In Homespun Part 16

When she was risin' seventeen, I looked for the young men to be comin' after 'er; and come after 'er they did, and more than one and more than two, but there was only one as she ever give so much as a kind look to, and that was Bill Jarvis, the blacksmith's son at Farleigh. Whenever our barge was lyin' in the river of a Sunday, he would walk down in 'is best in the afternoon to pa.s.s the time of day with us, and presently it got to our Mary walking out with 'im regular.

'Blest if it ain't going to be "William and Mary" after all,' says my old man.

'He was pleased, I could see, for Bill Jarvis, he'd been put to his father's trade, and 'e might look to come into his father's business in good time, and barrin' a bit of poaching, which is neither here nor there, in my opinion there wasn't a word to be said against 'im.

And so things went along, and they was all jolly except me, but I had it tugging at my heart day and night, that the little gell as 'ad been my very own these seventeen years wouldn't be mine no longer soon, and, G.o.d forgive me, I hated Bill Jarvis, and I wouldn't 'ave been sorry if I'd 'eard as 'arm 'ad come to him.

The wedding was fixed for the Sat.u.r.day; we was to 'ave a nice little spread at the Rose and Crown, and the young folks was to go 'ome and stay at old Jarvis's at Farleigh, and I was to lose my Pretty. And on the Friday night, my old man, 'e went up to the Rose and Crown to see about things and to get a drink along of 'is mates, and when 'e come back I looked to see 'im a little bit on maybe, as was only natural, the night before the weddin' and all. But 'e come back early, and 'e come back sober, but with a face as white as my ap.r.o.n.

'Bess,' says 'e to me, 'where's the girl?'

'She's in 'er bunk asleep,' says I, 'lookin' as pretty as a picture.

She's been out with 'er sweet'eart,' says I. 'O Tom, this is the last night she'll lay in that little bunk as she's laid in every night of 'er life, except that wicked fortnight we sent 'er to school.'

'Look 'ere,' says 'e, speaking in a whisper, 'I've 'eard summat up at the Rose and Crown: Bank's broke, and all our money's gone. I see it in the paper, so it must be true.'

'You don't mean it, Tom,' says I; 'it can't be true.'

''Tis true, though, by G.o.d,' says 'e, ''ere, don't take on so, old girl,' for I'd begun to cry. 'More's been lost on market-days, as they say: our little girl's well provided for, for old Jarvis, 'e's a warm man.'

'She won't 'ave a day's peace all 'er life,' says I, 'goin'

empty-'anded into that 'ouse. I know old Mother Jarvis--a cat: we'd best tell the child, p'raps she won't marry 'im if she knows she's nothing to take to 'im,' and, G.o.d forgive me, my 'eart jumped up at the thought.

'No, best leave it be,' says my old man, 'they're fair sweet on each other.'

And so the next morning we all went up to the church, me cryin' all the way as if it was 'er buryin' we was a-goin' to and not 'er marryin'. The parson was at the church and a lot of folks as knew us, us 'avin' bin in those parts so long; but none of the bridegroom's people was there, nor yet the bridegroom.

And we waited and we waited, my Pretty as pale as a snowdrop in her white bonnet. And when it was a hour past the time, Tom, 'e ups and says out loud in the church, for all the parson and me said ''Us.h.!.+'

'I'm goin' back 'ome,' says 'e; 'there won't be no weddin' to-day; 'e shan't 'ave 'er now,' says my old man, 'not if 'e comes to fetch 'er in a coach and six cram full of bank-notes,' says 'e.

And with that 'e catches 'old of Mary in one and and me in the other, and turns to go out of church, and at the door, who should we meet but old Mother Jarvis, 'er that I'd called a cat in my wicked spite only the day before. The tears was runnin' down her fat cheeks, and as soon as she saw my Pretty, she caught 'er in 'er arms and 'ugged 'er like as if she'd been 'er own. 'G.o.d forgive 'im,'

says she, 'I never could, for all he's my own son. He's gone off for a soldier, and 'e left a letter sayin' you wasn't to think any more of 'im, for 'e wasn't a marryin' man.'

'It's that dam money,' says my goodman, forgettin' 'e was in church; 'that was all 'e wanted, but it ain't what he'll get,' says 'e. 'You keep 'im out of my way, for it 'ull be the worse for 'im if 'e comes within the reach of my fisties.'

And with that we went along 'ome, the three of us. And the sun kept a-s.h.i.+nin' just as if there was nothin' wrong, and the skylarks a-singin' up in the blue sky till I would a-liked to wring their necks for them.

And we 'ad to go on up and down the river as usual, for it was our livin', you see, and we couldn't get away from the place where everybody knew the slight that had been put upon my Pretty. You'd think p'raps that was as bad as might be, but it wasn't the worst.

We was beginnin' June then, and by the end of August I knew that what my Pretty 'ad gone through at the church was nothin' to what she'd got to go through. Her face got pale and thin, and she didn't fancy 'er food.

I suppose I ought to 'ave bin angry with her, for we'd always kept ourselves respectable; and I know if you spare the rod you spoil the child, and I felt I ought to tell her I didn't 'old with such wickedness; so one night when 'er father, 'e was up at the Rose and Crown, and she, a-settin' on the bank with 'er elbows on 'er knees and 'er chin in 'er 'ands, I says to 'er, 'You can't 'ide it no longer, my girl: I know all about it, you wicked, bad girl, you.'

And then she turned and looked at me like a dog does when you 'it it. 'O mother,' says she, 'O mother!' And with that I forgot everything about bein' angry with 'er, and I 'ad 'er in my arms in a minute, and we was 'oldin' each other as hard as hard.

