[COPYRIGHT STORY.] The Girl Who Couldn't

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 9, 2 March 1907, Page 27

[COPYRIGHT STORY.] The Girl Who Couldn't

By

JOHN ACKWORTH.

Author of “ Clog Shop Chronicles,” “ The Minder," Etc.

FOUGHT, Auntie? Fought?” Mary Astiey’s great eyes widened out, and she sat up in her chair stiff with sudden excitement. “Ay! like two mad bulls, and one on ’em’s black eyes and t other’s goin’ about with a stick.” Aunt Bet stood on the hearthrug before the great farm kitchen fire, poker still in hand, whilst her hard red face gleamed with sly triumph. “But not —not about me?” and Mary, white to the lips, was most genuinely distressed. “Chut, woman, w'hat else? Why you’ve got ’em all on a stick, every Jack-man of ’em—sly boots!” and then she propped the poker into its place, shook her head in ’tickled admiration, and continued, “Hay, I’ve heard of you quiet ones afore, but I never saw it done so diver —never.” ' - “Auntie, don’t. Ob, what have I done ?” But Bethia drew up her chair, put her feet on the fender, propped her chin on her hands as she stared into the fire, •nd shook her head. “It’s beautiful. Beautiful.” Mary had risen,’ her little hands clenched and her face quivering. “How can youf Auntie? I’ve never — I’ve scarcely spoken to them.” “Good lass, that’s the style! it licks Kitty' Walton! it licks iverybhing!” and the big hard woman hugged her knees and chuckled again. “Oh, don’t, Auntie, it’s wrong, it’s cruel! Oh, I wish I’d never come!” and Mary’ dropped back into her chair and covered her face with her hands. _ Aunt Bet still held converse with the red embers, grinning and tittering to herself, heedless of the acute pain she was giving. Suddenly she put out her bony arm, drew Mary’s chair nearer, patted her encouragingly' on the knee, and cried: “It’s grand, lass, it’s eliver; come now. which of ’em is it to be?” But Mary behind her wet fingers was thinking rapidly. 'Aunt Bet was what is called a managing woman, which is often only another name for a brutally •wilful and domineering woman, she had managed the farm and the village and everything in it, not excluding the very Vicar himself, ever since she came to Boskill; nobody ever crossed the will of Betliia Bangley and prospered. And Mary was in her hands, dependent absolutely upon her and the recipient of many .most unexepeeted recent, benefits from her. .It was this bustling woman who had come to her in her father’s last illness, engaged a nurse and a specialist; bad; buried him as she would have wished her father to be buried, and then had! ...whisked her off sea-side, dressed her as she had never dreamed of being attired; had■ indulged and nursed her back to. health and spirits and given pretty .plain hints as to the disposal of her own savings. .'She had no friend or relative on earth save this hard blunt wilful mother’s sister, and her .sensitive nature felt powerfully the constraints of gratitude. ;“Oh, Auntie, don’t, I couldn't, I never thought of such a thing.” “Then time you did. Why. woman, I broirt you here o’ purposs!” , /,‘A-u-n-t-i-e!” vjtWhot else? Whot .else is a woman for, but to get married r*- ■ .iMary began to sec the meaning of the •flange stormy but brief married life of her relative, and she felt as though

some horrid net was tightening its meshes about her. “Oh, Auntie, what nonsense! I’ve scarcely' spoken to them and they’ve never hinted at anything 1 — not one of them.” ~“No, and they, never will.” “Never? I don’t —well, why talk about it then?” and Mary’s sickening distress was almost forgotten in dazed perplexity. “Tchut, woman, don’t talk to me. We know, don’t we?” and Bet frowning with sly mystery nudged her niece’s knee significantly. “Know? But how—how can a woman—” “Ger out! that's i’ books and papers and daddlin’ tales, you know, we all know that if iver t’ job’s done t’ woman has to do it, hasn’t she?” - . -- ' Mary dropped back in her chair and sighed helplessly. “But, Aunt,’ the woman can’t —it’s the man who has to do it.” “Is it? You know better. You know as well as I <l6 that ivery match as win- iver made t’. woman had to make, it.” ■ ... “Qh, Auntie!” .., , “Ger out! Stop your silly Raffing and hearken to me.” Aunt Bethia had risen to her feet to keep control of her rising temper—“ Did you iver know a chap come up to t’ scratch without being browt? Tell me that.” Mary opened an amazed mouth to protest, and failed; so Bethia went on: “Doesn’t a woman wed who she likes, and when and how she likes? Would there iver be any' weddin’s if t’ woman didn’t bring ’em to?”- amj as . Mary seemed about to reply she stepped her with an angry gesture—“ Chuff, woman, stop your greening and shamming, if iver it’s done t’ woman has to do it, and the sooner you're shapin' the better.” Mary fell forward elbows on knees and shuddered. “Havn’t you five of ’em to go at, all as soft after a lass as a bairn after a butterscotch? You've a eHiance in a million’d, and it’s Providence and nowt else.” - . “You don't mean it, Auntie, its shocking!” “Shocking my leg! You talk like your soft-headed father. It’s Providence 1 tell you. Wurn't they aTI here afore you’d been in t" house two hours, and hevn’t they ben moidering about t’ place iver sin"? Why, woman, they stand in t’ yard like lads at a hiring, an' you can have t’ best i't’ bunch for . cockin’ your finger; so pick one out an’ let ’em fight.” Bethia's cruel reference to herniate idolized father stung Mary to the quick, but she was learning caution like the rest with this rough ami reckless .woman, and so she choked back her tears and was silent. Aunt Bet was perplexed; this was a new type of female and she hail not got her bearings yet, so she changed her tactics and spoke more gently. “I niver seed nowt like it; some folk won’t have luck when it drops i' big lumps into theirCmouths; any senserble lass ’ud give t’ hair off her head for a chance like yours. Thqre’s Bob C'luipple,” she went oil. her small eyes gleaming .with . mercenary eagerness, “with a farm and a farriery to boot, and the two Clayton lads wi’ tivblve hundred apiece if ’they’ve a pennj'.'and Rod Tom Lee with a freehold coining to him, and Mill HaJluck makkin' tuns o’ money.’ boss breedin’— aIF liiiied like

