Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch - Hetty Wesley

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The first shock came upon her then. She passed not out of sunlight
into sunlight, but out of sunlight into a vast far-reaching,
high-arching gloom, which was another world and another life; the
solemn twilight which her upbringing had taught her to associate with
God. Once before in her life, and once only, she had stood within
the minster--on her confirmation day, when she had entered with her
hand in her mother's. Her eyes sought and found the very place where
she had sat then among the crowd of girl-candidates, and a ghost in a
white frock sat there still with bowed head. She remembered the very
texture and scent of that white frock: they came back with the awe,
the fervour, the passionate desire to be good; and these memories
cried all in her ears, "What have you to do with that child?
Which of you is Hetty? You cannot both be real."

They sang in her ears while she questioned the verger about Romley.
He had to repeat his answers before she thanked him and turned
towards one of the lowest seats. She did not repent: she was not
thinking of repentance. She loved, she had given all for love, and
life was fuller of beautifying joy than ever it had been even on that
day of confirmation: but beneath the joy awoke a small ache, and with
the ache a certain knowledge that she might never sit beside the
child in white, never so close as to touch her frock; that their
places in this building, God's habitation, were eternally separate.

Then the organ ceased, and the voice began to speak. And the voice
uttered promise of pardon, but Hetty heard nothing of the words--only
the notes.

"_And they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in
the cool of the day: and A dam and his wife hid themselves from the
presence of the Lord God among the trees of the garden_."

Less terrible this voice was; a seraph's rather, at the lodge-gate,
welcoming the morn. Yet Hetty crouched by her pillar, afraid.
For the day he welcomed was not _her_ day, the worship he offered was
not _her_ worship; for _her_ a sword lay across the gate.

Her terror passed, and she straightened herself. After all, she did
not repent. Why should she repent? She was loved; she loved in
return, utterly and without guile, with a love which, centred upon
one, yet embraced all living creatures. Nay, it embraced Heaven, if
Heaven would accept it. And why not?

"_Wherefore let us beseech him_," said the voice, "_to grant us true
repentance and his Holy Spirit, that those things may please him
which we do at this present; and that the rest of our life hereafter
may be pure and holy_ . . ."

"Pure and holy"--but she desired no less, and out of her love.
She wanted to be friends with all at home, to go to them fearlessly
and make them understand her as she understood them, and to be good
all the days of her life. "True repentance"? Why repent? . . .
Ah, yes, of course: but God was no haggler over hours. In an hour or
two . . . "That those things may please him which we do at this
present--" She caught at her heart now as the terror--a practical
terror this time--returned upon it. At all costs she must find John
Romley after service, though indeed there was little danger of
missing him, for he, no doubt, would be seeking her.

Her mind was clear now.

She lay in wait for him as he stepped out under the great porch, with
a clean surplice on his arm. He paused there with a smile on his
face, glanced up at the blue sky, clapped on his hat, and descended
the steps gaily, whistling a phrase from the _Venite exultemus_; too
far preoccupied to recognise Hetty, until she stepped forward and
almost laid a hand on his arm.

"Miss Mehetabel!"

Plainly, then, he was not seeking her.

"You in Lincoln? This is a surprise--a pleasant surprise, indeed!"

"But I came in search of you. I have been waiting--" She nodded her
head towards the porch.

"Eh? You heard? 'Twas not altogether a breakdown, I hope? You must
allow for some nervousness--did you detect it? No? Well, I don't
mind owning to you I was nervous as a cat: but there, if you didn't
detect it I shall flatter myself I did passably." He laughed,
evidently on the best terms with himself. His breath smelt of beer.
"The Rector is with you, of course?"

"My father? But, Mr. Romley, I don't think you understand--"

"I shall do myself the pleasure of calling on him this morning.
Nothing could have happened better, and I'm in luck's way to-day, for
certain. It seems the Dean and Chapter require a certificate from
him--a testimonial--just a line or two, to say that I'm a decent
respectable fellow. We have not been friends of late--I hope Miss
Patty keeps pretty well, by the way--but he won't deny me that small
favour. You were not seeking me on her account?" he added, by an
afterthought. "Patty?" She uttered her sister's name to gain time,
for in truth she was bewildered, alarmed.

He nodded. "We are not allowed to correspond, as you know. But she
must keep up her heart: your father will come round when he sees me
precentor. 'Tis a good opening. We must allow for the Rector's
crotchets (you'll excuse me, I feel sure): but give him time, I say--
give him time, and he'll come round right and tight."

