i think god gave me great courage that day, for i really acted like a girl who was accustomed to going about by herself, who knew her way about london, and who was saving with regard to money matters. i had come out of one of the richest houses in london; i had left a house where i was attended all day and practically half the night, where my slightest wish was considered, where the most beautiful clothes were given to me, and the most lovely things—that is, to all appearance—happened to me. i went out of that awful house, which i hated, which i loathed, just because it was so rich, so stifling with luxury, and felt that each minute i was becoming a woman, and that soon, very soon, i should be quite grown up.
i got to paddington station and took the first train to cherton. cherton is not far from a great centre, and, as a rule, you have to change trains and get into a "local" before you can arrive at the little old-world place. i travelled third, of course, and had quite an interesting journey. my compartment was full and i enjoyed looking at my companions. they were the sort of people who do travel third—i mean they were the sort of people who have a right to travel third. a great many ladies now go third-class when they ought to go second or first, but these people had a right to their third-class compartment, and thoroughly they seemed to enjoy themselves. they brought parcels innumerable; some of them brought birds in cages. there was a small, sharp-looking boy who had a pet weasel in his pocket. the weasel thrust out his head now and then and looked at us with his cunning bright eyes, and then darted back once more into his place of shelter. the boy looked intensely happy with his weasel; in fact, the creature seemed to comprise all his world. i managed to enter into conversation with the boy, and he told me that he was going to cherton to be apprenticed to an old uncle of his; he was to learn the boot and shoe business and was to make a good thing of it, so that he might be rich enough to help his father and mother by and by. he had nice, honest, brown eyes, and when i asked him his name he said that he was called jack martin, but that most of his friends called him jack tar. they all thought he would fail—all except sam—but sam prognosticated his success. i asked the boy who "sam" was, and he answered in his simple, direct way:
"why, he's my best pal, lydy."
i liked the little fellow when he answered in that fashion, and told him in a low voice that i was also going to cherton, that i had spent many years in that little, out-of-the-world village, and that i was going to seek my aunt. he was much interested, and we became so chummy that he offered me the loan of "frisky," as he called the weasel, for a short time, if i'd be very kind to it. i thanked him much for the honour he meant to confer on me, but explained that i was not in the habit of carrying weasels about with me, and perhaps would not understand "frisky's" manners.
"he's a rare 'un for giving you a nip," said the boy in reply, "but lor' bless yer, that don't matter. there's nothing wicious about he."
the other people in the carriage were also interested in the boy, and even more so in "frisky," who by and by extended his peregrinations from one person to another, nibbling up a few crumbs of cake, and putting away with disdain morsels of orange peel, and altogether behaving like a well-behaved weasel of independent mind. the boy said he hoped "frisky" would be allowed to sleep in his bed at his uncle's place, and the women sympathised, the men also expressing their hearty wishes on the subject.
"and why not?" said one very burly-looking farmer. "i'd a whole nest of 'em once, and purtier little dears i never handled."
the third-class carriage was, indeed, packed full; the endless luggage, the boxes little and big, boxes that went on the rack and boxes that would not go on the rack, but stuck out all over the narrow passage and got into everyone's way. there were shawls, and a pretty bird in a cage, and a white rabbit in another cage, and bundles innumerable. but everyone talked and laughed and became chatty and agreeable. the boy was the first to tell his story. it was a very simple one. he was poor; his father and mother had just saved up money enough to apprentice him to uncle ben rogers. he was going to him; he was off his parents now, and would never trouble them again, god helping him.
by and by the people in the carriage turned their attention full on me. they had confided their histories each to the other, their simple stories of love and of hate, of ill-nature and of good-nature, of stormy days of privation and full days of plenty. now it was my turn. i was assailed by innumerable questions. "why did i wear such smart clothes? where did i get the feather that was in my hat? why did i, being a lydy, travel with the likes of them?"
