

“‘Nay,’ says he, ‘it’s not poor Will, for Will knowed theer wur soombry thinkin’ on him, and soombry lookin’ out for him.’

“‘Will tak’s too much conceit in hissel’,’ says I, makkin’ shift to spake ’ard like. But he geet his arm round me again and pulled round my face to leet, an’ then it wur all ower wi’ me—he see plain enough as he’d spokken truth.”

She relapsed into silence again, her face wearing a soft and tender smile that made it look almost young.

“So when he came to court you he looked at you first through the window?” said I.

Her face changed.