Books: In Homespun
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E. Nesbit >> In Homespun
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But, oh! poor dear, she was my sister--my own only sister--and it's
not the time now to be hard on her, and she where she is.
She was walking regular with a steady young man, who worked through
the week at Hastings, and come home here on a Sunday, and she would
have married him and been as happy as a queen, I know; and all her
looking in the glass, and dressing herself pretty, would have come
to being proud of her babies and spending what bits she could get
together in making them look smart; but it was not to be.
Young Barber, the grocer's son, who had a situation in London, he
come down for his summer holiday, and then it was 'No, thank you
kindly,' to poor Arthur Simmons, that had loved her faithful and
true them two years, and she was all for walking with young Mr.
Barber, besides running into the shop twenty times a day when no
occasion was, just for a word across the counter.
And father wasn't the best pleased, but he was always a silent man,
very pious, and not saying much as he sat at his bench, for he had
been brought up to the shoemaking and was very respected among
Pevensey folks. He would hum a hymn or two at his work sometimes,
but he was never a man of words. When young Barber went back to
London, Ellen, she began to lose her pretty looks. I had never
thought much of young Barber. There was something common about
him--not like the labouring men, but a kind of town commonness,
which is twenty times worse to my thinking; and if I didn't like him
before, you may guess I didn't waste much love on him when I see
poor Ellen's looks.
Now, if I am to tell you this story at all, I must tell it very
steady and quiet, and not run on about what I thought or what I
felt, or I shan't never have the heart to go through it. The long
and short of it was that a month hadn't passed over our heads after
young Barber leaving, when one morning our Ellen wasn't there. And
she left a note, nailed to father's bench, to say she had gone off
with her true love, and father wasn't to mind, for she was going to
be married.
Father, he didn't say a word, but he turned a dreadful white, and
blue his lips were, and for one dreadful moment I thought that I had
lost him too. But he come round presently. I ran across to the Three
Swans to get a drop of brandy for him; and I looked at her letter
again, and I looked at him, and we both see that neither of us
believed that she was going to be married. There was something about
the very way of the words as she had written them which showed they
weren't true.
Father, he said nothing, only when next Sunday had come, and I had
laid out his Sunday things and his hat, all brushed as usual, he
says--
'Put 'em away, my girl. I don't believe in Sunday. How can I believe
in all that, and my Ellen gone to shame?'
And, after that, Sundays was the same to him as weekdays, and the
folks looked shy at us, and I think they thought that, what with
Ellen's running away and father's working on Sundays, we was on the
high-road to the pit of destruction.
And so the time went on, and it was Christmas. The bells was ringing
for Christmas Eve, and I says to father: 'O father! come to church.
Happen it's all true, and Ellen's an honest woman, after all.'
And he lifted his head and looked at me, and at that moment there
come a soft little knock at the door. I knew who it was afore I had
time to stir a foot to go across the kitchen and open the door to
her. She blinked her eyes at the light as I opened the door to her.
Oh, pale and thin her face was that used to be so rosy-red, and--
'May I come in?' she said, as if it wasn't her own home. And father,
he looked at her like a man that sees nothing, and I was frightened
what he might do, like the fool I was, that ought to have known
better.
'I'm very tired,' says Ellen, leaning against the door-post; 'I have
come from a very long way.'
And the next minute father makes two long steps to the door, and his
arms is round her, and she a-hanging on his neck, and they two
holding each other as if they would never let go. And so she come
home, and I shut the door.
And in all that time father and me, we couldn't make too much of
her, me being that thankful to the Lord that He had let our dear
come back to us; and never a word did she say to me of him that had
been her ruin. But one night when I asked her, silly-like, and
hardly thinking what I was doing, some question about him, father
down with his fist on the table, and says he--
'When you name that name, my girl, you light hell in me, and if ever
I see his damned face again, God help him and me too.'
And so I held my stupid tongue, and sat sewing with Ellen long days,
and it was a happy, sad time, if a time can be sad and happy both.
And it was about primrose-time that her time come, and we had kept
it quiet, and nobody knew but us and Mrs. Jarvis, that lived in the
cottage next to ours, and was Ellen's godmother, and loved her like
her own daughter; and when the baby come, Ellen says, 'Is it a boy
or a girl?' And we told her it was a boy.
Then, says she, 'Thank God for that! My baby won't live to know such
shame as mine.'
