Mary didn't take me round by Durdham Down, as it was late, but through Redland and Clifton streets, till we got to a part of Clifton Down where it was too dark to see much; only there was grass and trees.
"Tired, Kitty?" says she.
"No," I answered. "Shall we find mother soon?"
"Yes, I hope so," said she. "We're almost close to where Clifton Down joins Durdham Down."
"And Durdham Down is where mother goes most," I said.
"Yes; and always to the loneliest parts," said she. "Your mother is a lover of the country, you know."
We had been going along a level road or path a little way, where an avenue of trees grew; but soon we left the trees, turning into a white road, which rose up, with grass downs and scattered bushes on both sides. Mary said that was Durdham Down. Then she stepped up on the grass to the left, and led away over it, among the bushes, on broken ground. I could not see where I went, and I stumbled and clung to her arm, but she seemed to know every step.
"Not much farther, I hope," said she. "Are you frightened?"
"O no," I said; "only it is so dark and so lonely. I shouldn't like to be here by myself. But with you—"
"That makes a difference, doesn't it?" said she. "But I should not have minded coming alone, if it had been my duty. I've done so before!"
"And you would not have been afraid?"
"Perhaps a little nervous," said she. "But if one is doing one's duty, I do think one may always look to be taken care of."
Presently we came out together from among bushes and rocks to a place I didn't expect. There was an iron railing, and beyond the railing a depth going sheer down ever so far. A river lay below, shining in the moonlight, which at that very moment had broken out strong and clear. Beyond the river were high dark banks, covered with woods. It was a strange wild scene altogether to me, seen in the dim light.
Mary went straight to the railing, stepping quick over the roughnesses in our path, though indeed we were in no regular path, but among rocks and bushes and grass; and she stood there looking about.
"It is a beautiful place," said she.
"I should like it in the day-time," I said.
"I like it always," said she.
"Is this where mother comes to be alone?" I asked.
"Somewhere about here," said she. "Not far off, commonly."
And she called in a soft voice, which must have carried a good way, the air was so still—
"Mrs. Phrynne! Mrs. Phrynne!"
But there wasn't any answer.
"Come! we'll look," Mary answered.
We kept as near to the railings as could be, but sometimes we had to go round a pile of rocks and bushes. Mary and I searched some distance both ways, and all to no good. There wasn't a sign of a living creature.
Once the moon went in, and how dark it was! I felt chilly and frightened.
"Perhaps she is gone home, and she'll be tired waiting for us," I said.
"I don't think it," Mary answered.
We stood still again, listening, and all at once it came into my head to call, "Mother!"
"Yes—try that, Kitty!" says Mary.
"Mother!" I cried. "Mother! Mother!"
There was a step among the bushes near us.
"Mother," I cried; "oh, do come!"
No mistake about the step now. In one moment more mother herself came out from the bushes, walking straight towards us. The moon shone full on her face, and her eyes were wide open with an eager look.
"Is that little Kitty's voice?" says she. "Is Kitty in trouble?"
"Mother!" I said once more, and I went forward to meet her, while Mary held back.
"Why—Kitty!" says mother, a slow smile creeping over her face, and she put both arms round me. "Kitty!"
Anybody that's known what it is to crave and thirst for a mother's kiss, when that kiss can't be had, may guess how I felt to have mother's arms round me, hugging me in the old fashion, like as when I was a little child. She laid her cheek on mine, and made a little crooning sound, as if I was a baby again, and she petting me.
"Kitty! Little Kitty!" says she. "Come back to mother at last!"
"O mother, I don't want ever to leave you again," I sobbed.
"Poor little Kitty!" says she, and she crooned over me afresh.
I don't know how long that went on; only after a while I heard Mary say behind, softly, "Now we ought to go home."
So tears had to stop, for choosing of footsteps, and I don't know to this day how we got over the rough ground back to the road. Mother wouldn't let go of me for a moment, and Mary guided us both. The moon went behind a cloud soon, but it didn't matter, for by that time we had gas-lamps.
All through the longish way back mother clung to me fast, like one who has found a lost treasure. I was that tired at last, I scarce knew how to drag one foot after the other; only I could not complain, I was so happy. And now and then Mary whispered, "Cheer up, Kitty; we'll soon be there! And it's been worth while," says she. And oh, hadn't it been?
Mother didn't talk nor ask any questions. She kept on, in a sort of murmur to herself— "Kitty! little Kitty! my Kitty!" —and that was all.
When we got indoors, Mary lighted a second candle, to brighten up the room. Mother stood holding me fast still, not willing to let go.
"Hadn't Kitty better sit down, Mrs. Phrynne?" says Mary. "She's been on her feet such a time."
