Read Ebook: Miles Murchison by Giberne Agnes

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Ebook has 643 lines and 34974 words, and 13 pages

CHAP.

MILES MURCHISON.

A DAY'S PLEASURING. MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY.

I NEVER shall forget that day,--never! Not if I live to be a hundred years old.

Till then I hadn't known real trouble in life--worth calling trouble, I mean. Of course there were worries and bothers, like in most people's lives. Things went sometimes cross, as I suppose they must; and clothes wore out too fast, and the children would be fractious or naughty, and measles and chicken-pox had their turn, and there wasn't always money enough to get what we needed.

But still, as I say, I hadn't known real trouble in all the sixteen years I'd been married, nor in all the twenty years I'd lived at home before that. I had such a happy home in my girlhood, and Jervis had been all along such a good husband to me. I won't say he never spoke a sharp word; but then I won't say I never did neither; and if he had his faults, I had mine too. Anyhow, he worked hard and steady, and he brought home his wages regular, and he didn't spend his time nor earnings at the public-house, and we had a tidy little sum growing at the Post Office Savings Bank, and he and I were in good health, and the children were well.

We lived at Littleburgh, and my husband was foreman in the building works, and he was trusted and liked. I didn't wonder neither--I who knew him as only a wife can know her husband. Some men are trusted and liked by outside people, and their own wives could tell a mighty different tale if they chose to speak out, which most wives won't do; but it wasn't so with Jervis and me.

For some time we had gone on, without so much as a day's journeying away from home. Jervis wasn't given to gadding about, or finding his amusements anywhere and everywhere except in his own home, nor spending on pleasure what properly we'd ought to lay by for our children. And as for me, why, I had every single thing to do in the house--all the cleaning and cooking, and washing and working, and looking after the children; and that means a deal more than the men ever think. It wasn't likely I should have time for running about, leaving things to take care of themselves.

Sometimes I do wonder, when I see maidservants in nice places, with good food, and all sorts of comforts, and kind mistresses, and no cares, I do wonder when I see them in such a hurry to go and get married, and set up for themselves. Not as I'm saying a word against girls marrying, when it's right and proper for them, if it's a good sober steady man that's in question, and if he has regular work, and if there's a store laid by against a rainy day, and if the girl is fit to manage a little home and to do for her husband comfortably, and if neither of them are in too great haste; why, of course, there's no objection whatever. To have a little home of one's own sounds nice, and it ought to be nice, and it may be nice; but folks don't know beforehand what a deal of toil is wanted to keep it nice, nor how many get tired of the toil in a little while, and let it go nasty and get dirty and messy and untidy, more like to a pig-stye than a home. More especially when a lot of children come, and when one don't feel good for anything, and work never ends, morning, noon, nor night.

Well, as I say, I wonder sometimes, knowing all this. For the change from a good place to married life in a cottage, or maybe in two or three rooms, is oftentimes a change from light work to hard work, and from ease to poverty. When a girl grumbles at what she has to do in service, and wants to get married, she don't guess how much more she'll have to do, when every single thing depends on herself. Seems to me, a good husband is a gift from God, and a happy home's the same; but there's none too many of either in the world.

I wasn't in service before I married Jervis, but I was the eldest of a lot of children, and my mother made me work hard and no mistake. So much the better. It was a good training for my married life.

But I always do think to this day that Jervis and I would have been wiser, if we had waited just a few years, and had laid by more. Then, instead of only a little sum being ready when trouble came, it might have been enough to be a real help, and we shouldn't have been near so dependent on others. It is all right telling us to trust for the future; and so we ought; but all the same we've got to provide for ourselves, and not to go on in a happy-go-lucky way, just taking our pleasure, and hoping things 'll all come right somehow. That's not trust; it's laziness and selfishness. People ought to think of their children, if they should have any.

Well, if I run off on this, I shall forget all about the story I've got to tell; and that wouldn't do at all. Most folks would rather hear a story than be preached to.

It came all as a sort of surprise to me one day, when my husband said to me unexpected-like--

"Annie," said he, "I've set my mind on a day by the sea."

"You have, Jervis!" says I; for I couldn't think whatever he was at.

"A nice long day by the sea," says he. "I'll get a day off work-- they'll give it me, I'm always so regular--and we'll go early. We'll get to Ermespoint by ten o'clock," says he, "and we won't be home again till past nine at night."

"That's the first thought with you," says he. "And I'm not blaming my little woman, either." He often called me his "little woman"--not as I was so especial small, only I was sort of thin, and I'd small bones; and though he wasn't uncommon tall, he was of a broad make, with big hands, and very strong. "I'm not blaming you for it," said he. "If you weren't such a careful body as you are, why, we shouldn't have such a comfortable home as we've got. It's the woman of a house has to do with that, I know well enough," says he. "But all the same, Annie, I do think we've earned a day's pleasuring; and I don't think it'll be money thrown away. I'd like to be out of it all for once. I spent a day in Ermespoint years ago, and I've never forgot it; and I'd like the children to have just such another day to look back on."