And there wasn't one of us dared tell her that God meant no shame or
pain or grief at all should come to her little baby, because it was
dead. But by-and-by she would have it to lie by her, and we said No:
it was asleep; and for all we said she guessed the truth somehow.
And she began to cry, the tears running down her cheeks and wetting
the linen about her, and she began to moan, 'I want my baby--oh,
bring me my little baby that I have never seen yet. I want to say
"good-bye" to it, for I shall never go where it is going.'
And father said, 'Bring her the child.'
I had dressed the poor little thing--a pretty boy, and would have
been a fine man--in one of the gowns I had taken a pleasure in
sewing for it to wear, and the little cap with the crimped border
that had been Ellen's own when she was a baby and her mother's
pride, and I brought it and put it in her arms, and it was clay-cold
in my hands as I carried it. And she laid its head on her breast as
well as she could for her weakness; and father, who was leaning over
her, nigh mad with love and being so anxious about her, he says--
'Let Lucy take the poor little thing away, Ellen,' he says, 'for you
must try to get well and strong for the sake of those that love
you.'
Then she says, turning her eyes on him, shining like stars out of
her pale face, and still holding her baby tight to her breast, 'I
know what's the best thing I can do for them as love me, and I'm
doing it fast. Kiss me, father, and kiss the baby too. Perhaps if I
hold it tight we'll go out into the dark together, and God won't
have the heart to part us.' And so she died.
And there was no one but me that touched her after she died, for all
I am a cripple, and I laid her out, my pretty, with my own hands,
and the baby in the hollow of her arm; and I put primroses all round
them, and I took father to look at them when all was done, and we
stood there, holding hands and looking at her lying there so sweet
and peaceful, and looking so good too, whatever you may think, with
all the trouble wiped off her face as if the Lord had washed it
already in His heavenly light.
Now, Ellen was buried in the churchyard, and Parson, who was always
a hard man, he would have her laid away to the north side, where no
sun gets to for the trees and the church, and where few folks like
to be buried. But father, he said, 'No; lay her beside her mother,
in the bit of ground I bought twenty years ago, where I mean to lie
myself, and Lucy too, when her time comes, so that if the talk of
rising again is true we shall be all together at the last, as
kinsfolk should.'
So they laid her there, and her name was cut under mother's on the
headstone.
Father didn't grieve and take on as some men do, but he was quieter
than he used to be, and didn't seem to have that heart in his work
that he always had even after she had left us. It seemed as if the
spring of him was broken, somehow. Not but what he was goodness
itself to me then and always. But I wasn't his favourite child, nor
could I have looked to be, me being what I am and she so sweet and
pretty, and such a way with her.
And father went to church to the burying, but he wouldn't go to
service. 'I think maybe there's a God, and if there is, I have that
in my heart that's quite enough keeping in my own poor house,
without my daring to take it into His.'
And so I gave up going too. I wouldn't seem to be judging father,
not though I might be judged myself by all the village. But when I
heard the church-bells ringing, ringing, it was like as if some one
that loved me was calling to me and me not answering; and sometimes
when all the folk was in church, I used to hobble up on my crutches
to the gate and stand there and sometimes hear a bit of the singing
come through the open door.
It was the end of August that Mr. Barber at the shop fell off a
ladder leading to his wareroom, and was killed on the spot; and Mrs.
Jarvis, she says to me, 'If that young Barber comes home, as I
suppose he will, to take what's his by right in the eyes of the law,
he might as well go and put his head into an oven on a baking-day,
and get his worst friend to shove his legs in after him and shut the
door to.'
'He won't come back,' says I. 'How could he face it, when every one
in the village knows it?'
For when Ellen died it could not be kept secret any longer, and a
heap of folks that would have drawn their skirts aside rather than
brush against her if she had been there alive and well, with her
baby at her breast, had a tear and a kind word for her now that she
was gone where no tears and no words could get at her for good or
evil.
I see once a bit of poetry in a book, and it said when a woman had
done what she had done, the only way to get forgiven is to die, and
I believe that's true. But it isn't true of fathers and sisters.
It was Sunday morning, and father, he was working away at his
bench--not that it ever seemed to make him any happier to work, only
he was more miserable if he didn't,--and I had crept up to the
churchyard to lean against the wall and listen to the psalms being
sung inside, when, looking down the village street, I saw Barber's
shop open, and out came young Barber himself. Oh, if God forgets any
one in His mercy, it will be him and his like!