"Kitty yes," mother said. "Kitty's tired! Poor little Kitty!"
"Poor little Kitty!" Mary echoed in a quiet voice. "Did you go to look for Kitty among the rocks, I wonder?"
Mother shook her head. She wouldn't say what took her there, and she never would say nor talk about it afterward. Only, from the day I came back, she stopped all her lonesome walks, and only wanted to have me with her.
I couldn't sit down, mother held me so tight, and a feeling came as if I should drop if I went on any longer. I'd done a lot that day, you see.
Mary saw, for she always saw everything, and I suppose I did look white. She took a candle, and held it up near my face. Then mother saw too.
"Poor little Kittenkins!" says she tenderly, exactly as father used to do. It had been father's name for me, not mother's.
She put me down on the sofa, just as if I was a little child, and I let her do it. Then she spread a shawl over my feet, and took a chair close by, laying one hand on mine, and sitting there to keep watch.
"Shut your eyes and go to sleep," says she.
Wasn't it sweet to have mother telling me what to do again? I followed her bidding, and sleep wasn't long coming.
When I opened my eyes, mother sat there still. She hadn't stirred a finger. And I had slept two good hours at one stretch.
Mary didn't share mother's room with her that night after all, for mother would have nobody but me; and Mary was only glad to have it so.
No; mother wasn't her old self altogether; I soon found that. The great blow of father's death had left a weakness. She was busy and contented, and didn't murmur; but there was just a touch of weakness. Most likely there always would be, the doctors said.
She took to calling me "Kittenkins" after I came back, and we couldn't cure her of it; so soon we left off trying. It didn't matter, so long as she was pleased.
There was always a sort of petting manner too, as if I was a little child again; and I didn't wish to cure that. Sometimes we fancied she was remembering how bitter she'd been against me, and was trying to make up for it. Any way, I felt I had deserved the bitterness, and I didn't deserve all this love.
Mother would often speak of father, but never of the way he was killed, nor of my wrong behaviour before. Often she called me "Poor little Kitten-kins!" in such a grieved voice, I thought she was pitying me for having put him to pain; but one could not be sure.
We soon settled to live in Redland. The surroundings of Claxton would be bad for mother, everybody said, bringing back her great trouble. Besides, Mary could get any amount of work near Bristol, and in Claxton it would be hard to keep ourselves afloat. Mother had a small annuity, but not enough to live on in any comfort.
So I took to dressmaking with Mary, and grew to like it. Redland air suited me, and I got stronger, and was able to sit many hours a day at my needle without suffering. Mother was a help too, only we couldn't let her do very much.
For some months Mary heard almost nothing of Walter or his wife. Then he began to write again, and we soon found out why. He wanted money.
I think our being with Mary was a great protection for her. He couldn't be always running in to screw money out of her, for he didn't care to meet me; and he wouldn't have seen mother on any account, or so we thought.
Mary made it a rule to tell us when she heard from him, and consulted mother what to do when he wanted more money. She said mother was so wonderful clear and sensible on all points of right and wrong, and whether one ought or oughtn't to do a thing. There was a weakness, it is true; but the weakness didn't touch that. And it was hard for Mary to judge, being pulled by her love for Walter, and yet knowing that the more she helped him the more reckless he grew.
I suppose the "few hundreds" that came with his wife were soon run through. Then he got some sort of situation, and lost it, nobody knew how; but Mary had a pretty clear inkling that it was the old trouble: he couldn't be trusted. And he got another and much poorer situation, and lost that too.
So then he said he would be off to Canada, which was a good thing for Mary and us, but for nobody else. A man that can't succeed in England, because of his unsteadiness and want of right principle, isn't like to do better beyond seas. Why should he? Crossing the ocean don't put right principle nor dependableness into a man!
However, it was settled he should go with his wife and baby—poor little one, to have only such a father to depend on! I couldn't help thinking how different my case had been!
Mary was to give a good big sum out of her hard-won earnings to help them out. Walter wrote lots of letters, full of promises; and Mary sighed over the promises, knowing how little they were worth. What could one expect from a man who would say anything that was convenient at any time, and never trouble himself to keep his word?
We didn't suppose he would come to see Mary before he went, but he did. She had given him so much money, she couldn't afford to go to him; and indeed mother and I hoped they would not meet, for there could be only pain for Mary in seeing him.
Mother could bear to hear Walter's name by this time, near upon three years having gone since father's death; but still she never talked of him without a sort of shudder. I suppose that was the reason why, when Mary heard from Walter that he meant to look in on a certain day, she didn't tell mother nor me a word about it. She only settled for us to go out for a walk. I couldn't think why she was so bent on that, making me leave the sleeve I'd nearly finished, and refusing any delay.
