by L. T. Meade
CHAPTER XV
I think God gave me great courage that day, for I really acted like agirl who was accustomed to going about by herself, who knew her wayabout London, and who was saving with regard to money matters. I hadcome out of one of the richest houses in London; I had left a housewhere I was attended all day and practically half the night, wheremy slightest wish was considered, where the most beautiful clotheswere given to me, and the most lovely things--that is, to allappearance--happened to me. I went out of that awful house, which Ihated, which I loathed, just because it was so rich, so stifling withluxury, and felt that each minute I was becoming a woman, and that soon,very soon, I should be quite grown up.
I got to Paddington Station and took the first train to Cherton. Chertonis not far from a great centre, and, as a rule, you have to changetrains and get into a "local" before you can arrive at the littleold-world place. I travelled third, of course, and had quite aninteresting journey. My compartment was full and I enjoyed looking atmy companions. They were the sort of people who do travel third--I meanthey were the sort of people who have a right to travel third. A greatmany ladies now go third-class when they ought to go second or first,but these people had a right to their third-class compartment, andthoroughly they seemed to enjoy themselves. They brought parcelsinnumerable; some of them brought birds in cages. There was a small,sharp-looking boy who had a pet weasel in his pocket. The weasel thrustout his head now and then and looked at us with his cunning bright eyes,and then darted back once more into his place of shelter. The boy lookedintensely happy with his weasel; in fact, the creature seemed tocomprise all his world. I managed to enter into conversation with theboy, and he told me that he was going to Cherton to be apprenticed to anold uncle of his; he was to learn the boot and shoe business and was tomake a good thing of it, so that he might be rich enough to help hisfather and mother by and by. He had nice, honest, brown eyes, and when Iasked him his name he said that he was called Jack Martin, but that mostof his friends called him Jack Tar. They all thought he would fail--allexcept Sam--but Sam prognosticated his success. I asked the boy who"Sam" was, and he answered in his simple, direct way:
"Why, he's my best pal, lydy."
I liked the little fellow when he answered in that fashion, and told himin a low voice that I was also going to Cherton, that I had spent manyyears in that little, out-of-the-world village, and that I was going toseek my aunt. He was much interested, and we became so chummy that heoffered me the loan of "Frisky," as he called the weasel, for a shorttime, if I'd be very kind to it. I thanked him much for the honour hemeant to confer on me, but explained that I was not in the habit ofcarrying weasels about with me, and perhaps would not understand"Frisky's" manners.
"He's a rare 'un for giving you a nip," said the boy in reply, "but Lor'bless yer, that don't matter. There's nothing wicious about he."
The other people in the carriage were also interested in the boy, andeven more so in "Frisky," who by and by extended his peregrinations fromone person to another, nibbling up a few crumbs of cake, and puttingaway with disdain morsels of orange peel, and altogether behaving like awell-behaved weasel of independent mind. The boy said he hoped "Frisky"would be allowed to sleep in his bed at his uncle's place, and the womensympathised, the men also expressing their hearty wishes on the subject.
"And why not?" said one very burly-looking farmer. "I'd a whole nest of'em once, and purtier little dears I never handled."
The third-class carriage was, indeed, packed full; the endless luggage,the boxes little and big, boxes that went on the rack and boxes thatwould not go on the rack, but stuck out all over the narrow passage andgot into everyone's way. There were shawls, and a pretty bird in a cage,and a white rabbit in another cage, and bundles innumerable. Buteveryone talked and laughed and became chatty and agreeable. The boy wasthe first to tell his story. It was a very simple one. He was poor; hisfather and mother had just saved up money enough to apprentice him toUncle Ben Rogers. He was going to him; he was off his parents now, andwould never trouble them again, God helping him.
By and by the people in the carriage turned their attention full on me.They had confided their histories each to the other, their simplestories of love and of hate, of ill-nature and of good-nature, of stormydays of privation and full days of plenty. Now it was my turn. I wasassailed by innumerable questions. "Why did I wear such smart clothes?Where did I get the feather that was in my hat? Why did I, being a lydy,travel with the likes of them?"