"My father is not with me. Oh, Mr. Romley, you have heard, surely? I
was told--but there, you have the licence."

"The licence! What licence?" He stared at her.

Her heart sank. Here was some horrible mistake. She bethought
herself of his careless habits, which indeed were notorious enough in
and about Wroote and Epworth. "It must be among your letters--have
you neglected them lately? Ah, think--think, my friend: for to me
this means all the world."

"Upon my word of honour, Miss Hetty, I don't understand one word
you're saying. Come, let us have it clear. What brings you to
Lincoln? The Rector is not with you. Who, then?"

"We came here last night--early this morning, rather--"

"'We'?"

"I have left home. You know what we intended? But my father locked
me up. I had tried to be open with him, and he would listen to
nothing. So--as everything was ready--and you here with the
licence--"

John Romley stepped back a pace. It is doubtful if he heard the last
words. His eyes were round in his head.

"You are here--with--_him_!" He gasped it in an incredulous whisper.
For a moment in her earnestness she met his stare. Then her hands
went up to her face. "You? You?" he repeated slowly. His eyes
shrank from her face and wandered helplessly over the smoke, over the
red roofs of the town below them.

"But we came to get married!" She plucked her hands away from her
face and stepped close to him, forcing his reluctant eyes to meet
hers. Her cheeks flamed: he groaned at the sight of her beauty.
"But we came to get married! John, there is nothing--surely
nothing?--that with your help cannot be set right? Ah, I forget--by
marrying us you will offend father, and you find now that you want
this favour of him. John, it cannot be _that_--you cannot be playing
so cruel a trick for _that_--and after your promise? Forgive me if I
am selfish: but think what I am fighting for!"

"It will cost me the precentorship," answered he slowly, "but I
hadn't given a thought to that."

"It shall cost you nothing of the kind. After all, father is juster
to others than to me. I will write--we will both write: I will tell
him what you risked to save his daughter. Or, stay: any clergyman
will do, will he not? We need only the licence. You shall risk
nothing: give me only the licence and I will run and find one."

"Dear Miss Hetty, I made no promise. I have no licence. None has
reached me, nor word of one."

"Then he must have it! He told me--that is, I understood--"
She broke off with a laugh most pitiful in John's ears, though it
seemed to reassure her. "But how foolish of me! Of _course_ he must
have it. And you will come with me, at once? At the least you are
willing to come?"

"Surely I will come." John's face was gloomy. "Where are the
lodgings?"

"I cannot tell you the name of the street, but I can find them.
John, you are an angel! And afterwards I will sit and tell you about
Patty to your heart's content. We can be married in the parlour, I
suppose? Or must it be in church? I had rather--far rather--it were
in church if you could manage that for us: but not to lose time.
Perhaps we can find a church later in the day and get permission to
go through the service again. I daresay, though, he has it all
arranged--he said I might leave it to him. You won't tell him, John,
what a fright I have given myself?"

So her tongue ran on as they descended the hill together.
John Romley walked beside her stupidly, wondering if she were in
truth reassured or chattering thus to keep up her hopes. They might,
after all, be justified: but his forebodings weighed on his tongue.
Also the shock had stunned him and all his wits seemed to be buzzing
loose in his head.

They did not notice, although they passed it close, a certain
signboard over a low-browed shop half-way down the street.
Afterwards Hetty remembered passing the shop, and that its one window
was caked with mud and grimed with dust on top of the mud. She did
not see a broad-shouldered man in a dirty baize apron seated at his
work-bench behind the pane. Nor after passing the shop did she turn
her head: but walked on unaware of an ill-shaven face thrust out of
its doorway and staring after her.

William Wright sat at his bench that morning, fitting a leather
washer in a leaky brass tap. In the darkest corner at the back of
the shop his father--a peevish old man, well past seventy--stooped
over a desk, engaged as usual in calculating his book-debts, an
occupation which brought him no comfort but merely ingrained his bad
opinion of mankind. Having drunk his trade into a decline, and being
now superannuated, he nagged over his ledgers from morning to night
and snatched a fearful joy in goading William to the last limit of
forbearance. William, who had made himself responsible for the old
man's debts, endured him on the whole very creditably. "Here's a bad
'un," "Here's a bad 'un," piped the voice from time to time.

William trimmed away at his washer.

