Cassell's Family Magazine/A Missing Witness/Chapter 8

SHOULD like to tell a great deal about our happiness at Great Farleigh—of those four long months of peace and repose in which a sense of contentment and security seemed to grow and strengthen with our own physical health. But the events that followed are so much more important to the history of our lives, that I must content myself with some meagre extracts from the diary I began to keep as some employment for my leisure moments, to account as briefly as possible for the flow of time.

June 25th.—I overslept myself this morning; so did little mother. The swallows were twittering on the eaves before I fell asleep. Elsie was down before six. She came in from the garden just as we entered the sitting-room, with a big basket of flowers in her hands and looking wonderfully bright and pretty. The freshness and beauty of the flowers and the clear sunny morning seemed to be reflected in her face.

“I've been flirting with the Marquis,” she said; “but it's a very one-sided and hopeless affair at present. Look at these lovely roses. I thought he was cutting them for me by the care with which he took off the thorns, but when he had arranged them to his taste he told me to give them to you, little mother, and there they are, dear. There's a little gate in the hedge that opens into his workshop, and, hearing a great strong voice singing on the other side, I knocked at the door and walked in. Such a queer place, full of queer wooden things and machines and shavings and a smell of pine; and there was the Marquis turning something with his foot, and a piece of wood twizzling round and throwing white chips up into his beard. 'I've come to fulfil my part of our contract,' said I. 'I'm very glad to see you,' said he, 'and shall keep my covenant with pleasure. What can I do for you, Elsie?' It seemed odd to be called by my name in that familiar way, but he looked so kind and honest as he gave me his hand that I couldn't resist it, so I told him I wanted to know if I might go through the gate at the bottom of the garden in the meadow. 'Of course you can,' said he; 'the meadow's yours and all that's in it. I don't know if the red apple is ripe yet, but we will see.' So he brushed the chips out of his beard, took off his bib, put on his grey jacket, and came out with me. And there are cocks and hens in the orchard; and he has promised to give us a dog, for no one, he tells me, is considered respectable in Yorkshire without one; and he showed me a wren's nest in an old tree, and where to find eggs for breakfast, and here they are, see—six lovely brown ones; and he's going to put up a seat under the apple tree—there are the apples, do smell them—so that we can sit there when we are tired of the verandah and want a wider view; and he seems to know something about everything, just like dear Phil—and, indeed, he resembles him so much in that quiet, helpful, unobtrusive, kindly way, that I really believe I'm half in love with him—in a neighbourly spirit, you know.” As she ran on in this rambling fashion it was good to see the delight that twinkled in dear little mother's eyes; for how dear was it to her to hear the praises of him she loves so dearly.—Very busy all day learning the extent of our premises, finding places for things, and so on; and most happy and gay in this pleasant occupation. John Evans called in the evening and stayed to supper. He told us that he worked chiefly at pattern-making for Mr. Gardener, who has large engineering works in the village—we can see the chimney shaft rising above the trees that clothe the hill right down to Farleigh Beck—preferring an independent shop to working in the factory and “going in with the bell,” and, seeing that I was greatly interested in a description of some new machinery he was working out, he told me I should be welcome in his workshop at any time to see “how he does it.” Also he proposed that if the weather continues fine we shall go for a good ramble in the woods next Saturday. All that he said was pleasant to hear; his voice is gentle and sweet; he is not impatient with our ignorance, and is so considerate and kind, so easy and natural in his manner, that all feeling of constraint is removed from our conversation. He seems—as indeed he is—an old and dear friend to us, even to Elsie, who has less reason than we to understand his feeling towards us. After supper we sat under the verandah and he lit his pipe. The smell of the tobacco recalled Philip to my mind, as I am sure it did to Elsie's; for she was unusually silent and reflective for her. Only when John Evans was gone she burst out into eulogiums of his amiability and gentleness and his good looks—to the evident delight of dear little mother.

June 28th.—John Evans this evening suggested that we should keep a pony carriage—pointing out that there was every accommodation in the outhouse at the end of his workshop. Elsie was, of course, enraptured with the idea. I fancy she saw herself at once in imagination driving to the railway station to fetch Phil when he comes home; little mother hesitated a little, doubting whether we could drive a pony without a man, but Elsie undertook to do that with a few lessons from John Evans, and I believe would have undertaken to groom the pony as well, if it had been necessary; and so little mother was quickly overruled, and we are to have the equipage, and Morris, who keeps our garden and helps Maggie in the house, is to look after the stabling arrangements. Little mother never questioned for a moment our ability to pay for this luxury, which shows how confident she feels in father's continuing prosperity. Oh, if I could only feel as easy in that matter! The thought is ever uppermost in my mind: how has he made so much money in these past few months?