i told these good, kind creatures that i loved to travel with them, and that i hated wealth and grand people. i said also that i was going back to a kind aunt of mine, who hated fine clothes as much as i was beginning to hate them, and that i earnestly hoped she would let me stay with her. i said that i was a very miserable girl, and then they all pitied me, and one woman said, "poor thing, poor, pretty young thing!" and another took my hand and squeezed it, and said, "bear up, my deary, god tempers the wind to the shorn lamb." i did not exactly know what she meant, but i took comfort from her kindly words and kindly face. and so at last we got out at the big junction and then i took the little train to cherton. one or two of my fellow-travellers, amongst others the boy with the weasel, accompanied me. he was looking a little nervous, and when i said:
"i'll come and see you some day," his little woebegone face brightened up considerably, and he answered:
"don't forget, lydy, as i'm mostly known as jack tar, although i was never at sea in the whole course of my life; but my father makes tar, and i was christened jack, so what could be more likely than that i should be called jack tar?" he then added again that his real name was martin; but that was no use to him at all, he was always "jack tar," and he would not like to be anything else.
i smiled at the boy and we parted the best of friends. cherton looked perfectly lovely. it was just the crown of the year, that time in early may when, if the weather is fine, the whole world seems to put out her brightest and sweetest fragrance. the may trees were not yet in bloom, it is true, but the blackthorn was abundant, and as to the primroses and violets, they seemed to carpet the place. my heart beat faster and faster. oh, the old streets, and the little town, and the happy, peaceful life i had led here! would aunt penelope be glad to see me? of course she would. she was not a demonstrative old woman, but she was good to me; she, of course, had been very good to me. from the time she had taken me—a tiny, motherless girl—from my father, she had done her best in her own fashion for me. after all, i had not been so long away from her, only a few months; but so much had been crowded into those months that the time seemed years.
i had—i knew quite well—stepped from childhood into womanhood. my eyes had been opened to discern good from evil, but i was glad of that; i was glad, more than glad, that cherton meant good to me, and that london meant evil. i recalled the first time i had come to cherton and what a miserable little child i had been, and how i had rushed away, all by myself, to the railway station to meet the train by which anastasia was to come. things were different now. now cherton meant home, and i had, i will own it, almost forgotten anastasia.
at last i mounted the little hill which led to hill view, aunt penelope's house. i wondered if the same jonas would open the door for me who had parted with me with many tears on the morning when i had gone with such a light heart to join my father in london. i reached the little brown house. it looked exactly the same as ever, only that, of course, the spring flowers were coming out. there were a great many ranunculuses in the garden, and the irises were coming out of their sheaths and putting on their purple bloom, and there were heaps and heaps of tulips of different shades and colour. these were real flowers; these were the sort that i loved, the sort that vernon carbury would love if he saw them. these were very different from the hothouse roses and the flowers of rare beauty which decorated lord hawtrey's house.
i walked up the path which led to the front door with the confident step of a girl who is returning home; i rang the door bell. at first there was silence, no one replied to my summons; then a head was pushed out of a door down the area, there was a muffled exclamation, and somebody came scampering up the stairs, and there—yes, there—was the old jonas waiting for me!
"jonas," i said, "don't you know me?"
"miss heather," he answered. his face grew scarlet, and then turned very white; the next minute, forgetting altogether his position, he took both my hands and dragged me into the house.
"was it in answer to the big prayer that you've come?" he said. "speak, and speak at once. i'm a methody, i be. i had a big prayer last night; i wrestled with the lord for you to come back. was it in answer to that you come?"
"perhaps so, i don't know—who can tell? oh, jonas! is anything wrong?"
"stop knocking at the door!" shouted a familiar voice, and then i gave a scream, half of pleasure, half of pain, and dashed into the parlour and went up to polly. i could not be afraid of her any longer, and although she was not at all a friendly bird to me, and never had been during all the years i had lived with her, yet she was so far subdued at present that she allowed me to ruffle the feathers on the top of her grey head.
