Cassell's Family Magazine/A Missing Witness/Chapter 2

E were thunderstruck, Elsie and I, and could say nothing for some time, but stood looking at little mother in speechless astonishment as she sat, with her face in her hands, in terrible agitation. To me, scarcely less than to Elsie, this proposed marriage promised such happiness for her and for us all. It was quite impossible for us to imagine why little mother thought otherwise, for only in the belief that the marriage would bring unhappiness to Elsie would she have said it was impossible. And how strong that belief was her present agitation too plainly proved.

At last Elsie, seating herself beside little mother and laying her hand upon her arm, asked faintly—

“Why, mother?”

“You are so young, dear,” said mother, without uncovering her eyes—as if the futility of the excuse would be read in them.

“But I am nearly nineteen, and you were younger still than that when you married. It is not that.”

“You must think, Elsie, of the difference in our positions. We are quite humble little people—only dressmakers. Dr. Fairfield is a gentleman by birth, and connected with very grand people.”

“That connection is broken. But for this chance Phil would still be as poor as we. There must be some better reason—tell me.”

“I can't; I can't, dear.”

Elsie sat in silent wonder for a moment or two, then she said gently:

“Because we are poor you would not have me marry beneath me—or—or die an old maid?” Her voice shook as if she felt that she could never marry anyone if not Phil. “After all,” she continued, “it is for Phil to decide whether my age or the difference in our station is a reasonable objection to making me his wife.”

“I will speak to him,” said little mother, after some reflection, and looking up now with that expression of strenuous purpose and courageous resolution in her face which re deemed it from the suspicion of weakness that usually accompanies gentle sweetness.

“And if,” cried Elsie—hope flashing in her eyes—“if Phil finds your reasons no reasons at all. you will let me be his wife?”

Mother took some moments to consider her answer, and then she said—

“Yes, Elsie. I can trust Philip.”

“Trust dear Phil!” cried Elsie, springing up and clasping her hands in ecstacy, “oh, so can I, with my whole heart! Why, all the reasons in the world could not make him go back from his offer!”

“Your happiness is mine, dear; you know that,” said little mother gravely. “But we will try to say no more about it till I have spoken to him, for fear of bitter disappointment.”

Elsie laughed at mother's fears, and kissed her again and again in her overflowing happiness; but as to talking about it that was soon rendered impossible by the machine. When her excitement subsided she shed a few tears furtively—tears of disappointment, I think, caused by little mother's lack of enthusiasm, rather than of apprehension; but they passed like a summer shower, and her face was radiant in the lamplight, and a continual smile played about her pretty mouth—she was so confident in the strong love of Philip. Now and then she would pause to look at her ring, which sparkled wonderfully with every movement of her hand. And she worked rather worse than usual, having to unpick after supper nearly as much as she had done before. It was clear she could think of nothing but Phil. And about eleven, laying down her bodice with a long-drawn sigh, she leaned back in her chair, clasping her hands behind her head to dream more freely. Presently her eyes closed, then her arms slipped and her hands fell in her lap, and her chin falling upon her breast, she dreamt in real earnest.

She awoke with a start when the machine stopped, and, rubbing her eyes, looked in bewilderment about her for her thimble, murmuring excuses; but we would not let her begin again, and, showing that we had but a little more work to do, we persuaded her to go up to bed. She left us with lingering reluctance, ashamed of her weakness; but her light, quick step upon the stair showed how eagerly she longed to be alone, with her ring and her tender thoughts, in the silent room upstairs. I figured her kneeling by her bedside, praying for Phil with a fervour that had never before stirred her heart.

It was past twelve when I began to clear up, but the machine was still working: in a few minutes the last stitch would be done—one must be an overworked dressmaker to know what that means.

“At last!” said mother, with a sigh of relief as she broke off her thread, and, putting her hand behind her, bent back to relax the strained muscles.

Suddenly she turned towards me, grasping the back of her chair, as she looked in terror towards the door.

“Did you hear that, Dolly?” she asked in a whisper.

“No, dear,” I answered, frightened by her manner; for when one is over-fatigued one is quick to take alarm. “I heard nothing.”

“It sounded like someone rapping at the front door.”

