CHAPTER III
The bedroom was still. A candle burned on the chimney-piece, but its light was only feeble. In the bed lay a woman, wasted and weak, but at present sleeping, and there was no one else in the room. Downstairs, supper was being served to the workers, and in the small sitting-room the more grown-up members of the family sat. The children had gone to bed and were asleep; the farmer was away at a meeting in the neighbouring village.
And so the cold, shivering days of December, Christmas and the New Year wore away. And with them silently and slowly the sufferer wore away too. For months she had lain in bed, waiting and wasting, and now the end of wait and waste was coming.
It had fallen to the lot of the second daughter to act as nurse, and she fulfilled her part well. She was only a young girl, but had all a girl’s devotion. It fell to her daily task to read to the poor invalid the Litany from the Prayer-Book.
Who could blame her if now and again she omitted long clauses? That Litany was so very long and dull, and the delight of skipping so refreshing.
But even the Litany with its many repetitions must at last have an ending; and there came a day when it was no longer needed—for the poor soul that besought its God to hear it and have mercy on it had gone to take its peep behind the curtain.
It was bitterly cold in the first month of the new year, and there upon the white bed lay the corpse. The smell of coffin wood and burial flowers intermingled—white waxen flowers that looked a part of the white waxen figure in the snowy shroud. Beautiful and peaceful and care-free was that thin face, now the restless fragment of life had left it.
In the adjoining room, all alone upon the bed, sat Deborah, the little sickly baby. It wasn’t very nice having anybody dead in the house—you had all to go about quiet, and the rooms were dark.
Just then the door opened, and in came Deborah’s eldest sister. She had been crying.
“You may come with me to see mother,” she said.
So together they went. Marion held the younger sister up so that she might see and kiss the dead face—and it was perhaps in that first glance at the dead that she became conscious of her own life.
How beautiful, and strange, and far-away looked that weak and ailing mother! She who had let you nestle beside her in the bed and kissed you every night and morning. But now she was going away to heaven—to be really beautiful and never to be ill any more.
After that life settled down pretty much as it had been before, and all the usual little trivialities went on in the farm.
Marion became mistress in her mother’s place. Susan was sent away to school. Elinor, and fat, chubby, sturdy Maggie went to school near by, and Deborah, being the youngest, stayed at home.
It was very nice being at home all alone, as then she could wander about the orchard and garden, and the yard and the lot, and be happy. Besides, there were nine special chickens to feed, and they were so tame that they would let Deborah carry them about; and she used to sit upon the little stone slabs at the door and feed them—and they were so greedy that they nearly upset the tin with the oatmeal paste in it, and if she didn’t look quick about it she nearly always missed her share, for naturally she always ate a little with them. Also they used to drink in such a funny way, holding their heads up and letting the water trickle down their throats, but though they were always hungry they didn’t often want to drink—so perhaps they belonged to the Blue Ribbon Army like the servant girl.
Then there was the old grey cat. It was the most wonderful cat on the earth, and the biggest. But alas! poor thing! it had seen bad days. The girl (you will understand that to mean the servant) let some scalding porridge fall on it one day, which made it so timid that for a long time it would not come near anyone. And when it had got over that catastrophe and was one day sneaking round the stable, probably in search of mice, one of the horses struck out and kicked it on the head. Ever after that it walked about as if it had forgotten something, and formed a great affection for Deborah. They loved each other very sincerely, and she used to nurse it by the hour together; it used to lay its great head upon her little breast, and she for pure love used to kiss its velvet ears.
Besides, the grey cat was really so much better behaved than the black cat. The black cat was cruel and wild and would think nothing of killing and eating a mouse before your very eyes. Moreover, it often went away from home for six weeks at a time, and never left word where it was going to, nor when it would come back; which was decidedly bad manners, to say the least of it. And it was pretty certain that it never went away for any good purpose, because after it came back the least thing would frighten it, and it would fly off for the least sound, just like some guilty person.
Then there were the little Bantams—two little Bantam hens and a Bantam cock—they kept quite aloof from all the other big clumsy fowls, and refused to let their small and pretty families mix with them.
Then there was the fierce old sheep-dog, Spring, who died. There was a very grand funeral and a properly-dug grave. Jack, the youngest boy, acted as grave-digger, clerk and clergyman all in one; he was so serious that he never saw anything the least bit funny about his work. And there followed him to the grave-side, Elinor, Maggie and Deborah, all wearing a remnant of black.
They were strange days—curious dream-like days—and they followed each other silently, like shadows over grain fields.
Thus the time passed on, and gradually, gradually, the cloud darkened.
Some said when his wife died the farmer showed every sign of relief—perhaps, poor man, he did. In the ruin that was staring at him he could face it better alone. She was not quite the woman to invite, he not the man to give, confidences. Oh, Life! Life! Life! how many couples are there that will face these things bravely? How much selfishness would have to be torn from its very heart-roots! How much narrow-heartedness and shallow depths have to be swept right away!
But, by the irony of fate, though he had escaped from his wife he could not escape altogether from his family. He must provide for them and look after them, ruin or no ruin.
Accordingly, two years after his wife’s death, he gave notice that he was leaving the farm, but where he was going or what he was going to do no one knew.
When it was heard that the farmer had given up the farm everybody talked.
Naturally people wondered what he was going to do; he was getting middle-aged, they thought, and too old to start a new line of business.
The real fact probably was that he did not know what he was going to do himself. He wished to get to some town and there try what luck would do for him. Experience had not yet taught him that he was essentially an unlucky man.
Along with all these worries for the farmer his children lived their own little lives.