"where's aunt penelope?" i said then, turning to jonas.
"upstairs in bed. the doctor he come and the doctor he goes and i do what i can, but 'tain't much. she's off her feed and she's off her luck, and she's in bed. she's got me in to tidy up this morning, she did so. she said, 'jonas, it ain't correct, but it must be done; you bring in your broom and tea leaves and sweep up,' she said, 'and then dust,' she said, 'and i will lie buried under the clothes, so that you won't see a bit of my head. it's quite a decent thing to do when it's done like that, jonas; and don't make any bones about it, for it's to be done.' so i done her up as best i could, and oh, my word! the room did want it badly. there now, that's her bell. doctor says she should stay in bed and not stir, but she hears voices, and she's that mad with curiosity. doctor thinks maybe she's going; doctor don't like her state, but i does the best i can. i'm getting her beef-tea ready for her now, miss heather, and maybe you'll take it up to her. it's you she's been fretting for; she's never held up her head since you went, but don't you go to suppose she spoke of you. no, she never once did. but her head—she never kept it up. don't you fret about her, miss heather; you have come back, and it's in answer to prayer. now then, come along with me into the kitchen. i'll shout at her to let her know i'm here, but i'll not mention your name. coming, ma'am—heating up the beef-tea—coming in a twink! there, miss heather, she'll know now i'm coming, and you—you get along to the kitchen as fast as you can and watch me, to see as i does it right."
i went with jonas to the little old-world kitchen. he really was not a bad boy, this present jonas, for the kitchen, seeing that its mistress was so long out of it, was fairly clean, and his attempt at making beef-tea was fairly good, after all. while jonas was warming the beef-tea and making a tiny piece of toast, i removed my hat and jacket and smoothed my hair, and when the refreshment was ready i took it upstairs with me, up and up the narrow, short flight of creaking stairs. i passed my own tiny bedroom, and there was aunt penelope's room, facing the stairs. i opened the door very softly and stood for a second on the threshold.
"now, what is it?" said a cantankerous voice. "jonas, you're off your head. it's just because i admitted you to my bedroom to-day to sweep and dust. but come in, don't be shy. there is nothing against your coming into the room with an old lady. you can lay the tray on the table and walk out again without looking at me."
"it isn't jonas," i said, standing half-hidden by the door, "it's—it's—heather. i have come back, auntie."
the moment i said the words i went right in. aunt penelope drew herself bolt upright in bed. she did look a very withered, very ill, and very neglected old lady. her face was hard and stern, but in her eyes that moment there burnt the light of love. those eyes looked straight into mine.
"heather, you're back?"
"yes, of course i am, auntie, and now you must take your beef-tea and tell me all about everything. how are you, darling, and why did you get ill, and why did you never write or send for your own child, heather?—and, oh! you have been naughty! but i have come back, and i mean to stay for just as long as you want me."
"then that will be for ever and ever, amen," said aunt penelope. she laid her hot, dry old hand in mine, and she raised her face for me to kiss her. i stooped and did so, and then i said, almost sternly, for it was my turn now to take the upper hand—
"you will have to allow me to wait on you; and you're not to talk at all, nor to expect any news from me whatsoever, until you have had your beef-tea, and until i have made you comfortable. dear, dear, you do want your child heather, very badly, auntie."
"badly," said aunt penelope. "i wanted you, heather, unto death—unto death, but he said that you were to come when the season was over. i counted that perhaps you'd come in august. it's only may now, and the season has just begun. i counted for august, although i scarcely expected to live."
"no more talking," i said, trying to be stern, although it was very difficult, and then i sat on the edge of the bed and watched aunt penelope as she sipped her beef-tea and ate some morsels of toast.
i forgot myself as i watched her. my own sufferings seemed to be far away and of no consequence. my tired heart settled down suddenly into a great peace. i was home once more.
