Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch - Hetty Wesley
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Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch >> Hetty Wesley
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"Do not use cheating words, either," she went on. "You were not
overtaken by liquor; you went out to meet it, as you have gone night
after night. Call it by the straight name. Listen: I like you well
enough, William, to help you, if I can--indeed, I have tried.
But there seems to be something in drink which puts aside help: the
only fighting of any worth must come from the man himself--is it not
so?"
"I have fought, lass."
"Drink up your tea, my man, and fight it again! Come home to me
earlier, and with a firmer step, and each night will be a victory,
better worth than all the cries and sobbings in the world."
He gazed at her stupidly as she put out a hand and laid it gently on
his wrist. He covered his eyes.
"I--struck--you!" he muttered.
She winced. Startled by the sudden withdrawal of her touch, he
lowered his hand and looked at her. Her eyes, though brimming, met
his steadily.
"Tears are for women," she said. "I must cry a little: but see, I am
not afraid."
For some months after this he fought the drink; fought it steadily.
With Christmas came a relapse, through which she nursed him. To her
dismay she found the fit, during the few days that it lasted, more
violent than before, and thought of the house swept and garnished and
the devil returning with others worse than himself. Her consolation
was that at his worst now he seemed to turn to her, and depend on
her--almost to supplicate--for help. The struggle left them both
exhausted: but he had not attempted to beat her this time. She tried
to persuade herself that this meant amendment, and that the outbreaks
would grow rarer and at length cease altogether.
Throughout the spring and summer of 1731 his health improved, and
with it his kindness to her. Indeed, she had not been so near
happiness (or so she told herself) since her wedding day.
Another child was coming. Hope, so often cut down, grew again in her
heart. And then--
One forenoon in the second week of June--a torrid, airless day--he
came home reeling. For the moment a black fear fell on her that she
would be too weak to wrestle with this attack; but she braced herself
to meet it.
The next day her uncle called. He was about to start on a
long-planned journey to Epworth, taking his man with him; and having
lately parted with his housekeeper, he had a proposal to make; that
Hetty should sleep at Johnson's Court and look after the house in his
absence.
She shook her head. Luckily her husband was out, drinking fiercely
at some tavern, as she very well knew; but anything was better than
his encountering Uncle Matthew just now.
"Why not?" the old man urged. "It would save my hiring a carekeeper,
and tide me over until I bring back Patty with me, as I hope to do.
Besides, after travelling in those wilds I shall want to return and
find the house cheerful: and I know I can depend on you for that."
"And I promise that you shall have it. Send me but word of your
coming, and all shall be ready for you that you require."
"But you will not take up your abode there?"
She shook her head again, still smiling: but the smile had lost
connection with her thoughts. She was listening for her husband's
unsteady step and praying God to detain it.
"But why not?" Uncle Matthew persisted. "It is not for lack of good
will, I know. Your husband can spare you for a few days: or for that
matter he might come with you and leave the house at night to young
Ritson." This was Mr. Wright's apprentice, the same that had fetched
him out of the "King's Oak "; an exemplary youth, who slept as a rule
in a garret at the top of the house.
"Tom Ritson is not lodging with us just now: we have found a room for
him two doors away." She had, indeed, packed off the youth at the
first sign of his master's returning madness: but, lest Uncle Matthew
should guess the true reason, she added, "Women in my state take
queer fancies--likes and dislikes."
The old man eyed her for a while, then asked abruptly, "Is your
husband drinking again?"
"How--what makes you--I don't understand," she stammered. Do what
she might she could not prevent the come-and-go of colour in her
face.
"Oh, yes you do. Tut, tut, my dear! I've known it every whit as long
as you. Look here; would you like me to put off my journey for a few
days?"
"On no account. There's not the least reason, I assure you, uncle."
He seemed content with this and talked for a little while of the
journey and his plans. He had warned nobody at Epworth. "I intend
it for a surprise," he explained; "to learn with my own eyes how they
are faring." Emilia and Kezzy were at home now upon a holiday: for
some months they had been earning their livelihood at Lincoln as
teachers in a boarding-school kept by a Mrs. Taylor. He might even
make a trip to Scarborough, to drink the waters there. He was
gravely kind, and promised to deliver all Hetty's messages to her
sisters.