"Hello! Who's been putting this in the ledger?" The old man held up a
thin strip of leather. "Oh, Willum, here's a very bad 'un!"

"What name?" asked William indifferently, without turning his head.

"Wesley, Reverend Samuel--Wroote and Epworth Rectory--
twelve-seventeen-six. Two years owing, and not a stiver on account.
Oh, a poisonous bad 'un!"

"That's all right!"

"Not a stiver on account!"

"All right, I tell you. There won't be any paying on account with
that bill: it'll be all or nothing. All, perhaps; and, if so,
something more than all"--he laid down his clasp-knife and almost
involuntarily put a hand up to his cheek--"but nothing, most like.
I put that slip of leather there to remind me, but I don't need it.
'Twelve-seventeen-six'--better scratch it off."

"'Scratch it off'? Scratch off twelve-seventeen-six!" Old Wright
spun round on his stool. But William sat gazing out of the window.
He had picked up his knife again, but did not at once resume work.

The next thing old Wright heard was the clatter of a knife on the
bench. William sprang up as it dropped, crept swiftly to the shop
door, and stood there craning his head into the street and fumbling
with his apron.

"What's the matter? Cut yourself? It don't want a doctor, do it?"

William did not answer: suddenly he plucked off his apron, flung it
backwards into the shop, and disappeared into the street. The old
man tottered forward, picked it off the floor and stood examining it,
his mouth opening and shutting like a fish's.

CHAPTER II.

"'Brought him'! Who told you to bring him?"

Hetty's lover faced her across the round table in the lodging-house
parlour. The table was spread for two, and Hetty's knife and plate
stood ready for her with a covered dish before it. He had
breakfasted, and their entrance surprised him with an empty pewter in
his hand, his chair thrust back sideways from the table, his legs
extended towards the empty fire-place, and his eyes bent on his
handsome calves with a somewhat moody frown.

"Who told you to bring him?"

John Romley stood in the doorway behind Hetty's shoulder. She turned
to him bravely and quietly, albeit with the scare in her face.

"I ought not to have brought you in like this. You will not mind
waiting outside, will you?--a minute only--while I explain--"

Romley bent his head and walked out, closing the door.

"Dear"--Hetty turned--"you must forgive me, but I could not rest
until I had brought him."

He had risen, and stood now with his face averted, gazing out of the
window where a row of clouts and linen garments on a clothes-line
blocked the view of an untidy back-yard. He had known that this
moment must come, but not that it would take him so soon and at
unawares. He let his anger rise while he considered what to answer;
for a man in the wrong will miss no excuse for losing his temper.

Hetty waited for a moment, then went on--"And I thought you had given
him the licence: that is what made me so anxious to find--"

A noise in the passage cut short her excuses: a woman's laugh.
Hetty knew of two women only in the house--the landlady who
had opened the door last night and a pert-looking slatternly servant
she had passed at the foot of the stairs on her way to the cathedral.
She could not tell to which of these the voice belonged: but the
laugh and the jest it followed--though she had not caught it--were
plainly at John Romley's expense, and the laugh was horrible.

It rang on her ears like a street-door bell. It seemed to tear down
the mystery of the house and scream out its secret. The young man at
the window turned against his will and met Hetty's eyes. They were
strained and staring.

She put out her hand. "Where is the licence?" she asked. "Give it
to me."

The change in her voice and manner confused him. "My dear child,
don't be silly," he blundered.

"Give me the licence."

"Tut, tut--let us understand one another like sensible folks.
You must not treat me like a boy, to be bounced in this fashion by
John Romley." He began to whip up his temper again. "Nasty tippling
parson! I've more than a mind to kick him into the street."

Her eyes widened on his with growing knowledge, growing pain: but
faith lived in them yet.

"I thought you had given him the licence, to be ready for us.
Yes, yes--you did say it!" Her hand went up to her bosom for his last
letter, which she had worn there until last night. Then she
remembered: she had left it upstairs. Having him, she had no more
need to wear it.

He read the gesture. "You are right, dear, and I forgot. I _did_ say
so, because I believed by the time the words reached you--or
thereabouts, at any rate--"

"Then _you_ have it. Give it to me, please," she commanded.

He stepped to the fire-place, unable to meet her eye. "You hurried
me," he muttered: "there was not time."

