Part 26 (1/2)
They had confided their histories each to the other, their simple stories of love and of hate, of ill-nature and of good-nature, of stormy days of privation and full days of plenty. Now it was my turn. I was a.s.sailed 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, and that I hated wealth and grand people. I said also that I was going back to a kind aunt of mine, who hated fine clothes as much as I was beginning to hate them, and that I earnestly hoped she would let me stay with her. I said that I was a very miserable girl, and then they all pitied 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, G.o.d tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.” I did not exactly know what she meant, but I took comfort from her kindly words and kindly face. And so at last we got out at the big junction and then I took the little train to Cherton. One or two of my fellow-travellers, amongst others the boy with the weasel, accompanied me. He was looking a little nervous, and when I said:
”I'll come and see you some day,” his little woebegone face brightened up considerably, and he answered:
”Don't forget, lydy, as I'm mostly known as Jack Tar, although I was never 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 I should be called Jack Tar?” He then added again that his real name was Martin; but that was no use to him at all, he was always ”Jack Tar,” and he would not like to be anything else.
I smiled at the boy and we parted the best of friends. Cherton looked perfectly lovely. It was just the crown of the year, that time in early May when, if the weather is fine, the whole world seems to put out her brightest and sweetest fragrance. The may trees were not yet in bloom, it is true, but the blackthorn was abundant, and as to the primroses and violets, they seemed to carpet the place. My heart beat faster and faster. 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? Of course she would. She was not a demonstrative old woman, but she was good to me; she, of course, had been very good to me. From the time she had taken me--a tiny, motherless girl--from my father, she had done her best in her own fas.h.i.+on for me. After all, I had not been so long away from her, only a few months; but so much had been crowded into those months that the time seemed years.
I had--I knew quite well--stepped from childhood into womanhood. My eyes had been opened to discern good from evil, but I was glad of that; I was glad, more than glad, that Cherton meant good to me, and that London meant evil. I recalled the first time I had come to Cherton and what a miserable little child I had been, and how I had rushed away, all by myself, to the railway station to meet the train by which Anastasia was to come. Things were different now. Now Cherton meant home, and I had, I will own it, almost forgotten Anastasia.
At last I mounted the little hill which led to Hill View, Aunt Penelope's house. I wondered if the same Jonas would open the door for me who had parted with me with many tears on the morning when I had gone with such a light heart to join my father in London. I reached the little brown house. It looked exactly the same as ever, only that, of course, the spring flowers were coming out. There were a great many ranunculuses in the garden, and the irises were coming out of their sheaths and putting on their purple bloom, and there were heaps and heaps of tulips of different shades and colour. These were real flowers; these were the sort that I loved, the sort that Vernon Carbury would love if he saw them. These were very different from the hothouse roses and 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 step of a girl who is returning home; I rang the door bell. At first there was silence, no one replied to my summons; then a head was pushed out of a door down the area, there was a m.u.f.fled exclamation, and somebody came scampering up the stairs, and there--yes, there--was the old Jonas waiting for me!
”Jonas,” I said, ”don't you know me?”
”Miss Heather,” he answered. His face grew scarlet, and then turned very white; the next minute, forgetting altogether his position, he took both my 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; I wrestled with the Lord for you to come back. Was it in answer to that you 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 a scream, half of pleasure, half of pain, and dashed into the parlour and went up to Polly. I could not be afraid of her any longer, and although she was not at all a friendly bird to me, and never had been during all the years I had lived with her, yet she was so far subdued at present that 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 do what 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 in your broom and tea leaves and sweep up,' she said, 'and then dust,' she said, 'and I will lie buried under the clothes, so that you won't see a bit of my head. It's quite a decent thing to do when it's done like that, Jonas; and don't make any bones about it, for it's to be done.' So I done her up as best I could, and oh, my word! the room did want it badly. There now, that's her bell. Doctor says she should stay in bed and 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 does the best I can. I'm getting her beef-tea ready for her now, Miss Heather, and maybe you'll take it up to her. It's you she's been fretting for; she's never held up her head since you went, but don't you go to suppose she spoke of you. No, she never once did. But her head--she never kept it up. Don't you fret about her, Miss Heather; you have come back, and it's in answer to prayer. Now then, come along with me into the kitchen. I'll shout at her to let her know I'm here, but I'll not mention your name. Coming, ma'am--heating up the beef-tea--coming in a twink! There, Miss Heather, she'll know now I'm coming, and you--you get along to the kitchen as fast as you can and watch me, to see as I does it right.”
I went with Jonas to the little old-world kitchen. He really was not a bad boy, this present Jonas, for the kitchen, seeing that its mistress was so long out of it, was fairly clean, and his attempt at making beef-tea was fairly good, after all. While Jonas was warming the beef-tea and making a tiny piece of toast, I removed my hat and jacket and smoothed my hair, and when the refreshment was ready I took it upstairs with me, up and up the narrow, short flight of creaking stairs.
I pa.s.sed my own tiny bedroom, and there was Aunt Penelope's room, facing the stairs. I opened the door very softly and stood for a second on the threshold.
”Now, what is it?” said a cantankerous voice. ”Jonas, you're off your head. It's just because I admitted you to my bedroom to-day to sweep and dust. But come in, don't be shy. There is nothing against your coming into the room with an old lady. You can lay the tray on the table and walk 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 herself bolt upright in bed. She did look a very withered, very ill, and very neglected old lady. Her face was hard and stern, but in her eyes that moment there burnt the light of love. Those eyes looked straight into mine.
”Heather, you're back?”
”Yes, of course I am, auntie, and now you must take your beef-tea and tell me all about everything. How are you, darling, and why did you get ill, 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 I mean to stay for just as long as you want me.”