“I listened breathlessly, but it seemed to me impossible, for at this hour everyone in the street was in bed and asleep save we.

“There!” said she, holding up her finger.

This time I too thought I heard someone tapping with his knuckle at the door.

“It's only fancy, little mother,” said I, dreading to go to the door. “We are tired and nervous.”

But now the faintest possible tinkle at the bell—as if the ringer were afraid of being heard by the neighbours—put an end to our doubts and my theory.

Mother rose quickly, but I saw that she was deadly white, and had to hold to the chair for support. So, putting on an air of courage, despite my own fears of robbers and such things, I said I would go and see who it was, surmising as I went from the room (to assure myself as well as little mother) that it was doubtless “next door” come to complain of our working the machine at such an hour. It seemed to me, however, that the knock and ring were not those of an angry person, but rather of someone very timid, or weak and feeble. Imagine, then, my surprise on opening the door, to find myself face to face with a tall, broad-shouldered man. But it calmed my fears to perceive, by the light of the lamp that hung in the passage, that he wore a clerical dress, and had the clean-shaven face of a clergyman.

“Is Mrs. Heatherly at home?” he asked, but almost in a whisper.

“Mother!” I gasped in terror—for he had pushed his way into the passage and closed the door as he spoke.

“Your mother?” said he, turning to me and laying his hand on my shoulder. “Why, who are you?”

“Dorothy Heatherly,” I answered faintly, scarcely knowing what I said.

“My little Dolly,” said he in a trembling voice, “grown a woman!” And he drew me to his breast and kissed my head again and again, I having no force to resist nor any will to act.

Then little mother, coming into the passage, tottered forward with outstretched arms, faltering, “George, George! I thought it might be you!” And he quitted me to clasp her in his arms and cover her face with hungry kisses.

And somehow we came into our parlour, where he sank into a chair, and, casting down his broad-brimmed felt hat, wiped the big drops of sweat from his forehead, looking very grey, and as if about to faint.

“I have eaten nothing since yesterday morning,” he explained, speaking huskily.

“My poor darling!” exclaimed mother; “I will fetch you something.”

“No, don't leave me, love, even for a minute,” said he, seizing her hand and drawing her towards him. “Who knows how short my time may be? Dolly will find me something—anything. Don't look so frightened, dear child,” he added—“I am your father.”

“Hush, George!” whispered my mother, looking towards the window in fear. “Go Dorothy,” and, following me to the door she whispered in terrible earnestness, “Don't wake Elsie; no one—not even she—must know your father is here.”

I went into the kitchen half dazed with astonishment and trembling with excitement, and set some bread and cheese and butter—all that there was in our poor larder—on a tray, making more haste than speed, like one in a dream who finds himself foot-tied when he wishes to run. It was difficult to realise that this was my father, I having been but a mere child when he left us ten years back, and retaining but the faintest recollection of his appearance. That recollection was of a young man in grey, with a short black beard, and a happy, placid expression, entirely different from this man of middle age, with his stealthy, hunted look, his closely-cropped grey hair, his shaven face, and clerical dress. Little mother had led us to believe that he was a mining engineer: had he changed his vocation without her knowledge? I could imagine no reason for concealment either on his part or hers. But, indeed, little mother's behaviour was not less mystifying than my father's. If she had half expected it was he who knocked so stealthily at our door, why had she displayed such terror, and yet so passionately have clasped her arms about his neck? Why did they speak in whispers; why did my father summon us with such precaution and yet such haste—for the two knocks and the ring were within a minute's interval of each other—and why had he pushed his way with stealthy quickness into the passage? Why had he eaten nothing for a whole day, and come to us in the middle of the night fainting with hunger? Why was no one to know of his coming home to us—not even his own daughter Elsie?

With these unanswerable questions surging in my mind, and bewildering my poor senses, I went helplessly hunting about, for I knew not what, until the memory of my father's grey face and sweating brow forced me to control my ideas to practical purpose; then I carried the tray into the little parlour.