He come out all smart and neat in his new black, and he was
whistling a hymn tune softly. Our house was betwixt Barber's shop
and the church, not a stone's-throw off, anyway; and I prayed to God
that Barber would turn the other way and not come by our house,
where father he was sitting at his bench with the door open.
But he did turn, and come walking towards me; and I had laid my
crutches on the ground, and I stooped to pick them up to go home--to
stop words; for what were words, and she in her grave?--when I heard
young Barber's voice, and I looked over the wall, and see he had
stopped, in his madness and folly and the wickedness of his heart,
right opposite the house he had brought shame to, and he was
speaking to father through the door.
I couldn't hear what he said, but he seemed to expect an answer,
and, when none came, he called out a little louder, 'Oh, well,
you've no call to hold your head so high, anyhow!' And for the way
he said it I could have killed him myself, but for having been
brought up to know that two wrongs don't make a right, and
'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord; I will repay.'
They was at prayers in the church, and there was no sound in the
street but the cooing of the pigeons on the roofs, and young Barber,
he stood there looking in at our door with that little sneering
smile on his face, and the next minute he was running for his life
for the church, where all the folks were, and father after him like
a madman, with his long knife in his hand that he used to cut the
leather with. It all happened in a flash.
Barber come running up the dusty road in his black, and passed me as
I stood by the churchyard gate, and up towards the church; but
sudden in the path he stopped short, his eyes seeming starting out
of his head as he looked at Ellen's grave--not that he could see her
name, the headstone being turned the other way,--and he put his
hands before his eyes and stood still a-trembling, like a rabbit
when the dogs are on it, and it can't find no way out. Then he cried
out, 'No, no, cover her face, for God's sake!' and crouched down
against the footstone, and father, coming swift behind him, passed
me at the gate, and he ran his knife through Barber's back twice as
he crouched, and they rolled on the path together.
Then all the folks in church that had heard the scream, they come
out like ants when you walk through an ant-heap. Young Barber was
holding on to the headstone, the blood running out through his new
broadcloth, and death written on his face in big letters.
I ran to lift up father, who had fallen with his face on the grave,
and as I stooped over him, young Barber he turned his head towards
me, and he says in a voice I could hardly catch, such a whisper it
was, 'Was there a child? I didn't know there was a child--a little
child in her arm, and flowers all round.'
'Your child,' says I; 'and may God forgive you!'
And I knew that he had seen her as I see her when my hands had
dressed her for her sleep through the long night.
I never have believed in ghosts, but there is no knowing what the
good Lord will allow.
So vengeance overtook him, and they carried him away to die with the
blood dropping on the gravel; and he never spoke a word again.
And when they lifted father up with the red knife still fast in his
hand, they found that he was dead, and his face was white and his
lips were blue, like as I had seen them before. And they all said
father must have been mad; and so he lies where he wished to lie,
and there's a place there where I shall lie some day, where father
lies, and mother, and my dear with her little baby in the hollow of
her arm.
GRANDSIRE TRIPLES
I WAS promised to William, in a manner of speaking, close upon seven
year. What I mean to say is, when he was nigh upon fourteen, and was
to go away to his uncle in Somerset to learn farming, he gave me a
kiss and half of a broken sixpence, and said--
'Kate, I shall never think of any girl but you, and you must never
think of any chap but me.'
And the Lord in His goodness knows that I never did.
Father and mother laughed a bit, and called it child's nonsense; but
they was willing enough for all that, for William was a likely chap,
and would be well-to-do when his good father died, which I am sure I
never wished nor prayed for. All the trouble come from his going to
Somerset to learn farming, for his uncle that was there was a Roman,
and he taught William a good deal more than he set out to learn, so
that presently nothing would do but William must turn Roman Catholic
himself. I didn't mind, bless you. I never could see what there was
to make such a fuss about betwixt the two lots of them. Lord love
us! we're all Christians, I should hope. But father and mother was
dreadful put out when the letter come saying William had been
'received' (like as if he was a parcel come by carrier). Father, he
says--
'Well, Kate, least said soonest mended. But I had rather see you
laid out on the best bed upstairs than I'd see you married to
William, a son of the Scarlet Woman.'