For a moment she spread out both hands as one groping in the dark:
then the veil fell from her eyes and she saw. The truth spoke to her
senses first--in the sordid disarray of breakfast, in the fusty smell
of the room with its soiled curtains, its fly-blown mirror, its
outlook on the blank court. A whiff of air crept in at the open
window--flat, with a scullery odour which sickened her soul. In her
ears rang the laugh of the woman in the passage.

"What have you done? What have you done to me?"

She crouched, shivering, like some beautiful wild creature entrapped.
He faced her again. Her eyes were on his, but fastened there now by
a shrinking terror.

"Hetty!"

She put up a hand and turned her face to the wall, as if to shut out
him and the light. He stepped to her, caught her by the wrist and
forced her round towards him. At the first touch he felt her wince.
So will you see a young she-panther wince and cower from her tamer's
whip.

Yet, although she shuddered, she could not drag her hand away.
He was her tamer now: and as he spoke soothingly and she grew
quieter, a new faith awoke in her, yet a faith as old as woman; the
false imperishable faith that by giving all she binds a man as he has
bound her.

With a cry she let her brow sink till it touched his breast.
Then, straightening herself, she gripped him by both shoulders and
stared close into his eyes--clinging to him as she had clung that
evening on the frozen canal, but with a face how different!

"But you mean no harm? You told me a falsehood"--here he blinked,
but she went on, her eyes devouring his--"but you told it in
kindness? Say you mean no harm to me--you will get this licence
soon. How soon? Do not be angry--ah, see how I humble myself to
you! You mean honestly: yes, yes, but say it! how soon?"

"Hetty, I'll be honest with you. One cannot get a licence in a day."

"And I will be patient--so patient! Only we must leave this horrible
house: you must find me a lodging where I can be alone."

"Why, what's the matter with this house?" He tried a laugh, and the
result betrayed him.

Her body stiffened again. "When did you apply for the licence?" she
demanded. "How long since?"

He tried to shuffle. "But answer me!" she insisted, thrusting him
away. And then, after a pause and very slowly, "You have not applied
at all," she said. "You are lying again. . . . God forgive you."
She drew herself up and for an instant he thought she was going to
strike him; but she only shivered. "I must go home."

"Home!" he echoed.

"And whither but home?"--with a loathing look around her.

"You will not dare."

In all this pitiful scene was nothing so pitiful as the pride in
which she drew herself up and towered over the man who had abased
her. Yet her voice was quiet. "That you cannot understand is worst
of all. I feared sin too little: but I can face the consequences.
I fear them less than--than--"

A look around her completed the sentence eloquently enough. As she
stood with her hand on the door-latch that look travelled around the
sordid room and rested finally on him as a piece of it. Then the
latch clicked, and she was gone.

She stood in the passage by the foot of the staircase. Half-way up
the servant girl was stooping over a stair-rod, pretending to clean
it. Hetty's wits were clear. She reflected a moment, and mounted
steadily to her room, crammed her poor trifles into her satchel, and
came down again with a face of ice.

The girl drew aside, watching her intently. But--on a sudden
impulse--"Miss--" she said.

"I beg your pardon!" Hetty paused.

"I wouldn't be in a hurry, miss. You can master him, if you try--you
and the parson: and the worst of 'em's better than none. And you
that pretty, too!"

"I don't understand you," answered Hetty coldly, and passed on.

John Romley was patrolling the pavement outside. She forced up a
smile to meet him. "There has been some difficulty with the
licence," said she, and marvelled at her own calmness. "I am sorry,
John, to have brought you here for nothing. He hid it from me--in
kindness: but meanwhile I am going back." With this brave falsehood
she turned to leave him, knowing that he believed it as little as
she.

He too marvelled. "Is it necessary to go back?"

"It is necessary."

"Then let me find you some conveyance." But he saw that she wished
only to be rid of him, and so shook hands and watched her down the
street.

"The infernal hound!" he said to himself; and as she passed out of
sight he turned to the lodging-house door and entered without
knocking.

He emerged, twenty minutes later, with his white bands twisted, his
hat awry, and a smear of blood on the surplice he carried--altogether
a very unclerical-looking figure. On the way back to his inn he kept
looking at his cut knuckles, and, arriving, called for a noggin of
brandy. By midday he was drunk, and at one o'clock he was due to
appear at the Chapter House. The hour struck: but John Romley sat on
in the coffee-room staring stupidly at his knuckles.