I told these good, kind creatures that I loved to travel with them, andthat I hated wealth and grand people. I said also that I was going backto a kind aunt of mine, who hated fine clothes as much as I wasbeginning to hate them, and that I earnestly hoped she would let me staywith her. I said that I was a very miserable girl, and then they allpitied me, and one woman said, "Poor thing, poor, pretty young thing!"and another took my hand and squeezed it, and said, "Bear up, my deary,God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb." I did not exactly know what shemeant, but I took comfort from her kindly words and kindly face. And soat last we got out at the big junction and then I took the little trainto Cherton. One or two of my fellow-travellers, amongst others the boywith the weasel, accompanied me. He was looking a little nervous, andwhen I said:
"I'll come and see you some day," his little woebegone face brightenedup considerably, and he answered:
"Don't forget, lydy, as I'm mostly known as Jack Tar, although I wasnever at sea in the whole course of my life; but my father makes tar,and I was christened Jack, so what could be more likely than that Ishould be called Jack Tar?" He then added again that his real name wasMartin; but that was no use to him at all, he was always "Jack Tar," andhe would not like to be anything else.
I smiled at the boy and we parted the best of friends. Cherton lookedperfectly lovely. It was just the crown of the year, that time in earlyMay when, if the weather is fine, the whole world seems to put out herbrightest and sweetest fragrance. The may trees were not yet in bloom,it is true, but the blackthorn was abundant, and as to the primroses andviolets, they seemed to carpet the place. My heart beat faster andfaster. Oh, the old streets, and the little town, and the happy,peaceful life I had led here! Would Aunt Penelope be glad to see me? Ofcourse she would. She was not a demonstrative old woman, but she wasgood to me; she, of course, had been very good to me. From the time shehad taken me--a tiny, motherless girl--from my father, she had done herbest in her own fashion for me. After all, I had not been so long awayfrom her, only a few months; but so much had been crowded into thosemonths that the time seemed years.
I had--I knew quite well--stepped from childhood into womanhood. My eyeshad been opened to discern good from evil, but I was glad of that; I wasglad, more than glad, that Cherton meant good to me, and that Londonmeant evil. I recalled the first time I had come to Cherton and what amiserable little child I had been, and how I had rushed away, all bymyself, to the railway station to meet the train by which Anastasia wasto come. Things were different now. Now Cherton meant home, and I had, Iwill own it, almost forgotten Anastasia.
At last I mounted the little hill which led to Hill View, AuntPenelope's house. I wondered if the same Jonas would open the door forme who had parted with me with many tears on the morning when I had gonewith such a light heart to join my father in London. I reached thelittle brown house. It looked exactly the same as ever, only that, ofcourse, the spring flowers were coming out. There were a great manyranunculuses in the garden, and the irises were coming out of theirsheaths and putting on their purple bloom, and there were heaps andheaps of tulips of different shades and colour. These were real flowers;these were the sort that I loved, the sort that Vernon Carbury wouldlove if he saw them. These were very different from the hothouse rosesand the flowers of rare beauty which decorated Lord Hawtrey's house.
I walked up the path which led to the front door with the confident stepof a girl who is returning home; I rang the door bell. At first therewas silence, no one replied to my summons; then a head was
pushed out ofa door down the area, there was a muffled exclamation, and somebody camescampering up the stairs, and there--yes, there--was the old Jonaswaiting for me!
"Jonas," I said, "don't you know me?"
"Miss Heather," he answered. His face grew scarlet, and then turned verywhite; the next minute, forgetting altogether his position, he took bothmy hands and dragged me into the house.
"Was it in answer to the big prayer that you've come?" he said. "Speak,and speak at once. I'm a Methody, I be. I had a big prayer last night; Iwrestled with the Lord for you to come back. Was it in answer to thatyou come?"
"Perhaps so, I don't know--who can tell? Oh, Jonas! is anything wrong?"
"Stop knocking at the door!" shouted a familiar voice, and then I gave ascream, half of pleasure, half of pain, and dashed into the parlour andwent up to Polly. I could not be afraid of her any longer, and althoughshe was not at all a friendly bird to me, and never had been during allthe years I had lived with her, yet she was so far subdued at presentthat she allowed me to ruffle the feathers on the top of her grey head.