June 30th.—I have not felt so truly happy, so free from covert forebodings, since we came here; and, oddly enough, I have never felt more ashamed of myself. This morning, when little mother and Elsie were gone out shopping, I went down the garden and knocked at the door of John Evans's workshop. “Come in,” he cried cheerfully. So I went in and found the workshop very much as Elsie had led me to imagine it. John Evans, in a white apron, was standing before a strange-looking lathe inspecting a delicate piece of work that he held up to the light. “Come to see how it's done, Dolly?” he asked with a smile; “well, look at this.” He put a fragile piece of white wood in my hand, shaped in a graceful spiral, and scarcely thicker than a shaving.

“Did you bend it like this?” I asked.

“No, it's cut,” he replied.

“Did you make it?” I asked, wondering how so fragile and delicate a thing could be cut in such a material.

“No; it made itself—that is, it is as nearly self-made as anything may be. Come here,” he added, going to the lathe. “You can work a treadle.”

“The treadle of a sewing-machine.”

“Ah, well, for such slight work as this you need scarcely more power. Put your hands behind you and work the treadle.”

I did as he bade me, and certain wheels began to revolve, whilst a part of the machine, travelling horizontally, began to cut and throw out shavings from a piece of wood no thicker than a broomstick fixed in a revolving vice, and gradually under my astonished eyes a thin spiral like that he had shown me was produced from the piece of wood, and grew longer and longer as I worked the treadle, until he told me to stop. He unscrewed the vice and put the spiral in my hand. “There,” said he, “you can show what a famous turner you are.” The work was marvellous, but the machine that could make it automatically was still more marvellous to me, and I looked at it in silent wonder, trying to comprehend its movements. On a flat piece of steel some words were stamped, and examining them I read: “John Evans and Thomas Gardener, patentees.”

Turning to my father with a kind of awe, I said:

“Did you invent this?”

“Yes, Dolly,” said he; “nearly eleven years ago. For over ten years it lay dormant, and then I had the luck to find a shrewd Yorkshireman, who saw its merit and found the necessary means for making it profitably advantageous to both of us. Without that, we should not have been standing here now—you and I.” He put his arm round my waist as he spoke and I pressed his dear hand to my heart fervently, seeing the significance of these words. But I could not speak one word. A great wave of contrition overwhelmed my heart as I thought of the unjust suspicions I had entertained; how I had leapt to the unjust conclusion that he had amassed a fortune by dishonest means, overlooking the possibility of his achieving the same end by the effort of genius. But with repentance there was mingled a feeling of joy and reverence and love that took the sting from my humiliation.

“It will do almost anything,” said he, leading me to a bench; “see, this is a wooden shoe, and here's a rifle stock, both turned out by the same tool.”

I could not see them clearly for the tears that sprang in my eyes.

When we parted he said, “Good-bye, dear, for this morning,” and bending down, he kissed my cheek; then, unable to restrain myself, I threw my arms round his neck, kissed him, and ran away.

July 2nd.—The things mother and Elsie bought on Monday came home this morning. Little mother has bought a lovely dove-coloured silk and a beautiful little bonnet, and Elsie a charming crépon dress, a hat that cost a guinea and a half, and quite a lot of things beside. A week ago I should have been frightened by such an outlay, but now that I know the source of our wealth I am fully as delighted with these purchases as they, and I have agreed to go with mother to-morrow and buy new dresses and things for myself.

