Cassell's Family Magazine/A Missing Witness/Chapter 7

S this man my father, or was it simply a coincidence that John Evans resembled him so strongly? The points of resemblance must be striking indeed to make the likeness apparent under such altered conditions and in the brief space of time before distance rendered his features indistinguishable. It seemed barely possible that I could recognise my father, the man in clerical dress, clean-shaven, haggard and grey with fatigue and starvation, abject and fierce by turns with fear and despair, in this bearded cricketer, with the sunny tint of health upon his cheek, a fearless bearing, and the placid expression of happiness and well being. And yet a dozen arguments favoured the supposition by clearing away as many anomalies that had made my mother's behaviour unaccountable and mysterious. If my father stood in danger of the law for some past offence, my mother was compelled for his sake, for her own and our welfare to observe secrecy and even to practise deception in all that regarded his existence, since a single word dropped in accident by us might betray him to his enemies. In venturing to return to England, where he stood within easy reach of apprehension, his first object would be to assume disguise and another name, to conceal his identity. The next step to avert suspicion would be to declare that he was dead. Little mother's changing colour, and the absence of grief in making this announcement and putting on her widow's weeds, had already suggested to my mind the possibility that my father was not really dead. I had the evidence of my own senses to show that my mother's love for my father had not warped by ten years of separation, nor his for her, and their first natural desire would be to live near each other. With that view little mother had resolved to leave Wood Green, where it would be dangerous for my father to come again, and bound us to secrecy with regard to the place where we were in future to reside. Those mysterious visits to Aunt Laura may have been but pretexts for meeting my father and making arrangements for the future—indeed, as Elsie had laughingly suggested, Aunt Laura might turn out to be John Evans in disguise. My mother's trepidation in meeting James Redmond, whose professions of friendship for herself and “po'r George” she had reason to believe were false, was easily to be traced to her fear that his malevolent purpose would lead him to track her down if his suspicions were aroused by any unguarded act or course of conduct for which she could offer no plausible explanation.

“What is the matter with you, you small-sized Sphinx?” asked Elsie, with a nip that effectually broke off my speculations. “You have been staring stonily at nothing ever since we passed John Evans: he seems to have petrified you and little mother as well. There's no getting a word out of either, and I believe you have noticed nothing for the past quarter of an hour.”

Indeed, I should have found it difficult to tell what had passed before my eyes in that time. I was hazily conscious of having passed through a sleepy street with shops on either side, and that was all. We were now on the outskirts of the town again, on the side of the hill farthest from the station, and between the scattered houses one got glimpses of the deep wooded valley, flashed with bright spots and streaks here and there, where the bend of the beck caught the light, a faint blue mist closing in the distance. Presently our driver drew in by the footpath and stopped.

“Is this our house?” asked mother, in a tone of doubt that caused Elsie and me to look round sharply with the apprehension, on my part, that it might be too mean—even for our humble tastes. For the houses we had passed were strikingly plain, not to say ugly, being all built of dark stone, quite square, with small windows, and no attempt at any external ornament—as if the practical builders had found that Nature supplied all that any human being could require in the beauty of the surrounding country.

“Ay; if thee 'rt Mrs. Heatherly, this be thy home for a certainty,” replied the old man, throwing the reins on the back of his Galloway. “'Tain't exac'ly the kind of house Ah should choose for myself now, though it was as good a house as any this side o' the vicar's in Farleigh,” he added, getting down. “So be thee don't like it, thee'll ha' to call John Evans to account, for it's him as has decked it out this outlandish like.”

We looked at our new home and then at each other with smiles of delight and astonishment. Why, it was beautiful! The house might have been as square and ugly as the rest, but John Evans had transformed it altogether by lengthening the eaves and lightening the gable with ornamental woodwork; by enlarging the upper windows and furnishing them with jalousies to keep out the sun and admit air in the hot days; by cutting down the lower windows to the ground, so that one could walk directly from the living-rooms on to the lawn, and protecting them with a light verandah beneath which one might sit and work; and by covering in the entrance at the side of the house by a glazed porch that was almost large enough to be called a conservatory. And the garden about the house was as trim and bright and gay as the house itself: wherever the eye rested there was colour and beauty. Oh! no paid workman with the friendliest disposition towards us could have prepared such a louse for us; only one who knew our little mother well and loved her deeply could have had the foresight and the tender care to provide all that could gratify her taste and ours.