"Well, well," he said as he rose to go, "so you won't come to me?"
"I cannot."
"Nevertheless I shall leave word that the house is to be open to
you--in case of need." He looked at her meaningly, kissed her on the
forehead, and so took his leave.
At the street door he paused. "And that poor soul is childless," he
muttered. "She that should have been a noble mother of soldiers!"
CHAPTER VI.
From Mrs. Wesley to her son John.
Epworth, July 12th, 1731.
My brother Wesley had designed to have surprised us, and had
travelled under a feigned name from London to Gainsborough; but
there, sending his man for guide out to the Isle the next day,
the man told one that keeps our market his master's name, and
that he was going to see his brother, which was the minister at
Epworth. The man he informed met with Molly in the market about
an hour before my brother got thither. She, full of news,
hastened home and told us her uncle Wesley was coming to see us;
but we could hardly believe her. 'Twas odd to observe how all
the town took the alarm and were upon the gaze, as if some great
prince had been about to make his entry. He rode directly to
John Dawson's [this refers to a local inn]: but we had soon
notice of his arrival, and sent John Brown with an invitation to
our house. He expressed some displeasure at his servant for
letting us know of his coming: for he intended to have sent for
Mr. Wesley to dine with him at Dawson's and then come to visit
us in the afternoon. However, he soon followed John home, where
we were all ready to receive him with great satisfaction.
His behaviour among us was perfectly civil and obliging.
He spake little to the children the first day, being employed
(as he afterwards told them) in observing their carriage and
seeing how he liked them: afterwards he was very free, and
expressed great kindness to them all.
He was strangely scandalised at the poverty of our furniture,
and much more at the meanness of the children's habit.
He always talked more freely with your sisters of our
circumstances than with me; and told them he wondered what his
brother had done with his income, for 'twas visible he had not
spent it in furnishing his house, or clothing his family.
We had a little talk together sometimes, but it was not often we
could hold a private conference, and he was very shy of speaking
anything relating to the children before your father, or indeed
of any other matter. I informed him, as far as I handsomely
could, of our losses, etc., for I was afraid that he should
think I was about to beg of him; but the girls, I believe, told
him everything they could think on.
He was particularly pleased with Patty; and one morning, before
Mr. Wesley came down, he asked me if I was willing to let Patty
go and stay a year or two with him at London? "Sister," says
he, "I have endeavoured already to make one of your children
easy while she lives, and if you please to trust Patty with me,
I will endeavour to make her so too." Whatever others may
think, I thought this a generous offer, and the more so, because
he had done so much for Sukey and Hetty. I expressed my
gratitude as well as I could, and would have had him speak with
your father, but he would not himself--he left that to me; nor
did he ever mention it to Mr. Wesley till the evening before he
left us.
He always behaved himself very decently at family prayers, and
in your father's absence said grace for us before and after
meat. Nor did he ever interrupt our privacy, but went into his
own chamber when we went into ours.
He staid from Thursday to the Wednesday after, then he left us
to go to Scarborough, from whence he returned the Saturday
se'nnight, intending to stay with us a few days; but finding
your sisters gone the day before to Lincoln, he would leave us
on Sunday morning, for he said he might see the girls before
they--he and Patty--set forward for London. He overtook them at
Lincoln, and had Mrs. Taylor, Emily, Kezzy, with the rest, to
supper with him at the Angel. On Monday they breakfasted with
him; then they parted, expecting to see him no more till they
came to London, but on Wednesday he sent his man to invite them
to supper at night. On Thursday he invited them to dinner, at
night to supper, and on Friday morning to breakfast, when he
took his leave of them and rode for London. They got into town
on Saturday about noon, and that evening Patty writ me an
account of her journey.
Dear Jackey, I can't stay now to talk about Hetty, but this-I
hope better of her than some others do. I pray God to bless
you. Adieu.
S. W.
Hetty had been warned that her uncle and Patty would arrive on the
Saturday. She did not expect them before evening; nevertheless, in
the forenoon she sallied out, and stopping in the market on her way
to buy a large bunch of roses, walked to Johnson's Court, where the
door was opened to her by her own cook-maid--a fearless, middle-aged
Scotswoman who did not mind inhabiting an empty house, and whom she
had sent to Uncle Matthew on the eve of his departure, as well to get
her out of the way as to relieve him of his search for a carekeeper.