As it happened, never knowing or suspecting that Walter was to be in Redland that day, mother and I for once went towards Bristol, instead of on the Downs. Most likely Mary hadn't a doubt that we should choose the Downs. We didn't, though, for it was close upon Mary's birthday, and mother wanted to choose a present.
So we walked down Park Street, and into College Green, and spent a good while looking into the shop windows. Mother had a difficulty in making up her mind what to get, which wasn't like to herself in old days; and I had to help her, and yet seem to leave her free.
At last it was all settled, and we were coming slowly back along the White Ladies Road, having reached a quiet part not far from home, when all at once I saw Walter Russell bearing down upon us at full speed, like a steam-engine.
I don't know how it was we hadn't met him going down. He must have gone round some other way.
Well—there he was; and I saw in a moment that he was changed. His dress was shabby, and his hair wasn't sleek, and he had a sort of uncomfortable down-look, as if he didn't care to meet people. I'm sure he didn't care to meet us, any way. And the jaunty air was gone.
But, besides the change in him, there was a change in me. The three years between seventeen and twenty do make a lot of difference, you know, in a girl's mind and in what she likes. When I saw him there came a sort of wonder—how could I ever have fancied I cared for that man? Had I been crazy?
I didn't think for a moment that mother would notice him. I thought she would pass him by. And I knew he would be glad to rush past, as if he didn't know us. But she gave him a look, and stopped short just in his path. So he couldn't choose but stop too.
"Is that Walter Russell?" says mother, and she turned pale as death, while he went as red as fire.
"Er—yes," says he, with a sort of stammer, as if he wasn't sure.
"Have you been to see Mary?" says mother, fixing her eyes on him, and I saw him shrink under them.
"Yes," says he sheepishly; "just to say goodbye."
I couldn't go on, for mother had hold of my arm, as she always liked to do, and I didn't like to leave her, she looking so white. Mother seemed to forget about me, and Walter and I didn't so much as give a glance one at another.
"Ah!—to say good-bye!" says mother.
"I didn't think it right to go without," mutters he.
"Maybe not," says she; "if it wasn't a solid good-bye in the shape of gold and silver you came to her for, Mr. Russell," says she; and he got as red as fire again. "Ah, I thought so," says she, as quiet as possible. "Mary is a good unselfish creature; but she's got herself to provide for, and there's limits even to what a sister can bear. If I was you, I'd be ashamed to come down on her for help. She, a delicate woman, and you a strong man, with hands of your own, and a head too."
Walter mumbled something about "last time he should be compelled—"
"Well, I hope it is," says she. "There's no sort of being compelled, though, without it is by your own nature. Being compelled to evil means giving in to evil, neither more nor less. And I can tell you, Mr. Russell, I'll do my best to protect Mary and her earnings from you. I say it, and I mean it," says she.
"Much obliged, I'm sure," says he, so I suppose he was angered. "I've got to be off to my train," he says.
"There's no reason why I should keep you," says mother. "I'm glad to have seen you this once, and I'm glad to shake hands with you—once —because you have wronged me and mine in the past, and I have much to forgive," says she.
Walter just let her take his hand, and then rushed off as hard as ever he could go. And that was the last I saw of him for many and many a long year—till I was a middle-aged woman, and he was a middle-aged man. He'd lived through a peck of troubles of his own making by then, and he was old before his time, and a poor weak fellow still; but I won't say we hadn't hopes of him. Maybe he'd got some wisdom out of his troubles at last.
Well, to go back to the time I'm telling about.
"Mother, why did you stop him?" I asked.
"I don't know, Kittenkins," says she. "I had a sort of feeling that I must."
"To think that I ever cared for him!" I said.
"I doubt you didn't," says she.
"Oh, but I did, mother."
"You cared a deal for the fuss he made with you," says she. "That's at the bottom of half the silly marriages that's made; and that's a wonderful different thing from caring for himself." And then she says, "He's a bad man."
"He isn't a good man, I'm afraid," said I.
"He's a long way off from that," said she. "There's different sorts of badness, Kitty. A man may be resolute set on evil, or he may drift into evil just from not caring. I don't know as it makes much odds how he comes there—only I'd have more hopes of the resolute man of the two. For if he came out of evil, he'd do it with a will, and stay out; but if Mr. Russell's pulled out, he's as like as not to drift in again."
And wasn't it true?
"Only you wouldn't say there was no hope for a weak man, mother?"
"No," she answered. "There's hope always for every man. God's grace can keep firm the very weakest. All the same," says she, "I'd sooner have to do with a man that's staunch by nature, than with a poor limp thing that's bent by every puff of wind. There's a deal more to be made of the one than the other," says she.