Well I didn't go against him, though I couldn't help thinking what a nice sum all those fares together would make to add to our savings in the Post Office Bank. Not only him and me, but Miles and Louey, and Rosie and Bessie. And only the two youngest would go for half-fares. Louey was over twelve, though she didn't look it; and some of the neighbours advised us to pass her off for younger, but Jervis wouldn't hear of it. "I'm not going to tell lies for nobody," said he in his sturdy sort of way; "and I don't see as it's any less dishonest to cheat the Company than to cheat a man. Louey's over twelve, and she shan't make believe to be under."

That's how it was Jervis got to be trusted. Nobody ever found him out in untruthful or crooked ways, and so they got to know they might depend on him always.

Well, as I was saying, I wouldn't go against him, though I had my doubts if he was wise, and I've often and often wished since that we hadn't gone!

And yet maybe that's a foolish wish. For we did what we thought to be right at the time, and nobody can do more. It's no manner of use to judge, after things have happened, by what couldn't be guessed beforehand. Besides, what did happen don't show that we were wrong to go. Trouble don't always mean punishment. It's often sent just to do us good, like medicine given to a sick child, and it may be the very best thing that could happen. And if we hadn't gone to Ermespoint that day, but had stayed at home, who's to say that something quite as bad mightn't have come to us some other way?

Jervis had no difficulty in getting a day off from work, though it wasn't a Bank holiday. He asked it so seldom, that the masters said "Yes" at once. We had a fine day too. Right glad we were to see the sun go down, with red streaks across the sky. Jervis said, "Red at night is the shepherd's delight;" and then he told us there were other good signs too, most likely meaning fine weather. The air was dry; and the swallows had been flying high; and there wasn't too clear a view of the distance.

He was in the right too. We woke up to a beautiful July day-- all sunshine and blue sky. I'm sure I didn't sleep much the night before, and the children said they hadn't either; and we were all ready for an early breakfast, so as to get off by the eight o'clock train.

Jervis had on his Sunday coat, and he did look so nice in it, you can't think. I always felt proud of my husband in that coat. Not that I didn't feel proud of him in his working clothes too; but then I suppose I was proud of him for what he was inside; and in his Sunday coat I was proud of him for what he was outside. A woman does like her husband to look nice, you know, and I'm pretty sure a husband likes his wife to look nice. And though one may say folks don't love each other for their looks, yet it is wonderful what a lot of difference looks make in one's feelings. Anyhow, I know I liked to see Jervis in his Sunday coat; and I know he liked to see me in my Sunday bonnet, which was quiet but pretty. He wasn't too busy that very morning to tell me how nice I looked in it. And I was proud, of course; why shouldn't I be? What's the woman made of, I wonder, who doesn't like her husband to tell her she looks nice?

We had to wait a while on the platform, because the train was late; and Rosie and Bessie each held one of his hands, and Louey kept watch over the lunch-basket, and Miles never left my side. That was always the way. Louey had always been a quiet sort of independent child; and the two little girls, but most of all our pretty Bessie, were my husband's great pets; and Miles would do anything for me. If we had any favourites among the children, I suppose Bessie was her father's favourite, and Miles was mine; yet it isn't fair to talk of favourites, when we loved them all so dearly. Miles was fourteen and Louey twelve, and Rosie and Bessie were nine and seven. Nobody could call Louey or Rosie pretty, but little Bessie was lovely.

Miles had just done with his schooling, and Jervis hoped soon to get him into the building trade. The worst of the matter was, that Miles didn't care to be a builder. He was a quiet boy, fond of books, and fond of writing; and he'd always had a hankering after something different. But Jervis said that was nonsense, and of course the boy must do as he had done. So there was just a little difficulty between the two, and I suppose that was why Miles turned more than ever to me. He knew I felt with him always, whether or no I could help him.

Miles had such a pleasant face. I don't think it was only because I was his mother that I thought so. He wasn't handsome, and handsomeness don't matter much, but he had such a bright look, and he was so true, and he never was rude or rough; and if a gentleman or lady spoke to him, his cap was off in a moment. To be sure, I'd been particular about my boy's manners, which is more than some mothers can say, and he's thanked me for it since. I've never had no notion of letting my children grow up like a set of young bears, without a thought of how to behave themselves.

The train came puffing up, and we all got into a third-class compartment, where nobody else was. The children were delighted, because they could move about and chatter without disturbing folks. Presently Miles said to me,--"That's the life I should like, mother," as we passed a farm house, standing all by itself in the country.

"Perhaps you wouldn't if you tried it," said I; for I knew there wasn't a chance of any such life for him.

"I should, though," said he. "I know what I like."

Then Bessie asked her father, "Is Ermespoint a very pretty place?" I suppose the children had asked this question a hundred times, but Jervis never grew tired of answering it.