'It was the night before the weddin',' says she, in a whisper. 'O mother, I didn't think there was any harm in it, and us so nearly man and wife.'

'My Pretty,' says I, for she was cryin' pitiful, 'don't 'e take on so, don't: there'll be the little baby by-and-by, and us 'ull love it as dear as if you'd been married in church twenty times over.'

'Ah, but father,' says she; 'he'll kill me when 'e knows.'

Well, I put 'er to bed and I made 'er a cup of strong tea, and I kissed 'er and covered 'er up with my heart like lead, and n.o.body as ain't a mother can know what a merry-go-round of misery I'd got in my head that night. And when my old man come 'ome I told 'im, and 'Don't be 'ard on the girl, for G.o.d's sake,' says I, 'for she's our own child and our only child, and it was the night before the weddin' as should 'ave bin.'

''Ard on 'er?' says 'e, and I'd never 'eard 'is voice so soft, not even when 'e was courtin' me, or when my Pretty was a little un, and 'e hus.h.i.+n' her to sleep. ''Ard on 'er? 'Ard on my precious lamb? It ain't us men who is 'ard on them things, it's you wimmen-folk; the day before 'er weddin', too!'

Then 'e was quiet for a bit--then 'e takes 'is shoes off so as not to make a clatter on the steps near where she slept, and 'e comes out in a minute with my Bible in 'is 'and.

'Now,' says 'e, very quiet, 'you needn't be afraid of my bein' 'ard on 'er, but if ever I meet 'im, I'll 'ave 'is blood, if I swing for it, and I'm goin' to swear it on this 'ere Bible--so help me G.o.d!'

He looked like a mad thing; his eyes was a-s.h.i.+nin' like lanterns, and 'is face all pulled out of its proper shape; and 'e plumps down on 'is knees there, on the deck, with the Bible in 'is 'ands. And before I knew what I was doin', I'd caught the book out of 'is 'ands, and chucked it into the river, my own Bible, that my own mother had given me when I was a little kid, and I threw my arms round his neck, and held his head against my bosom, so that his mouth was shut, and 'e couldn't speak.

'No, no, no, Tom,' says I, 'you mustn't swear it, and you shan't.

Think of the girl, think of your poor old woman, think of the poor little kid that's comin', what ud us all do without you? And you hanged for the sake of such trash as that! Why, 'e ain't worth it,'

says I, tryin' to laugh.

Then 'e got 'is 'ead out of my arms and stood lookin' about 'im, like a man that's 'ad a bad dream and 'as just waked up. Then 'e smacks me on the back, 'All right, old woman,' says 'e, 'we won't swear nothin', but it'll be a bad day for him when 'e comes a-nigh the William and Mary.'

So no more was said. And we got through the winter somehow, and the baby was born, as fine a gell as ever you see; and what I said come true, for we couldn't none of us 'ave loved the baby more if its father and mother 'ad been married by an archbishop in Westminster Abbey. And the folks we knew along the banks would have been kind to my Pretty, but she wouldn't never show her face to any of them.

'I've got you, mother, and I've got father and the baby, and I don't want no one else,' says she.

My Tom, he wasn't never the same man after that night 'e 'd got out the Bible to swear. He give up the drink, but it didn't make 'im no cheerfuller, and 'e went to church now and then, a thing I'd never known 'im do since we was married. And time went on, and it was August again, with a big yellow moon in the sky.

My Pretty and the baby was in bed, and the old man and me, we was just a-turnin' in, when we 'eard some one a-runnin' along the tow-path. My old man puts 'is 'ead out to see who's there, and as 'e looked a man come runnin' along close by where we was moored, and 'e jumped on to our barge, not stoppin' to look at the name, and, 'For G.o.d's sake, hide me!' says 'e, and it was a soldier in a red coat with a scared face, as I see by the light of the moon. And it was Bill Jarvis what 'ad brought our girl to shame and run away and left 'er on 'er weddin' morn; and I looked to see my old man take 'im by the shoulder and chuck 'im into the water. And Jarvis didn't see whose barge he'd come aboard of.

'I've got in a row,' says 'e; 'I knocked a man down and he's dead.

Oh, for G.o.d's sake, hide me! I've run all the way from Chatham.'

Then my old man, he steps out on the deck, and Jarvis, 'e see who it was, and--'O my G.o.d!' says 'e, and 'e almost fell back in the water in 'is fright.

Then my old man, 'e took that soldier by the arm, and 'e open the door of the little cabin where my Pretty and 'er baby were. Then 'e slammed it to again. 'No, I can't,' says 'e, 'by G.o.d, I can't.' And before the soldier could speak, he'd dragged him down our cabin stairs, and shoved 'im into 'is own bunk and chucked the covers over 'im. Then 'e come up to where I was standin' in the moonlight.

'What ever you done that for?' says I. 'Why not 'a give 'im up to serve 'im out for what 'e done to our Pretty?'

He looked at me stupid-like. 'I don't know why,' says 'e, 'but I can't'; and we stood there in the quiet night, me a-holding on to 'is arm, for I was s.h.i.+vering, so I could hardly stand.

And presently half a dozen soldiers come by with a sergeant.

'Hullo!' cries the sergeant, 'see any redcoat go this way?'

'He's gone up over the bridge,' says Tom, not turnin' a 'air, 'im that I'd never 'eard tell a lie in his life before,--'You'll catch 'im if you look slippy; what's 'e done?'

'Only murder and desertion,' says the sergeant, as cheerful as you please.

'Oh, is that all?' says my old man; 'good-night to you.'

'Good-night,' says the sergeant, and off they went.

They didn't come back our way. We was a-goin' down stream, and we pa.s.sed Chatham next mornin'.