July 10th.—We went out for the first time in our beautiful little chaise, and the drive to Felstone was the most delightful I have ever had. I don't think I ever felt really proud before, but I did feel exalted to-day as we drove through Farleigh, mother in her pretty half-mourning, and Elsie and I dressed “up to our carriage,” as she said. I suppose it's stupid and wrong to feel like that just because one is better off than others; but it is at least a harmless pleasure to feel that everything you have on is good and pretty and nice. It gives one a certain sense of delicacy and refinement that one can't possibly feel with darned gloves, a rusty skirt, and the consciousness that as you walk anyone behind can see that your heels have been newly set up. Coming back was not quite so enjoyable, for Elsie insisted on driving, and in spite of John Evans's directions she nearly drove into a ditch on one side of the road, and in pulling the reins too tightly made the pony back almost into the hedge on the other side; and instead of pulling the left rein when we had to pass a butcher's cart, she pulled the right, so that it was only by the greatest skill on the butcher's part that we escaped a collision. And as this was just in passing Farleigh market-place, it made us look rather ridiculous. At any rate, some rude men made some unpleasant remarks. However, we reached home in safety, and Elsie was very proud of her performance as a whole. Mamma felt a little shaky, and I must say that I wish John Evans had driven us all the way.

August 3rd.—Elsie received a letter from Phil this morning. He is in California now, where he intends staying until the great heat is past. He thinks he shall be home in October. Dear Elsie is half beside herself with happiness.

August 20th.—“What do you think, little mother?” said Elsie when she came in from feeding her pigeons this morning—they have learnt now to come down on her arms and shoulders, and feed from her hand, when she calls them—“John Evans called me 'dear.' I don't mind, of course—in fact, I rather like it, because there's no one in the world except Phil whom I love—for whom I have such an affection; but I hope Phil won't object. You see, it isn't as if John Evans were an old man, or even an ugly man, because he is neither, and one can't tell what Phil might think.”

“I don't think he would be very jealous, dear,” said little mother, smiling and looking as pretty—ay, as pretty as Elsie herself.

My father calls me “dear,” and we kiss whenever we meet unseen by Elsie. It is only to her that his identity is not an open secret. I sometimes wonder why she is kept so scrupulously in the dark. It can only be because something in my father's past life might be prejudicial to her marriage with Philip. Yet it seems contrary to the integrity of my father's character, and to my mother's also, that Philip should be hoodwinked. For the suppression of any fact implies that the fact is of a damaging nature. Yet I will not think that my father can have done wrong, knowing how my suspicions have already misled me. Still less will I suffer myself to think that he could now do wrong who in every action of his life shows such honest purpose and high principle. I can only wonder what the solution of this mystery can be.

September 4th.—“DollDol [sic], I wonder if I might trust you with a secret?” said Elsie when we were alone in our room last night.

“Don't, dear,” said I.

“Yes, I must—because I can't keep it. Do you know, when I peeped into the workshop this evening to see if John Evans was coming into supper, I saw him standing with his arm round little mother's waist, and her head lay on his shoulder, and she was holding his hand to her cheek—there! They did not see me, happily, and I got away without being heard. I'm awfully happy—but you don't seem a bit surprised.”

“I'm not, dear. Didn't you yourself suggest that he might fall in love with little mother, the very first day we came here?”

September 5th.—It is true that Elsie cannot keep a secret, and I think she must have given mother reason to suspect what she discovered yesterday, and so have precipitated an event which otherwise might have been delayed. For when we came home from church this evening, my father, who had been walking in advance with mother, met us at the garden gate, and linking his arms in ours, said—

“I've something to tell you, dear girls,” and so he led us expectant down the garden, where the reflected glory of the sunset still lingered, and said: “Little mother has consented to be my wife; will you consent to have me for your father?”

“Oh! yes, yes, yes!” cried Elsie, impulsively. “Oh, I am so glad, for little mother's dear sake, and for yours as well. More glad than I can tell you.”

“Let me see if I can read what you cannot tell,” said he, taking her by both hands and looking down in her face with yearning love.

“See,” said she, looking up responsively in his eyes; “see how truly I speak. I shall love you more than I have loved my first father, and,” she added, smiling, “you may kiss me in advance, if you like.”

September 26th.—To-day we went to the registrar's office, and there my father was married to my mother for the second time. I cannot lose sight of the significance of these precautions, but I regret them only because they were found necessary. The obvious motive is to destroy the last trace that might identify my father with the unhappy man who was forced into exile eleven years ago. My mother will no longer be known as Mrs. Heatherly, I also shall take the name of Evans, and in a little while Elsie will become Phil's wife and bear his name. Thus, so far as we are concerned, the name of Heatherly will be extinct. Already our burden of secrecy is lightened, and I am grateful to Heaven for the relief it gives dear little mother and myself.