In my silly innocence I couldn't think what he meant, for William's
mother was a decent body, who wore a lilac print on week-days and a
plain black gown on Sunday for all she was a well-to-do farmer's
wife, and might have gone smart as a cock pheasant.
It was at tea-time, and I was a-crying on to my bread-and-butter,
and mother sniffing a little for company behind the tea-tray, and
father, he bangs down his fist in a way to make the cups rattle
again, and he says--
'You've got to give him up, my girl. You write and tell him so, and
I'll take the letter as I go down to the church to-night to
practice. I've been a good father to you, and you must be a good
girl to me; and if you was to marry him, him being what he is, I'd
never speak to you again in this world or the next.'
'You wouldn't have any chance in the next, I'm afraid, James,' said
my mother gently, 'for her poor soul, it couldn't hope to go to the
blessed place after that.'
'I should hope not,' said my father, and with that he got up and
went out, half his tea not drunk left in the mug.
Well, I wrote that letter, and I told William right enough that him
and me could never be anything but friends, and that he must think
of me as a sister, and that was what father told me to say. But I
hope it wasn't very wrong of me to put in a little bit of my own,
and this is what I said after I had told him about the friend and
sister--
'But, dear William,' says I, 'I shall never love anybody but you,
that you may rely, and I will live an old maid to the end of my days
rather than take up with any other chap; and I should like to see
you once, if convenient, before we part for ever, to tell you all
this, and to say "Good-bye" and "God bless you." So you must find
out a way to let me know quiet when you come home from learning the
farming in Somerset.'
And may I be forgiven the deceitfulness, and what I may call the
impudence of it! I really did give father that same letter to post,
and him believing me to be a better girl than I was, to my shame,
posted it, not doubting that I had only wrote what he told me.
That was the saddest summer ever I had. The roses was nothing to me,
nor the lavender neither, that I had always been so fond of; and as
for the raspberries, I don't believe I should have cared if there
hadn't been one on the canes; and even the little chickens, I
thought them a bother, and--it goes to my heart to say it--a whole
sitting was eaten by the rats in consequence. Everything seemed to
go wrong. The butter was twice as long a-coming as ever I knowed it,
and the broad beans got black fly, and father lost half his hay with
the weather. If it had been me that had done something unkind,
father would have said it was a Providence on me. But, of course, I
knew better than to speak up to my own father, with his hay lying
rotting and smoking in the ten-acre, and telling him he was a-being
judged.
Well, the harvest was got in. It was neither here nor there. I have
seen better years and I have seen worse. And October come. I was
getting to bed one night; at least, I hadn't begun to undress, for I
was sitting there with William's letters, as he had wrote me from
time to time while he was in Somerset, and I was reading them over
and thinking of William, silly fashion, as a young girl will, and
wishing it had been me was a Roman Catholic and him a Protestant,
because then I could have gone into a convent like the wicked people
in father's story-books. I was in that state of silliness, you see,
that I would have liked to do something for William, even if it was
only going into a convent--to be bricked up alive, perhaps. And then
I hears a scratch, scratch, scratching, and 'Drat the mice,' says I;
but I didn't take any notice, and then there was a little tap,
tapping, like a bird would make with its beak on the window-pane,
and I went and opened it, thinking it was a bird that had lost its
way and was coming foolish-like, as they will, to the light. So I
drew the curtain and opened the window, and it was--William!
'Oh, go away, do,' says I; 'father will hear you.'
He had climbed up by the pear-tree that grew right and left up the
wall, and--
'I ask your pardon,' says he, 'my pretty sweetheart, for making so
free as to come to your window this time of night, but there didn't
seem any other way.'
'Oh, go, dear William, do go,' says I. I expected every moment to
see the door open and father put his head in.
'I'm not going,' said William, 'till you tell me where you'll meet
me to say "Good-bye" and "God bless you," like you said in the
letter.'
Though I knew the whole parish better than I know the palm of my
hand, if you'll believe me, I couldn't for the life of me for the
moment think of any place where I could meet William, and I stood
like a fool, trembling. Oh, what a jump I gave when I heard a noise
like a heavy foot in the garden outside!
'Oh! it's father got round. Oh! he'll kill you, William. Oh!
whatever shall we do?'
'Nonsense!' said William, and he caught hold of my shoulder and gave
me a gentle little shake. 'It was only one of these pears as I
kicked off. They must be as hard as iron to fall like that.'