Elinor had her photograph taken and went and spoiled the family album by going into the parlour secretly and forcing all her photos (a round dozen) into the empty spaces. She tore the paper and spoilt the album, and you may be sure she did not get off lightly.
Next, Maggie found out whereabouts in this same wonderful parlour the iced Christmas cake was kept. She went quietly and helped herself to the delicious sugar. At first they thought it was a mouse. So it was, but just a little two-legged one, who was soon found out, and suffered the natural penalty of such greed.
Deborah, however, didn’t do much in this interesting line. She had no individuality, and it always needs individuality to err. At this time she had more respect for the grey cat than for any human being, and more love for the speckled chickens than anything beside. They made up her small world and she was quite content; it would have been far too much trouble to commit any of the faults common to childhood.
The farmer, in his spare time, taught her her lessons—and that was the beginning of the great love she afterwards bore him. He bought her a wonderful book with pictures and words in, and by the time she was seven she could read and understand quite well.
Just about this time a boy from the town came to stay with them. He was a very well-to-do boy, and the son of very worldly people, and he looked down greatly upon Jane and the men-servants on the farm. But he formed a great attachment for Jack, the youngest son, probably as being much older than himself, and able to teach him some wonderful country games. He was a very curious boy and had what might be called a wonderful conceit of himself.
One day he appeared before Deborah with a very determined air.
“We’ve known each other nearly a week,” he said decidedly, “so it’s quite time we were engaged.”
“All right,” she observed cheerfully, for it all seemed quite natural; and she began to plan a place for him among the chickens in her affection.
“Yes,” he went on, “but of course I sha’n’t be able to give you much of my time. I’m a boy, you know. Some day I’ll be a man, so my life will be a much grander one than yours. You’re only a girl.”
“Yes,” remarked Deborah, and accepted the inevitable with contentment.
“Then if you like you can take a short walk with me now.”
“All right,” said Deborah again. So they went.
For some days after that they took the usual short walk, till one day he began in the same decided way.
“We’ve been engaged long enough. It’s time we were married.”
“But we’re not old enough,” said Deborah. This was too quick work altogether for one who always let things glide.
“Yes, we are. Besides, if I’m married to you now I shall feel bound in honour to stick to you. Otherwise, when I go away I may forget you.”
It seemed a very terrible thing to be forgotten, so she consented.
“But how are we to do it?” she asked.
“Oh! we stand together with the sky above us, and you must say to me, ‘Bernard’ (not Bay, that’s only short, you know) ‘Bernard, I take you to be my wedded husband’—and then I shall say to you, ‘Deborah, I take you to be my wedded wife.’ After that it’s all done and nothing but death can part us.”
So they went together to the old rustic, ear-wiggy seat in the garden, and were married very solemnly. And he got his place among the chickens in her heart, and what place she got in his it would be hard to tell, as it was a very matter-of-fact union.
Some days later he came with a more serious and thoughtful air.
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he said, sitting down upon the floor and clasping his hands round his knees. “When I go home I’m going to school. Then when I’m old enough I shall be going to Oxford. And after that I’m going to India to shoot big game. Then when I’ve made a name I’ll come home and marry you proper—on the very day you’re twenty-one.”
Now there was something very exciting about all that, which awoke even phlegmatic Deborah, the more so as she was too ignorant to understand the half of it. Even the grey cat got up to stretch itself, but after blinking idly at the speaker it settled comfortably once more in Deborah’s lap.
“What’s Oxford?” she asked curiously.
“Oh!—er—it’s a place where you go to learn to look down on everybody who isn’t as good as yourself,” he answered, first with hesitation, then with decision. “There’s another place called Cambridge where you can go to learn the same thing,” he added as an afterthought.
“But—it’s not a good thing to learn, is it?”
“Of course. If one is a gentleman one must know it, and let other people know it too.”
“What do you mean by big game?” she asked next.
“Tigers and elephants,” he answered, his eyes sparkling.
“And could you really shoot a tiger?”
“Of course. Just lend me that old cat, and I’ll show you how it’s done,” he said, springing up. But all Deborah’s instincts revolted at the thought.
“No, indeed,” she cried, and put as much of her two hands over it as would go for protection.
“I won’t hurt it. Just you lend it to me and I’ll—”
“I won’t, it’s got the headache and feels tired.”
“Got the headache!” exclaimed he with great contempt. “Who ever heard of a cat with the headache?”
“It has got the headache,” she persisted. “Darling kicked it—and it’s had the headache ever since.”
“Well, it’s only a tame old thing, so it wouldn’t do. But listen to me and I’ll tell you about shooting big game. I shall go on an elephant right into the thickest part of the forest.”
“How will you get up?”
“Climb, of course, up a ladder. Then in the thickest part of the forest I shall suddenly see two eyes like fire shining down at me. Then I shall take my gun—one—two—three. At the third shot it will fall mortally wounded. And then, so that everybody may really know I’ve really shot the tiger, I shall have it skinned, and bring the fur home.”
“But suppose instead it killed you,” observed Deborah, who by this time was fully roused to the possibilities of such an event.
“Well, you see, I shall have to be a pretty good shot before I could think of going out. And after that—well, a man with a gun, who knows how to use it, is a match for a tiger any day.”
They became very great friends indeed, and took the short walks together every day most religiously, till at last the time came for his going away.
They met each other in the kitchen lobby when there was no one there, and kissed several times very sadly. Deb wiped her eyes with the corner of her small pinafore, but he kept up manfully.
“I’ll come back when—I’ve shot the big game—and—you’re twenty-one, you know.”
But he never shot the big game, and he never came back.