“Moggy, come hither,lass; what art hiding fur? Don't 'e see Ah've brout home thy missuses?” called our driver when he had helped mother to descend. And Maggie, a fresh-coloured girl in the stiffest of print dresses and the whitest of aprons and caps, came forward blushing from the place where she had doubtless been watching our approach and opened the gate to us with a demure little curtsy. “Help the lasses get down from tail of cart while I get out their baggage.”

“How much shall I pay you?” asked little mother, taking out her purse when these arrangements were concluded.

“Nowt, missus; John Evans has settled all that, an Ah've only to wish thee a good-day.”

We bade him good-bye and followed Maggie into the house with our packages—through the porch filled with flowers, and into the prettily-ordered little hall; and up into our bedrooms, where even a woman's taste seemed to have been bestowed on their adornment, everything was so dainty and sweet; and then down to the breakfast-room, where the table was laid for a real Yorkshire tea, with a big ham, and a “simnel cake”and “parkins,” and other delicacies of which we had yet to learn the names.

“Why, there are your pet ornaments, dear, and our pictures that you sent to London,” Elsie exclaimed, looking from the chimney-piece to the walls and then to little mother.

Who could have thought where these household treasures should first meet my mother's eyes and make her feel that this was really her home, save my father?

“The kettle is boiling, ma'am, in the kitchen,” said Maggie. “Mr. Evans thought you would like tea better than anything, feeling tired after your journey.”

“Yes, we will have tea,” said mother with a little tremor in her voice, and then sitting down she covered her face with her hands, for these testimonies of love and care overcame her.

But Elsie, who did not observe this, burst out into a peal of laughter as the door closed upon Maggie, and clapping her hands, she cried—

“Why, this is more wonderful than Puss in Boots; and John Evans is more marvellous in his powers than the Marquis of Carabas.” Then turning about still in amazement, and catching sight of little mother, she was down on her knees at the beloved one's feet in an instant, all contrition and solicitude.

“Oh, darling little mother!” she cried, “have I said anything to hurt you? What is it?”

“Happiness, dear—too much happiness,” answered mother, kissing her and smiling again.

Yet something more than happiness made tears spring in my eyes. What if this were not the happy ending of a fairy story, but an illusion that would melt away and leave us still three poor struggling dressmakers!

Elsie buried her face in mother's lap and was silent. I dare say she was thinking of Philip, and how she, too, had cried from excess of joy when he gave her the ring that was now at her lips. Then, looking up, she said—

“Oh! mother dear, if one can only feel like this just two or three times in one's lifetime, all our hardships would be well paid for, eh? But it does all seem a little too good to be quite true, doesn't it?” she added, looking about her as she rose to her feet. “The carpets are all new, and the furniture is all so good. There's nothing suggestive of great bargains or payment by weekly instalments anywhere. And look at that table! Why, we have seen nothing like it since we emptied dear Phil's hamper at Christmas.”

And when Maggie, having brought in the tea, asked if we required anything more, we could hardly keep a sedate countenance.

Tempting as our table was to hungry travellers, we hurried through tea, all eager to see the extent of our possessions before the twilight faded. We went out through the open window into the front garden, and surely there was enough there to content us; but going round to the back of the house we found another garden ten times as large, with a view beyond stretching across the deep valley to the wooded hills on the horizon.

“Oh, how beautiful!” we exclaimed, and then we stood still in silence, awed by the repose and beauty of the earth and heavens as by the presence of Divinity. A blackbird whistled in the distance; the still air was fragrant with flowers and sweet herbs and new hay; the sky was dappled with carmine clouds, a tissue of golden red seemed to spread over the west, fading away towards the south through shades of orange and primrose into deepening tints of blue.

“See, little mother, there is the new moon!” whispered Elsie. “We must wish!”

Looking at the thin crescent, her rapt soul in her eyes, I could see that she was wishing for Phil to come home and share her joy; but as I turned the halfpence in my pocket I could only wish that our happiness might last.

It was a real old-fashioned garden, with fruit-trees trained against the walls, and borders of flowers and pot-herbs surrounding plantations of vegetables, and a privet hedge at the end dividing it from the orchard and paddock beyond; and it seemed that these, too, must belong to us, for the communicating gate in the privet hedge was unfastened. We were debating whether we might venture to explore further or not, when Maggie came down the path.

“If you please, 'm,” said she, “Mr. Evans is in the house, and could he see you, if you please, 'm?”

“I will come directly,” replied little mother, and turning to us she asked with some hesitation if we would come with her or join her a little later.

“Perhaps, dear, Mr. Evans may wish to speak to you on business matters, and it will be best for you to see him alone at first,” I suggested.