"Rupert wasn't limp," I said; and it was strange I should have spoken of him just then. I don't know why I did, except that he'd been a deal in my thoughts for a great while past. I often wished I could just tell him I was sorry for all the hard words I'd said.
"Rupert? No," says mother. "Rupert was another guess sort of a man. Stuff enough there, Kittenkins. And you might have had him," says she, with a queer look at me; "only you thought you'd sooner have a limp thing for a husband."
"O mother, it's no good to talk of that now," I said. "Rupert's married long ago, I don't doubt."
"I do," says mother, very low.
"And if Mr. Russell wasn't Mary's brother, I'd never give a thought to him again," I said.
"No, and we won't," says mother, and she patted my hand that lay on her arm. She had grown so endearing in her ways, much more than she was used to be before our troubles.
Well, we got home, and mother went upstairs. Mary was in, and I told her all about what had happened.
Mary said, "Ah! I wanted to spare your mother seeing him!"
But I don't think she was sorry it had happened. She put down her work and went after mother.
So I was left alone; and I pulled off my hat and sat down to the sewing-machine. I hadn't been working it for five minutes, when there was a heavy step in the passage—the front door having been left open—and then a tap at the dining-room door.
"Come in," I said.
But there was only a second tap.
"Come in," I said again; and as nobody came in, I got up and opened.
"Does Mrs. Phrynne live here?" says a voice which I seemed to know, yet I didn't directly think whose it was.
A man was standing there, in a big rough greatcoat; not very tall, but broad and strong. Our passage was always so dark, I only had a glimpse of a rugged plain sort of face.
"Yes," I said; "this is Mrs. Phrynne's room."
"May I come in?" says he.
"Yes. She is upstairs; but I'll call her," I said.
"No, don't," says he.
And he walked in and shut the door. For one second I was frightened; then—
"Kitty!" says he, "don't you know who I am?"
"Rupert!" I cried out. "O Rupert, I'm so glad!"
The change that came into his face! I don't think words can tell it. I called him "plain" just now, but he wasn't plain then. The ruggedest face can be made beautiful, if the light of a great joy is shining through it.
"Kitty, do you mean it? Kitty, you're not glad really! Tell me that again," says he, all hoarse and shaky.
"Of course I'm glad," said I. "Don't you know how unkind I was before you went away? I have always wanted to tell you I was sorry."
"O Kitty!" says he, and he couldn't go on.
"But you don't know why we are here, or about poor father?" I said.
"Yes, yes, I've heard all," said he. "I went to my mother first, and she and Mr. Armstrong told me everything. But I wouldn't let them write. I wanted to find you out, and see for myself."
He didn't say what it was he wanted to see.
"Where have you been all this while?" I asked. "Sit down, Rupert."
I was noticing how he'd grown taller, and how he was readier in speech, and didn't slouch as he used.
"Ah! I've lots to tell you," said he. "Been in Scotland all this while. Got into a goods-yard, and had to begin at the bottom, as there wasn't anybody to speak for me. And I'm working my way up. But I'll find something to do nearer home, as soon as ever I can. And, Kitty—"
"And you never wrote once to your mother all this while!"
"No," said he, "I didn't; and it's been wrong. I didn't see that so clearly till lately, but it's been wrong, and I told my mother so. She don't mind now, though, now I'm back. And, Kitty—"
I suppose I knew what was coming. Any way, I didn't try to stop it. I just sat still.
And when he asked over again the same question he had asked once before, I never thought of running away. For I was willing to have him.
*Â Â *Â Â *Â Â *Â Â *Â Â *Â Â *Â Â *Â Â *
We could not marry for a good while. Rupert had to work his way, and he had to look after his mother and sister. He had done wrongly, as he said, staying so long away, and he owed them a lot of help and kindness.
But I promised I would be his wife one day, when the right time should come, which wasn't for a matter of four years and more.
Mother and Mary and Mrs. Bowman and everybody was pleased. Rupert had his faults, there's no doubt; still he had right principle, and he was warm-hearted, and he did work hard and try to get on. Father and mother always had said there was "stuff" in him, and it showed more and more as years went by. Any way, I've never had reason to be sorry for the answer I gave, the second time he asked me to marry him. He's been a good husband to me.
I don't say he has ever been my father's equal, for that he isn't; and Rupert would say so himself. I know he would. But that's not saying he isn't what he is; and I wish there were a lot more men as good as my Rupert.
Twenty years later still, Rupert was appointed stationmaster at Claxton. So then I went back with him to the dear old home of my girlish days.
That's where I have written all this long story.