And all this while in the lodging-house parlour sat or paced the man
who has no name in this book. He also was drinking: but the
brandy-and-water, though he gulped it fiercely, neither unsteadied
his legs nor confused his brain. Only it deadened by degrees the
ruddy colour in his face to a gray shining pallor, showing up one
angry spot on the cheek-bone. Though he frowned as he paced and
muttered now and again to himself, he was not thinking of John
Romley.

Some men are born to be the curse of women and, through women, of the
world. Despicable in themselves they inherit a dreadful secret
before which, as in a fortress betrayed to a false password, the
proudest virtue hauls down its flag, and kneeling, proffers its keys.
Doubtless they move under fate to an end appointed, though to us they
appear but as sightseers, obscure and irresponsible, who passing
through a temple defile its holies and go their casual ways.
We wonder that this should be. But so it is, and such was this man.
Let his name perish.

CHAPTER III.

Late that evening and a little after moonrise, Johnny Whitelamb,
going out to the woodstack for a faggot, stood still for a moment at
sight of a figure half-blotted in the shadow.

"Miss Hetty--oh, Miss Hetty!" he called softly.

Hetty did not run; but as he stepped to her, let him take her hands
and lifted her face to the moonlight.

"What are they doing?" she whispered.

Johnny was never eloquent. "They are sitting by the fire, just as
usual," he answered her, but his voice shook over the words.

"Just as usual?" she echoed dully. "Mother and the girls, you mean?"

"Yes: the Rector is in his study. I have not seen him to-day: only
the mistress has seen him." He paused: Hetty shivered. She was weak
and woefully tired: for, excepting a lift at Marton and a second in a
wagon from Gainsborough to Haxey, she had walked from Lincoln and had
been walking all day.

"I cannot tell what mistress thinks," Johnny went on: "the others
talk to each other--a word now and then--but she sits looking at the
fire and says nothing. I think she means to sit up late to-night.
Else why did she send me out for another faggot?" he asked, in his
simple, puzzled way. "But oh, Miss Hetty, she will be glad you've
come back, and now we can all be happy again!"

She waved a hand feebly. "Fetch Molly to me."

By the pallor of her brow in the moonlight he made sure she was near
to fainting: and, indeed she was not far from it. He ran and burst
in at the kitchen-door impetuously; but meeting the eyes of the
family, surprised--as well they might be--by the violence of his
entry and his scared face, he became suddenly and absurdly
diplomatic, crossed to Molly and whispered, as Mrs. Wesley turned her
eyes from the fire.

"But where is the faggot?" she demanded.

"I--I forgot it," stammered Johnny and was for returning to fetch it.
Molly rose.

"Hetty is outside," she announced.

For a second or two there was silence. Mrs. Wesley turned to her
crippled daughter. "You had best bring her in. The rest of you, go
to bed."

They obeyed at once and in silence. Johnny, too, stole off to his
mattress in the glass-doored cupboard under the stairs.

When Molly returned, leading in her sister, Mrs. Wesley was seated by
the fire alone. Mother and daughter looked into each other's eyes.
In silence Hetty stepped forward and dropped into the chair a minute
ago vacated by Kezzy. But for the ticking of the tall clock there
was no sound in the kitchen.

Mrs. Wesley read Hetty's eyes; read the truth in them, and something
else which tied her tongue. She made no offer to rise and kiss her.

"You are hungry?" she asked after a while, and Molly pushed forward a
plate of biscuits. Hetty ate ravenously for a minute (for
twenty-four hours not a morsel of food had passed her lips and she
had walked close on thirty miles) and then pushed away the plate in
disgust. Her eyes still sought her mother's; they neither pleaded
nor reproached.

Yet Mrs. Wesley spoke, when next she spoke, as if choosing to answer
a plea. "Your father does not know of your return. You may sleep
with Molly to-night." She bent over the hearth and raked its embers
together. Molly laid a hand lightly on Hetty's shoulder, then
slipped it under the crook of her arm, and lifted and led her from
the kitchen.

Hetty went unresisting. When they reached the bedroom she halted and
stared around as one who had lost her bearings. She winced once and
shook as Molly's gentle fingers began to unfasten her bodice, but
afterwards stood quite passive and suffered herself to be undressed
as a little child. Molly unlaced her shoes. Molly brought cool
water in a basin, bathed her face and hands, braided her hair--the
masses of red-brown hair she had been used to admire and caress,
passing a hand over them as tenderly as of old; then knelt and washed
the tired feet, and wiped them, feeling the arch of the instep with
her bare hand and chafing them to make sure they were dry--so cold
they were.

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