“Yes, dear, that will be best,” she said, as if relieved of some embarrassment.

When she had left us, Elsie and I walked along the lower path awhile in silence; then taking my arm, she said—

“Has it occurred to you, Dol, that little mother will never have money enough to pay for all this?”

It struck me that this would have occurred to anybody in our position except Elsie long before; but as I made no reply, she continued:

“I suppose not. You're too dreamy to look at things practically. But you must see that it isn't reasonable to expect the Marquis of Carabas to partly rebuild the house, furnish it throughout, and do everything for nothing.”

“No,” said I meekly.

“I shouldn't be surprised if he has called with his bill, and that poor little mother at the present moment is having a very bad time. How much do you think it will come to?”

“I can't tell.”

“Do you think all those carpets and things would cost a hundred pounds?” She never could realise the value of monev.

“Oh, much more than that,” said I.

“Oh, Dol! why, you know at Christmas we had hardly enough to pay the bills, and since then we couldn't have earned more than fifty pounds, and out of that we've had to pay—oh, I can't think of it; it's too terrifying!”

“I don't think there is any reason to be terrified, Elsie. It's not in little mother's nature to be imprudent.”

“It was not; but that only makes the present case more alarming, little stupid. Everyone must break out now and then, but when you habitually self-restrained people do let yourselves go, nothing less than an eruption follows. A year ago nothing could induce her to think of leaving Wood Green—the expense of moving, the danger of not getting a connection, were her arguments against it. Then suddenly she commissions someone of whom she has not the slightest knowledge—except through Aunt Laura, who seemed to be in the last stage of dotage when we saw her—to take a house and furnish it without even asking the cost. And now, when we come here and find ourselves plunged over head and ears into debt to the Marquis of Carabas, instead of being overwhelmed with a sense of our responsibilities and the general unfitness of things, little mother bursts out crying from sheer happiness. You know well enough that I do not wish her to feel anything but happiness, whatever the consequences may be to us, but it does seem so unaccountable. Why, just think, Dol, is there any house in the whole town more unsuitable for us to set up a business? It's so grand that the poor people will never dare to give us work for fear of being overcharged, and the stuck-up persons will avoid us for presuming to live in a style above their own.”

I really could not think of any excuse to make for poor little mother, and Elsie, carried away by her own eloquence, continued:

“Supposing the Marquis demands immediate payment of the money he has laid out for us, what are we to do? Throw ourselves upon the generosity of an absolute stranger? It's absurd! Look at that girl, Dol”—indicating Maggie, who was plucking peas near at hand—“is it possible that we can hope to keep a nice little servant with tails to her caps when we could only afford to have a charwoman with a rusty crape bonnet twice a week? Yet little mother did not seem at all astonished to find a servant engaged for her—not a bit more surprised than she was with this beautiful little house and garden and all the lovely things in it. One would think by her manner that she had come into a little fortune”

This happily suggested a notion to reconcile all anomalies.

“Perhaps she has,” I said.

“Dol!” exclaimed Elsie, stopping short and clutching my arm, “what do you mean? Who in the world could have left anything to little mother?”

“Father, maybe.”

Elsie gave a little cry of joy and surprise, then taking me by the shoulders and holding me at arm's length, she said:

“You little brown witch! why didn't you tell me this before?”

“I was not sure that it might be true.”

“Why, it must be true: no other explanation is possible, and that makes all things clear. And you kept it to yourself because you were not sure that it was true! Why, if I had only dreamt of such a possibility I couldn't have kept it secret for a moment. I can understand little mother concealing it.”

“For the pleasure of surprising us,” I suggested.

“Partly that, but chiefly, I think, because she loves to be mysterious.”

It made me smile to think of little mother wishing to be mysterious, she who was so unfitted to play any but an open and straightforward part that she could find no better means of cloaking the dissimulation which circumstances compelled her to employ. Her actions were mysterious because she had not the art to deceive which those should have who seek to be mysterious.

“Oh! Dol,” exclaimed Elsie, with a sigh of prospective bliss, “if we should never have to sew another stitch—if I can get my finger tips smooth by the time dear Phil comes home!”

“Hush! here they come,” I said, catching sight of John Evans and little mother coming slowly towards us down the path.

“He's paid,” whispered Elsie, squeezing my arm in exultation; “see how amiable he looks.”

Indeed two happier faces than his and dear little mother's it would have been impossible to find; they seemed to reflect the calm and peace of the lovely evening.

