Part 31 (1/2)

said she. ”I have fought the others and beat them. I won't yield to this one.”

She paused abashed, for a man on horseback was standing before her as she turned. Had she not been so deeply engaged in her own thoughts she might have heard him merrily whistling as he approached from the town, but she heard him not, and was first aware of his presence when he stood silently regarding her, not two yards off.

”My girl,” he said, ”I fear you're in a bad way. I don't like to see a young woman, pretty as I can see you are even now, standing on a bridge, with a baby, talking to herself.”

”You mistake me,” she said, ”I was not going to do that; I was resting and thinking.”

”Where are you going?” he asked.

”To Crediton,” she replied. ”Once there, I should almost fancy myself safe.”

”See here,” he said; ”my waggon is coming up behind. I can give you a lift as far as there. Are you hungry?”

”Ah,” she said, ”If you knew. If you only knew!”

They waited for the waggon's coming up, for they could hear the horses'

bells chiming cheerily across the valley. ”I had an only daughter went away once,” he said. ”But, glory to G.o.d! I got her back again, though she brought a child with her. And I've grown to be fonder of that poor little base-born one than anything in this world. So cheer up.”

”I am married,” she said; ”this is my lawful boy, though it were better, perhaps, he had never been born.”

”Don't say that, my girl,” said the old farmer, for such she took him to be, ”but thank G.o.d you haven't been deceived like so many are.”

The waggon came up and was stopped. He made her take such refreshment as was to be got, and then get in and lie quiet among the straw till in the grey morning they reached Crediton. The weather had grown bad again, and long before sunrise, after thanking and blessing her benefactor, poor Mary struck off once more, with what strength she had left, along the deep red lanes, through the driving rain.

Chapter XVII

EXODUS.

But let us turn and see what has been going forward in the old parsonage this long weary year. Not much that is noteworthy, I fear.

The chronicle of a year's sickness and unhappiness, would be rather uninteresting, so I must get on as quick as I can.

The Vicar only slowly revived from the fit in which he fell on the morning of Mary's departure to find himself hopelessly paralytic, unable to walk without support, and barely able to articulate distinctly. It was when he was in this state, being led up and down the garden by the Doctor and Frank Maberly, the former of whom was trying to attract his attention to some of their old favourites, the flowers, that Miss Thornton came to him with the letter which Mary had written from Brighton, immediately after their marriage.

It was, on the whole, a great relief for the Vicar. He had dreaded to hear worse than this. They had kept from him all knowledge of Hawker's forgery on his father, which had been communicated to them by Major Buckley. So that he began to prepare his mind for the reception of George Hawker as a son-in-law, and to force himself to like him. So with shaking palsied hand he wrote:--

”Dear Girl,--In sickness or sorrow, remember that I am still your father. I hope you will not stop long in London, but come back and stay near me. We must forget all that has pa.s.sed, and make the best of it.--

”JOHN THORNTON.”

Miss Thornton wrote:--

”My dearest foolish Mary,--How could you leave us like that, my love!

Oh, if you had only let us know what was going on, I could have told you such things, my dear. But now you will never know them, I hope. I hope Mr. Hawker will use you kindly. Your father hopes that you and he may come down and live near him, but we know that is impossible. If your father were to know of your husband's fearful delinquencies, it would kill him at once. But when trouble comes on you, my love, as it must in the end, remember that there is still a happy home left you here.”

These letters she never received. George burnt them without giving them to her, so that for a year she remained under the impression that they had cast her off. So only at the last did she, as the sole hope of warding off poverty and misery from her child, determine to cast herself upon their mercy.