My father was seated before little mother, holding her two hands in his, bending forward talking to her hurriedly in a hushed voice with great earnestness; and mother listened with parted lips and contracted brow, pity in her soft dark eyes and fear in her pale, drawn face. At a quick sign from mother he stopped abruptly, and seeing the cheese as I set the tray upon the table, his eyes glistened with eager avidity, as if it had been the greatest luxury in the world. I noticed that he had a broad, good forehead, and strong, well-cut features; he would have been handsome but for an expression of animal ferocity about his mouth which was not pleasant to see. It may have been hunger that gave him that look; he ate the food before him in silence and with almost brutal voracity, seeming to forget us for the time and all save the satisfaction of his craving appetite. When that was appeased, he drew a long breath of relief as he pushed his chair back; then glancing round the room, he nodded once or twice and turned to mother with a smile, as if the pictures and ornaments she set such store by were familiar to him. Looking again, as if to revive old memories, his eyes fell upon the time-piece, and he murmured quickly—

“Ten minutes to one. I must be off by five. Only four hours, dear love.” He rose and drew mother to him; then turning to me he continued, “Come, Dolly, let me hold you both in my arms while I may. I am not a bad man, dear.”

The tone of remonstrance in which he spoke those last words I felt was not unmerited, for I had given him no sign of affection, shown no emotion at his return after so many years' absence—not from natural coldness, maybe, but because I was too stupefied for my feelings to have their natural play; but the traces of past suffering in his face, the look in his eyes that seemed to appeal for response to his love, were too piteous not to excite compassion and sympathy; and my heart was stirred at once with a tender impulse such as I had not yet felt towards him. Yet, even when his arms were about my waist, I could only murmur his name and press his Hand closer to my side. Suddenly, and with a convulsive start, his arms tightened about us, and he glanced toward the window as a sound reached his ears. We heard it also—the grating of our garden gate upon its hinges; and the heavy steps that crunched the gravel just under the window. The white terror in my father and mother's face imparted fear of I knew not what to me, and we all waited in breathless suspense for what should ensue. The window rattled: someone outside was trying the sash. With wonderful presence of mind and quicker than I can write it, little mother seated herself before the machine and set it in motion. Almost simultaneously a single heavy knock sounded on the street door. Mother rose, with an assuring sign to my father—who now stood grasping the back of a chair, as if prepared to defend his life—and leaving the room, went boldly to the door and opened it.

“I beg your pardon, mum,” said a voice I recognised.

“Only the policeman,” I whispered to my father. He nodded, but still kept hold upon the chair-back with the look of savage determination upon his face unchanged.

“I didn't hear the machine,” the voice outside exclaimed, “till I'd kinder dropped the knocker, or I wouldn't ha' disturbed you. Only seein' a light through the blind and it bein' so late, I just thought I'd try the window and see as it was all right.”

“Thank you for taking such care of us,” said little mother quite cheerfully. “I feared someone had come to complain of the noise; but we're obliged to work late in order to get a holiday to-morrow.”

“Rather hard upon you, mum. But I wish you a merry Christmas.”

“The same to you,” said mother; then she closed the door and quietly put up the chain. Now that the danger was past, my father's fierce determination by some process of mental reaction, which I cannot explain, gave place to feeble despair; I saw his hand trembling as he raised it to wipe his damp forehead, and he sank heavily into a chair, bowing his head as little mother re-entered the room.

“Courage, George dear,” she whispered, bending over him. But he shook his head as if unable to overcome the presentiment of evil that overwhelmed his mind.

“I'm no longer a man,” he muttered. “Living the life of a brute all these years has undone me.”

“Now that is past you'll be yourself again,” she said, and she drew up her chair beside him in front of the fire that she had built up while he was eating. I thought they might wish to say more than I should hear, so I cleared the table and carried the tray into the kitchen, where I lingered for a good five minutes, with all kinds of strange suppositions running through my mind, and strange emotions fluttering in my heart; and I coughed as I returned to the sitting-room not to surprise any confidence. But he was not talking—only sitting quite still, holding my mother's hand in his. He smiled at us from time to time, when our eyes met, with a mournful look that pleaded excuse for his dull silence. After a while his head drooped forward heavily, and mother, seeing that he had fallen asleep, drew it very gently upon her shoulder, and there he slept as if he were a little child. It was so pathetic, this strong man's helplessness and little mother's tender, protective love, that the tears came into my eyes and all was blurred until I had brushed them away. Then my mother motioned me to go up to bed; but I would not leave her. I preferred to bring my chair upon the other side of the dear little soul, and nestle my cheek against her loving arm. And so she held us both; and I too presently dropped off to sleep, exhausted by the fatigues of the long day, and soothed by the glow of the fire, the silence, and the love of my mother.