"Where's Aunt Penelope?" I said then, turning to Jonas.
"Upstairs in bed. The doctor he come and the doctor he goes and I dowhat I can, but 'tain't much. She's off her feed and she's off her luck,and she's in bed. She's got me in to tidy up this morning, she did so.She said, 'Jonas, it ain't correct, but it must be done; you bring inyour broom and tea leaves and sweep up,' she said, 'and then dust,' shesaid, 'and I will lie buried under the clothes, so that you won't see abit of my head. It's quite a decent thing to do when it's done likethat, Jonas; and don't make any bones about it, for it's to be done.' SoI done her up as best I could, and oh, my word! the room did want itbadly. There now, that's her bell. Doctor says she should stay in bedand not stir, but she hears voices, and she's that mad with curiosity.Doctor thinks maybe she's going; doctor don't like her state, but I doesthe best I can. I'm getting her beef-tea ready for her now, MissHeather, and maybe you'll take it up to her. It's you she's beenfretting for; she's never held up her head since you went, but don't yougo to suppose she spoke of you. No, she never once did. But herhead--she never kept it up. Don't you fret about her, Miss Heather; youhave come back, and it's in answer to prayer. Now then, come along withme into the kitchen. I'll shout at her to let her know I'm here, butI'll not mention your name. Coming, ma'am--heating up thebeef-tea--coming in a twink! There, Miss Heather, she'll know now I'mcoming, and you--you get along to the kitchen as fast as you can andwatch me, to see as I does it right."
I went with Jonas to the little old-world kitchen. He really was not abad boy, this present Jonas, for the kitchen, seeing that its mistresswas so long out of it, was fairly clean, and his attempt at makingbeef-tea was fairly good, after all. While Jonas was warming thebeef-tea and making a tiny piece of toast, I removed my hat and jacketand smoothed my hair, and when the refreshment was ready I took itupstairs with me, up and up the narrow, short flight of creaking stairs.I passed my own tiny bedroom, and there was Aunt Penelope's room, facingthe stairs. I opened the door very softly and stood for a second on thethreshold.
"Now, what is it?" said a cantankerous voice. "Jonas, you're off yourhead. It's just because I admitted you to my bedroom to-day to sweep anddust. But come in, don't be shy. There is nothing against your cominginto the room with an old lady. You can lay the tray on the table andwalk out again without looking at me."
"It isn't Jonas," I said, standing half-hidden by the door,"it's--it's--Heather. I have come back, auntie."
The moment I said the words I went right in. Aunt Penelope drew herselfbolt upright in bed. She did look a very withered, very ill, and veryneglected old lady. Her face was hard and stern, but in her eyes thatmoment there burnt the light of love. Those eyes looked straight intomine.
"Heather, you're back?"
"Yes, of course I am, auntie, and now you must take your beef-tea andtell me all about everything. How are you, darling, and why did you getill, and why did you never write or send for your own child,Heather?--and, oh! you have been naughty! But I have come back, and Imean to stay for just as long as you want me."
"Then that will be for ever and ever, Amen," said Aunt Penelope. Shelaid her hot, dry old hand in mine, and she raised her face for me tokiss her. I stooped and did so, and then I said, almost sternly, for itwas my turn now to take the upper hand--
"You will have to allow me to wait on you; and you're not to talk atall, nor to expect any news from me whatsoever, until you have had yourbeef-tea, and until I have made you comfortable. Dear, dear, you do wantyour child Heather, very badly, auntie."
"Badly," said Aunt Penelope. "I wanted you, Heather, unto death--untodeath, but _he_ said that you were to come when the season was over. Icounted that perhaps you'd come in August. It's only May now, and theseason has just begun. I counted for August, although I scarcelyexpected to live."
"No more talking," I said, trying to be stern, although it was verydifficult, and then I sat on the edge of the bed and watched AuntPenelope as she sipped her beef-tea and ate some morsels of toast.
I forgot myself as I watched her. My own sufferings seemed to be faraway and of no consequence. My tired heart settled down suddenly into agreat peace. I was home once more.