Janet noted that her mistress's face was pale and her eyes
unnaturally bright with want of sleep, but held her tongue, being
ever a woman of few words. Together the two dressed the table and
set out the cold viands in case the travellers should arrive in time
for dinner. The rest of the meal would be sent in at a few minutes'
notice from the tavern at the entrance of the court.
Having seen to these preparations and paid a visit of inspection to
the bedrooms, she set out on her way back to Frith Street just as St.
Dunstan's clock was striking eleven. She left, promising Janet to
return before nightfall.
Night was dusking down upon the narrow court as she entered it again
out of the rattle of Fleet Street. She had lost her springy gait,
and dragged her legs heavily under the burden of the unborn child and
a strain which during the past four or five days had become a
physical torture. She came out of her own thoughts with an effort,
to wonder if the travellers had arrived.
Her eyes went up to the windows of Uncle Matthew's parlour: and,
while they rested there, the room within of a sudden grew bright.
Janet had entered it with a lamp, and, having set it down, came
forward to draw the curtains and close the shutters. At the same
moment in the other window an arm went up to the curtain and the slim
figure of Patty stood dark against the lamplight. She stood for a
moment gazing out upon the court; gazing, as it seemed to Hetty,
straight down upon her. Hetty came to a halt, crouching in the dusk
against the wall. Now that she knew of their arrival she had no wish
to greet either her sister or her uncle: nay, as her own dark shadow
overtook her--the thought of the drunkard at home in the lonely
house--she knew that she could not climb to that lighted room and
kiss and welcome them.
As her sister's hand drew the curtain, she turned and sped back down
the court. She broke into a run. The pedestrians in the dim streets
were as ghosts to her. She ought not to have left him. Heaven alone
knew how long this fit would last; but while it lasted her place was
beside him. Twice, thrice she came to a dead stop, and panted with
one hand at her breast, the other laid flat against a house-wall or
the closed shutters of a shop, and so supporting her. Men peered
into her face, passed on, but turned their heads to stare back at
her, not doubting her a loose woman the worse for drink, but pierced
with wonder, if not with pity, at her extraordinary beauty.
She heeded them not, but always, as soon as she caught her breath
again, ran on.
She turned the corner of Frith Street. Heaven knows what she
expected to see--the house in a blaze, perhaps: but the dingy
thoroughfare lay quiet before her, with a shop here and there casting
a feeble light across the paving-stones. The murmur of the streets,
and with it all sense of human help within call, fell away and were
lost. She must face the horror alone.
The house was dark--all but one window, behind the yellow blind of
which a light shone. She drew out her latchkey and at first fumbled
at the opening with a shaking hand. Then she recalled her courage,
found the latch at once, slipped in the key and pushed the door open.
No sound: the stairs stretched up before her into pitchy darkness.
She held her breath; tried to listen. Still no sound but one in her
ears--the thump-thump of her own overstrained heart. She closed the
door as softly as she could, and mounted the first flight.
Hark! the sound of a step above, followed by a faint glimmer of
light. At the turn of the stairs she looked up and faced him.
He stood on the landing outside their bedroom door, with a candle
held aloft. His eyes were blazing.
He must be met quietly, and quietly she went up. "See how quick I
have been!" she said gaily, and her voice did not shake. She passed
in by the open door. He followed her stupidly and set the candle
down.
"They have arrived," she said, drawing off her mittens. Her eyes
travelled round the room to assure her that no weapon lay handy,
though for her own sake she had no wish to live.
"Come here," he commanded thickly.
"Yes, dear: what is it?"
"Where have you been?"
"Why, to Johnson's Court, as you know."
"Conspiring against me, eh?" He pushed his face close to hers: his
reeking breath sickened her: but she smiled on, expecting him to
strike.
"Come here!"--though she was close already. "Stand up. I'll teach
you to gossip about me. You and your gentry, my fine madam.
I'll teach you--I'll teach you!"
He struck now, blow after blow. She turned her quivering shoulders
to it, shielding the unborn child.
He beat her to her knees. Still she curved her back, holding her
arms stiffly before her, leaving her head and neck exposed.
Would the next blow kill her? She waited.