A little movement awoke me just as the clock was striking four. My father still slept, and so heavily that mother was able to disengage herself; and I, at her silent bidding, to take her place and give support to his head without awakening him. Noiselessly, little mother made tea and prepared breakfast, and, when all was ready, she kissed father's cheek and whispered:

“It is time, darling.”

He awoke with a start, and looked about him in fear and wondering; but seeing only my mother and me, and then glancing at the clock, which now marked half-past four, he realised the situation, and, with a sigh, rose and turned to the meal prepared for him. After the first mouthful he pushed the plate from him impatiently, as if he were wasting time to eat now, and fixed his eyes on us with painful intensity, and that unfathomable look one finds sometimes in the eyes of dumb creatures. Then his regard wandering from us, and returning after a mystified glance round the room, he said under his breath, in an accent of perplexity—

“Elsie—where is she?”

“Upstairs, dear, sleeping. She had gone to bed before you came,” explained mother.

“I did not notice her absence. It is all so strange to me—like waking from a long sleep, or dreaming still. She must be as big as you, Dolly.”

“She's a head taller,” said I, “and a dozen times prettier. She's like little mother.”

“Only twenty years younger,” mother added, smiling.

“Twenty years ago, Olive,” he murmured, laying his hand upon mother's head, “we were just beginning. Only twenty years—it's a lifetime to me. Let me see her. It'll give me courage to begin again. I'll not wake her. Elsie—that high”—dropping his hand to a child's height—“that high when I went away.”

Mother took up the lamp and led the way upstairs, father following silently. Elsie's door stood half open. Mother entered the room, shielding the light with her hand, and, going to the bedside, beckoned him to approach. Elsie's pretty face lay back upon the pillow, her dark lashes, her beautiful arched brow, her delicate complexion, her little white nose, her shining white teeth just showing through her parted lips, her round white throat—all gaining in charm by her perfect repose. One braid of her long, thick, chestnut hair lay upon the pillow; and my father, after bending over her in rapt silence for a minute, lifted it gently and pressed it to his lips. Then he stepped back, his lips trembling with the thought, maybe, that he might never again look upon this sweet face; and we returned as silently as we had come.

“I'll go now; the sooner the better—for you as well as me,” said father huskily, taking up his hat.

“Wait. Let us be sure that it is safe,” said mother; and, after going to the door and looking out, she came back to tell us that the street was quite empty. But she had something yet to say to my father, and she bade me watch at the door; and this I did with the greatest keenness, feeling that somehow our happiness was dependent upon his going away unseen.

Soon, my father and mother came into the passage, and there they embraced in a silence broken only by mother's stifled sob. My father took me in his arms and kissed me again and again; and then, without a word, pressing his clerical hat down upon his brows and casting but one furtive glance to the right and left, he went up the road with a quick, firm step. Meeting him, one might have thought he was a clergyman come from visiting a sick parishioner in the last extremity.

When he was out of sight, mother and I went back into our sitting-room, and there on the table I saw the little box, in which she so carefully hoarded her savings, lying open and empty. I wondered if my father's visit was that “accident” which she had been so long and patiently preparing for.

“Dolly, dear,” said little mother earnestly, “you know something of a secret that must never be hinted at to anyone. Your father's happiness and mine—nay more, perhaps our life—depend upon your silence. You will think of that always?”

“You know I will, mother dear.”

She hesitated a moment and then said, as if in response to her own self-questioning—

“Ought I to tell you more?”

“Not if you doubt the advantage of it, little mother. I wish to know no more.”

“Secrets are heavy burdens,” she said with a sigh, “and you, dear, have enough to bear without that. We will speak of it no more.”

Would mother trust Dr. Fairfield with the secret she wished to keep from me? I wondered; for dimly I perceived that something in my father's past life was the obstacle that mother believed must prevent Phil from making Elsie his wife.