October 2nd.—Elsie received a letter from Philip this morning, and choking with joy read us an extract: “We leave here tomorrow, and within a few days of the time this reaches you I shall be with you, please Heaven. Of course I shall telegraph the moment I reach Liverpool.”

Three days after the receipt of this letter, my father, coming back from the mills to breakfast, swung open the garden gate and strode up to the house with unusual haste.

“I found the telegraph boy playing hopscotch with another young rascal at the end of the lane,” said he.

“The little wretch!” exclaimed Elsie; “and he may have a telegram for me.”

“No, he hasn't, for I took it from him, and here it is, dear,” said he, smiling as he put the buff envelope in Elsie's eager hand.

“He's come home!” she cried, reading the message; “and he will be at Farleigh this afternoon at 3.15. Oh, you dear father to bring such good news!” and she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. “May I have the chaise to meet him?”

“Of course you may.”

“And—and would it seem very selfish if I asked to go alone—that I might have him all to myself for the first half hour?”

“I think that will be best, Elsie: you can prepare him to meet and satisfy a most exacting father. When shall the chaise be brought to the door?”

“Not later than a quarter past two, eh?”

“That will give you time to go slowly down the hill, certainly, and so avoid any unpleasant accident. I will see that everything is trim and bright.”

“Oh, I shall see the pony groomed myself. Don't you trouble in the least about that,” said she eagerly.

Father smiled and nodded as he cracked his egg, understanding her feeling, maybe, better than we. And so Elsie superintended the re polishing of the harness, the washing of the chaise, and the brushing up of the pony, with the result that she overlooked the one thing which father probably would have first regarded, and, consequently, as she stood drawing on her driving gloves, old Morris came to the door with a long face to say that the pony had a shoe loose and must go round to the farrier's to be shod. How long would it take to get the shoe put on? A matter of half an hour or thereabouts “so be farrier's at the smithy.” Starting in half an hour there would yet be time to reach the station for the arrival of the train; so the old man was sent away with the pony. Then followed, a dreadful period of suspense, poor Elsie fretting with inaction, her eyes for ever wandering to the clock and all trying to conceal our anxiety on her behalf. At the end of the half hour no sign of old Morris or the pony could be seen from the gate, and then Elsie in desperation resolved to walk to the station, we promising to send the chaise after her. Her dress was unfit for walking but there was no time to change it. I offered to accompany her, but she declined and I would not press the useless offer, and she left us with tears of vexation and disappointment in her eyes. Little mother and I were scarcely less unhappy; but something more than sympathy distressed me. Unreasonably enough, no doubt, this accident impressed me as being of evil omen, and I could not shake off the presentiment.

Poor Elsie hastened along till she reached the Green, and seeing the road behind her still blank and hearing no sound of distant wheels, she determined to take the path across the fields as being the nearest. From the crest of the hill she saw the white steam of vapour from the coming train, heard the whistle as it neared the station, and hasten as she might it would take her ten minutes to get there. What would Phil think of her? He must be disappointed in not finding her on the platform to welcome him back.

She had yet another meadow to cross when she met the first passenger coming from the station, and there came another and another, and she had yet that field to cross. She was faint with fatigue and agitation; as she struggled on she could not see clearly for the tears that blinded her. And as she came to the turnstile a man stood in her way and blocked the passage—it wasn't Phil, she would have known him through a sea of tears; but who, then, was it who dared to stop her with the familiar assurance of an intimate friend?

“Well, if I didn't think it was, and so it is! An' if it ain't as if it was to be, dear heart to me!” cried a coarse voice.

She had forced the tears from her eyes, and saw now who the man was as soon as she recognised the coarse voice and the coarser laugh. It was James Redmond.

“Let me pass,” she cried, made furious by this new obstacle in her way.

“You shall, missy, but not before you've paid the toll. Do you understand what I mean? I can tell you I ain't to be fubbed off now same as I was the first time we met, nor the last either.”

She thrust the turnstile back, pushing his hand from it, passionate anger lending her momentary strength.

“No you don't, missy. I've said you shall pay toll, and by George you shall,” and he caught up her wrist and lifted it to kiss her arm.

“Hands off, you dog!” cried a voice not a yard off, and before James Redmond could turn Philip had grasped his collar by both hands, and the next moment he was flung into the ditch by the hedge-side like a clod of earth.