"It's the prettiest place I ever saw," said he. "There's high cliffs, you know, and a sandy beach; and rocks here and there; and beautiful waves rolling in. I've only been once, but I did say then, if I could choose a home for myself, I'd choose to be there. Likely as not, if that came about, we'd be wishing ourselves back at Littleburgh."

I wondered if he'd heard Miles and me the minute before.

The train was a slow one, and it stopped at all the stations. When we had gone by a good many we came to a biggish town, and there we waited longer than usual. My husband got out to stretch his legs, and we all thought somebody was sure to get in. The children didn't want this, for they knew I wouldn't let them chatter and move about, if it would be a bother to other people. I've no notion of letting my children be a plague and trouble, so that everybody must dislike them. I mean I hadn't in the days when they were children.

Up till just the last moment nobody came; and when the bell was rung, and the guard was slamming the doors, we thought we were safe. But just at that moment a young gentleman came rushing along the platform, full speed, with a porter after him, carrying a bag. "Anywhere! third-class will do," says he; and the porter opened our door, and he came in with a leap, just as the whistle sounded, and the train began to move; and Jervis helped to pull in the bag.

So we weren't alone any longer, and I can remember how disappointed the children looked, and how quiet they got, all of a sudden.

Nobody spoke at all at first, except that the young gentleman said "Thanks" to my husband. I think that was all he could say, for he seemed to have had a desperately hard run, and he just sat panting for breath.

It comes back to me how he looked that day--the first time I ever set eyes on him; little thinking he and we should have so much to do with one another. He didn't seem older than Miles, though he really was near two years older; and he had the brightest blue eyes, all ready for a laugh, even when he could hardly draw his breath. A lot of curly light hair peeped out from under his cap, and there was a colour in his cheeks that I shouldn't have liked to see in my children's cheeks--such a bright pink patch, and all round his lips as white as a tablecloth, with the run and the breathlessness. I wondered if his mother felt anxious about him. The panting lasted longer than it ought to have done, though he tried to hide it; and I could see that he didn't like to be noticed.

Presently he seemed better, and I saw him looking at the children, and they at him. Then he fixed his eyes on Bessie, and tried to get her to smile. She always had a smile ready, so he got what he wanted; and then she turned shy, and hid her face on Jervis' shoulder.

"You're not afraid of me, are you?" says the young gentleman.

"She isn't used to strangers, sir," said my husband.

"Then we won't be strangers," said he. "Look here!"--and he pulled a toy out of his pocket, a thing with legs, and when a string was pulled it whirled round, and the legs flew out like mad. He made Bessie pull the string, and soon she was laughing, and as pleased as anything. "You'd like to have it for your own, wouldn't you?" said he. "I meant to take it to my little sister, but I'll get something else for her, and you shall have this." Then he put the toy into Bessie's hand, and he looked up at Jervis in that frank easy way of his, and asked,--"Where are you all going?"

"Just for a day's pleasuring, sir, on the shore at Ermespoint," says my husband.

"Ermespoint! Why, that's my home,--only I haven't been there yet," says he.

He should call a place his home when he had not seen it; and I suppose we looked puzzled, for he went on to explain. His father was just made Rector there, and the family had gone down a week or two before; but the young gentleman himself had been staying with friends for the first few days of his holidays. So now he was on his way to "make acquaintance" with his new home.

"My father's name is Kingscote," says he--"The Rev. Philip Kingscote. And if you're down on the beach, I dare say I shall find you out by-and-by. I always go to the shore, one of the first things, when I am near the sea. Won't it be jolly to live there always?" says he.

ON THE WAY. MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY--.

IT was funny how we seemed to get to know Master Bertram in the next hour. I can't help calling him "Master Bertram," though we did not know his name then. He talked away to the children, and gave them chocolate drops till I thought he'd make them ill; and then he talked to my husband, and he tried to make Miles talk too, but Miles was too shy. By-and-by I saw the white look come back round his mouth, and he didn't say anything, but just moved off into the corner, and went sound asleep with his head against the window.

When he woke up he was all fun and talk again, and he pulled out a bag of cakes and buns, and would have us share with him all round. I told him we'd got buns, but he said that didn't matter. "You'll want them all, down on the shore," says he; "and you don't think I can eat all these, do you?" said he. I couldn't help noticing that he ate hardly any, and he kept picking out the nicest cakes and offering them to little Bessie, who I could see took his fancy--she was so pretty and so sweet. But presently, in the very middle of a joke, he stopped and said--"Oh dear!" and dropped his head down on his hands.

"You're not well, sir," I said; and he got up a laugh, and said,--"Oh, only a little;" and then he got whiter and whiter, and couldn't hold himself up. So I just saw to him as if he'd been one of my own. I made him lie on the seat, and asked Jervis for some water, which we'd brought with us in case the children should be thirsty. Then I wetted his forehead, and after a minute he gave a sort of gasp, and opened his eyes, and laughed. If I hadn't kept him back he would have started up.

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