He was as we saw him on the green, only now he wore a grey tweed jacket over his cricketing shirt, and a coloured silk handkerchief knotted loosely. He looked a giant beside slim little mother in her black dress. Both were quite at their ease, he seeming to have imparted to mother the confidence he felt in his own strength and vigour.

“This is Elsie,” said mother when we met.

“Elsie—I shall take the liberty of calling you by your name, if the custom of the north country is not objectionable,” he said, holding Elsie's hand and smiling in her face as he spoke.

“And this is Dorothy,” said mother, turning to me.

“Dorothy,” he repeated, with a gentle inflexion in his voice that thrilled me. He had thrown off his cap, as if he wished to reveal his identity to me, and as he grasped my hand in his and looked steadily into my eyes, we read each other's thoughts.

“As you love me, Dorothy, keep my secret,” was his mute appeal.

“By all that is dearest to me, I will,” was my silent response.

Then I felt by the parting pressure of his hand that he knew my heart and trusted me.

“I hope you like your new home,” said he, turning to Elsie.

“You have left us nothing to desire,” she answered; “it's as it you knew our tastes—even our hopes.”

“Perhaps I gauged them by my own. One always hopes that our coming neighbours will be nice.”

“And you're not disappointed at first sight?”

“No; but I expect a great deal.”

“Ought we not to know what you do expect?”

“I expect you to look kindly at me when I drop in, no matter how often; to call upon me whenever you need anything that is not within your reach—you'll find me in my workshop on the other side of the hedge there at any time during the working hours of the day—and to regard me always, however peculiar or odd my manners may seem, as a true friend and a good neighbour.”

“What an original individual!” exclaimed Elsie, when John Evans was gone. “One would think he'd known us all our lives. But there's such an unassuming kindness and freedom in his manner that somehow it seems quite natural, and one can't resent it as one would in an ordinary acquaintance. And I think he's immensely handsome, don't you, mother?” Little mother's face as she bent over the lamp she was lighting flushed with pleasure. “I wonder why he never married. Oh, supposing!—supposing he should fall in love with you, dear little mother!”

“Elsie!” said mother, in a tone of remonstrance; but she covered her face with her hands like a young girl at the hint of a sweetheart.

“Well, I don't see why he shouldn't, and I don't see why you shouldn't marry him if he did; for you can see by his strong face and earnest eyes that he's a thoroughly honest good fellow.”

I don't know what there was in this conclusion that made me think Elsie's impressions were generally wrong. Possibly the belief that my father had committed some great act of dishonesty in the past had something to do with it—that coupled with the unexplained origin of his present prosperity. For granting that he was a skilful workman and that chance had favoured him in finding immediate employment, it seemed to me incredible that in the short space of six months he could gain sufficient by his labour to provide us with such a home and enable us to maintain a position of independence. Had there been the shadow of a doubt in mother's mind about his ability to provide for our future welfare she would have been the first to take alarm; the perfect composure with which she accepted our new condition was, to my mind, a convincing proof that my father's generosity was not in excess of his means. How had he acquired those means—he who six months before came to us in the night starving, and was compelled by his necessity to take the few pounds mother had saved by years of careful saving?

From the moment our hands met and we looked into each other's eyes, all doubt as to my father's identity was banished; but accident added a confirming proof that John Evans and my father were one and the same.

My brain was over-excited that night. For hours I lay awake reviewing the strange experiences of the day, and at length, to chase away certain disturbing speculations I rose from my bed and seated myself by the open window that looked down upon the garden. There was not a breath of air to stir the foliage below; all was still and hushed; the peace and silence of the star-spread heavens was upon the earth. In the dim twilight which takes the place of night at this season of the year, I could distinguish the paths in the garden and fix upon the spot where we had met little mother and my father. “My workshop is on the other side of the hedge there,” he had said, pointing across the garden; and now, turning my eyes in that direction, I noticed a square patch of light crossed with window sashes. “That must be a skylight in the roof of the workshop; is my father working now—at this hour, when all workers sleep?” I said to myself.

At that moment the click of a latch fell distinctly on my ear, and then followed the muffled sound of hushed voices and the slow tread of footsteps. Then as I strained my eyes that way, two figures became visible in the obscurity. They came slowly towards the house, then stopped. I could make them out more clearly now—a man and a woman, but the man was the clearer because of his light clothing and his size.

They were knit closely together and stood locked in each other's arms for some minutes, and then with a whispered farewell they parted—the little woman in black coming quickly and lightly towards the house; the man in grey standing still till a door below closed, and then disappearing slowly in the deep shade of the high hedge. The man was John Evans; the woman my mother.