The table went over with a crash, the light with it. He must have
fallen across it: for, an instant later, she heard the thud of his
head against the floor.
It seemed to her that she crouched there for an endless while,
waiting for him to stir. He lay close beside her foot.
Her heel touched him as she rose. She groped for the tinder-box,
found the candle, lit it, held it over him.
A trickle of blood ran from his right temple, where it had struck
against the bed-post. His eyes were closed. She loosened his
collar, put forth all her strength--her old maiden strength for a
moment restored to her--and lifted him on to the bed.
By and by his lips parted in a sigh. He began to breathe heavily--to
sleep, as she thought. Still the blood trickled slowly from his
temple and on to the pillow. She stepped to the water-jug, dipped
her handkerchief in it, and drawing a chair to the bedside, seated
herself and began to bathe the wound.
When the bleeding stopped, as the touch of cold water appeared to
soothe him, she fetched a towel and pressed it gently about his neck
and behind his ears. He was sleeping now: for he smiled and muttered
something. Almost she thought it was her own name.
Still she sat beside him, her body aching, her heart cold; and
watched him, hour after hour.
CHAPTER VII.
"And my brothers visit her?"
Twilight with invisible veils closed around Epworth, its parsonage,
and the high-walled garden where Molly, staff in hand, limped to and
fro beside Johnny Whitelamb--promoted now to be the Reverend John
Whitelamb, B.A. He had arrived that afternoon, having walked all the
way from Oxford.
--"Whenever they visit London," he answered.
"Charles, you know, upheld her from the first; and John has come to
admit that her sufferings have lifted her above man's judgment.
They talk with her as with their equal in wit--"
"Why, and so she is!"
"No doubt: but it does not follow that John would acknowledge it.
They report their Oxford doings to her, and their plans: and she
listens eagerly and advises. To me the strange thing is, as she
manages it, that her interest does not tie her down to sharing their
opinions. She speaks always as a looker-on, and they recognise this.
She keeps her own mind, just as she has always held to her own view
of her marriage. I have never heard her complain, and to her husband
she is an angel: yet I am sure (without being able to tell you why)
that her heart condemns your father and will always condemn him."
"She knows what her punishment has been: we can only guess. Does the
man drink still?"
"Yes; he drinks: but she is no longer anxious about him. Your Uncle
Matthew told me that in his first attacks he used to be no better
than a madman. Something happened: nobody seems to know precisely
what it was, except that he fell and injured his head. Now the
craving for drink remains, but he soaks harmlessly. No doubt he will
kill himself in time; meanwhile even at his worst he is tractable,
and obeys Hetty like a child. To do the man justice, he was always
fond of her."
"Poor Hetty!"
"John has spoken to her once or twice about her soul, I believe: but
he does not persist."
"H'm," said Molly, "you had better say that he is biding his time.
John always persists."
"That's true," he owned with a laugh: "but I have never known him so
baffled to all appearance. The fact is, she cannot be roused to any
interest in herself. Of others she never ceases to think. It was
she, for instance--when I could not afford to buy myself a gown for
ordination--who started the notion of a subscription in the family."
He was wearing the gown now, and drew it about him with another
laugh. "Hence the majestic figure I cut before you at this moment."
"But we all subscribed, sir. You shall not slight my poor offering--
all made up as it was of dairy-pence."
"Miss Molly, all my life is a patchwork made up of kind deeds and
kind thoughts from one or other of you. You do not believe--"
"Nay, you love us all, John. I know that well enough."
For some reason a silence fell between them. Molly broke it with a
laugh, which nevertheless trembled a little. "Then your gown should
be a patchwork, too?"
"Why to be sure it is," he answered gravely; "and I wish the world
could see it so, quartered out upon me like a herald's coat, and each
quartering assigned--that is Mr. Wesley's, and that your mother's,
and that, again, your brother John's--"
"And the sleeve Miss Molly's: I will be content with a sleeve.
Only it must have the armorial bearings proper to a fourth daughter,
with my simple motto--'Butter and New-laid Eggs.'"
The sound of their merriment reached Mrs. Wesley through an open
window, and in the dim kitchen Mrs. Wesley smiled to herself.