Then he gave me a kiss, and I said: 'Then I'll meet you by the
Parson's Shave to-morrow at half-past five, and do go. My heart's
a-beating so I can hardly hear myself speak.'
'Poor little bird!' says William. Then he kissed me again and off he
went; and considering how quiet he came, so that even I couldn't
hear him, you would not believe the noise he made getting down that
pear-tree. I thought every minute some one would be coming in to see
what was happening.
Well, the next day I went about my work as frightened as a rabbit,
and my heart beating fit to choke me, trying not to think of what I
had promised to do. At tea-time father says, looking straight before
him--
'William Birt has come home, Kate. You remember I've got your
promise not to pass no words with him, him being where he is,
without the fold, among the dogs and things.'
And I didn't answer back, though I knew well enough it wasn't
honest; but he hadn't got my word. Father had brought me up careful
and kind, and I knew my duty to my parents, and I meant to do it,
too. But I couldn't help thinking I owed a little bit of a duty to
William, and I meant doing that, so far as keeping my promise to
meet him that afternoon went. So after tea I says, and I do think it
is almost the only lie I ever told--
'Mother,' I says, 'I've got the jumping toothache, and it's that bad
I can hardly see to thread my needle.'
Then she says, as I knew she would, her being as kind an old soul as
ever trod: 'Go and lie down a bit and put the old sheepskin coat
over your head, and I'll get on with the darning.'
So I went upstairs trembling all over. I took the bolster and pillow
and put them under the covers, to look as like me as I could, and I
put the old sheepskin coat at the top of all; and as you come into
the room any one would have thought it was me lying there with the
toothache. Then I took my hat and shawl and I went out, quiet as a
mouse, through the dairy. When I got to the Parson's Shave there was
William, and I was so glad to see him, I didn't think of nothing
else for full half a minute. Then William said--
'It's only one field to the church. Why not go up there and sit in
the porch? See, it's coming on to rain.'
So he took my arm, and we started across the field, where all the
days of the year but one you would not meet a soul. We went up
through the churchyard. It was 'most dark, but I wasn't a bit afraid
with William's arm round me. But when we got to the porch and had
sat down, I was sorry I'd come, for I heard feet on the road below,
and they stopped outside the lychgate.
'Come, quick,' says I, 'or we're caught like rats in a trap. If I am
going to give you up to please father, I may as well please him all
round. There's no reason why he should know I've seen you.'
'So we stole on our tiptoes round to the little door that is hardly
ever fastened, and so through to the tower. Father being one of the
bellringers, I knew every step. There's a stone seat cut out of the
wall in the bellringers' loft, and there we sat down again, and I
was just going to tell him again what I had said in the letter about
being his sister and a friend, which seemed to comfort me somehow,
though William has told me since it never would have him, when
William, he gripped my hand like iron, and ''S-sh!' says he,
'listen.' And I listened, and oh! what I felt when I heard footsteps
coming up the tower. I didn't dare speak a word to him, and only
kept tight hold of his hand, and pulled him along till we got to the
tower steps, and went on up. But I says to myself, 'Oh, what's my
head made of, to forget that it's practising night? and Him the
church was built for only knows how long they won't be here
practising!' We went on up the twisted cobwebby stairs, with bits of
broken birds' nests that crackled under our feet that loud I thought
for sure the folks below must hear us; and we got into the belfry,
and there William was for staying, but I whispered to him--
'If you hear them bells when they're all a-going, you won't never
hear much else. We must get on up out of it unless we want to be
deaf the rest of our lives.'
And it was pitch dark in the belfry, except for the little grey
slits where the shuttered windows are. The owls and starlings were
frightened, I suppose, at hearing us, though why they should have
been, I don't know, being used to the bells; and they flew about
round us liker ghosts than anything feathered, and one great owl
flopped out right into my face, till I nearly screamed again. It was
all very, very dusty, and not being able to see, and being afraid to
strike a light, we had to feel along the big beams for our way
between the bells, I going first, because I knew the way, and
reaching back a hand every now and then to see that William was
coming after me safe and sound. On hands and knees we had to go for
safety, and all the while I was dreading they would start the bells
a-going and, maybe, shake William, who wasn't as used to it as I
was, off the beams, and him perhaps be smashed to pieces by the
bells as they swung.
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