"But," objected he, "the sleeve will not do. I do not wear my heart
upon my sleeve, Molly." She turned her head abruptly. For the first
time in his life he had dared to call her Molly, and was trembling at
his boldness. At first he took the movement for a prompt rebuke:
then, deciding that she had not heard, he was at once relieved and
disappointed.
But be sure she had heard. And she was not angry: only--this was not
the old Johnny Whitelamb, but another man in speech and accent, and
she felt more than a little afraid of him.
"Tell me more of Hetty," she commanded, and resting one hand on her
staff pointed to the south-west, where, over the coping of the wall,
out of a pure green chasm infinitely deep between reddened clouds of
sunset, the evening star looked down.
He knew the meaning of the sudden gesture. Had not Hetty ever been
her Star?
"She is beautiful as ever. You never saw so sad a face: the sadder
because it is never morose."
"I believe, John, you loved her best of us all."
"I worshipped her. To be her servant, or her dog, would have been
enough for me. I never dared to think of her as--as--"
--"As you thought, for example, of her crippled sister, whom you
protected."
"Molly!" He drew back. "Ah, if I dared--if I dared!" she heard him
stammer, and faced him swiftly, with a movement he might have misread
for anger, but for the soul shining in her eyes.
"Dare, then!"
"But I am penniless," said he, a few moments later. For him the
heavens still spun and the earth reeled: but out of their turmoil
this hard truth emerged as a rock from the withdrawing flood.
"God will provide for us. He knows that I cannot wait--and you--you
must forget that I was unmaidenly and wooed you: for I _did_, and
it's useless to deny it. But I have known--known--oh, for ever so
long! And I have a short while to be happy!"
Either he did not hear or he let slip her meaning. His eyes were on
the star, now almost level with the wall's coping.
"And this has come to me: to me--that was once Johnny Whitelamb of
the Charity School!"
"And to me," she murmured; "to me--poor Grizzle, whom even her
parents despised. The stars shine upon all."
"I remember," he said, musing, "at Oxford, one night, walking back to
college with your brother John. We had been visiting the prisoners
in Bocardo. As we turned into the Turl between Exeter and Jesus
colleges there, at the end of the street--it is little more than a
lane--beyond the spire of All Saints' this planet was shining.
John told me its name, and with a sudden accord we stood still for a
moment, watching it. 'Do you believe it inhabited?' I asked.
'Why not?' he said. 'Then why not, as this world, by sinners: and if
by sinners, by souls crying for redemption in Christ?' 'Ay,' said
he,' for aught we know the son of God may pass along the heavens
adding martyrdom to martyrdom, may even at this moment be bound on a
cross in some unseen planet swinging around one in this multitude of
stars. But,' he broke off, 'what have we to do with this folly of
speculation? This world is surely parish enough for a man, and in it
he may be puzzled all his days to save his own soul out of the many
millions.'"
"And father," murmured Molly, "designs him to take Epworth cure!
But why are you telling me this?"
"Because I see now that if God's love reaches up to every star and
down to every poor soul on earth, it must be something vastly simple,
so simple that all dwellers on earth may be assured of it, as all who
have eyes may be assured of the planet yonder; and so vast that all
bargaining is below it, and they may inherit it without considering
their deserts. Is not God's love greater than human? Yet, see, this
earthly love has come to me--Johnny Whitelamb--as to a king. It has
taken no account of my worth, my weakness: in its bounty I am
swallowed up and do not weigh. To dream of it as holding tally with
me is to belittle and drag it down in thought to something scarcely
larger than myself. I share it with kings, as I share this star.
Can I think God's love less magnificent?"
But Molly shrank close to him. "Dear, do not talk of these great
things: they frighten me. I am so small--and we have so short a
while to be happy!"
CHAPTER VIII.
Samuel Wesley to the Lord Chancellor.
Westminster, January 14th, 1733-4.
My Lord,--The small rectory of Wroote, in the diocese and county
of Lincoln, adjoining to the Isle of Axholme, is in the gift of
the Lord Chancellor, and more then seven years since it was
conferred on Samuel Wesley, Rector of Epworth. It lies in our
low levels, and is often overflowed--four or five years since I
have had it; and the people have lost most or all the fruits of
the earth to that degree that it has hardly brought me in fifty
pounds per annum, _omnibus annis_, and some years not enough to
pay my curate there his salary of 30 pounds a year.
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