cock linets. Why, woman, they’ve hardly been off t’ doorstan’ sin’ you came! ” The voluble creature paused for a moment, and as Mary was too shocked to answer she sat glowering at the tire following her own thoughts. “Ay, it's a rum thing,” she ruminated, “ I've thowt on it times and times, seven farms i’ Crowbeck an’ not a lass i’ none on ’em—ther—” “There’s Lizzie Hallatt!” interjected Mary faintly, and with the hope of diverting the conversation. “Liz? You let her alone, she's a booked woman.” “Booked?” and woman’s curiosity for the moment got the better of Mary’s distress. “Ay, booked! Booked for our Ben. Only the soft thing doesn’t know it yet.” “Auntie!” “Ay, well that were a slip, but it is so. Liz ’ud a had him long sin’, but it didn't suit my ticket; let me get you fixed up an’ I’ll soon settle them.” "But Lizzie?” Liz Hallack knows wlnldi side her bread’s buttered, on’y woman i’ th’ wold could twist our Ben round her finger, but she knows she’ll have to ax me afore she gets him.” “But Ben—•?” ~ “B-e-n!” Bet made a eomtemptuous gesture of dismissal as though it were sheer trifling to consider his possible view' of the case. “You’ve plenty to pick from and they’re all ducent well-set-up young fellows, so tak’ your pick and be sharp about—but they're here for their teas.” The Kitchen door opened and big Ben Greg lounged in, followed by throe other young fellows who all fell to downright sheepishness as they caught sight of Mary. Bet had already commenced her usual domineering chatter as she bustled about setting the table: and Mary' who often -assisted watched her opportunity, and then with averted face escaped upstairs, leaving the visitors most undisguisedly chapfallen, ('losing amt locking lier door. Mary dropped with a piteous wail upon the floor and gasped and shuddered as she realised the yawning gulf before her. She was not afraid of the clumsy young fellows downstairs and not repelled by their shy attentions, but she hail been gently bred. In an unworldly' atmosphere of idealism her gentle mother and bookish father had filled her mind with ideas .which made love a divine passion and marriage the holiest of mysteries, and the first time she had come into contact with the outer world these things had been presented to her in their most gross and sordid form. But the shock, revolting though it was, was the least of her terrors. Aunt Bethia, impulsively generous and indulgent, was wilful, coarsely and recklessly wilful it must be acknowledged, in her “tantrums”;

even Ben Greg the master ot the house

quailed before her. But she was r’w only thing that stood between 'icr and destitution, and Mary was but nineteen and had seen nothing at ali of the world. She had nowhere to go it she left Boskill. no one to liy io, ami not the faintest idea of providing for herself. She had a lively' sense of giatltude however, and could not ignore her obligations to her aunt. All the unif, every delicate fibre of her nature irM in revolt against the proposals that haa been made to her, and the .spirit they revealed; and kneeling there she felt ar: though filth was being poured over nut she was to be first defiled for ever, and then sold like one of the pigs on th« farm. Had she known, poor soul, that Bo thia’s personal reputation was involved in the transaction she would have beeu more seared even than she was; for th# truth must be told that Bethia, to strengthen her position with the neighbours ami the Greg family, had boasted for years of the position of her broth?; and the prospects of his only daughtar. aird when the end came she had takci; the bull by the horns, calmly' announced that Mary had sixteen hundred pounds,, and brought her to Crowbeck to justify her boastings and marry her to on« or other of the young farmers about; sacrificing to her pride and wilfulncsni her own hard-saved little hoard as an. endowment. Had Mary Astley, kneeling there in her room, known that big Ben Greg, who was supposed to havo long passed the time of courting, wni madly in Jove with her, her distress would have been oven deeper: and as it was she hid a precious secret in her own breast that made the prospect liefore her more and more threatening., But there was a noise at her door and. whilst Mary sprang to her feet and hastily brushed back her tumbled brown hair. Aunt Bet was shaking t!:« latch with surprise and impatience. “Gome on,” she blustered as Marr let her in, “they’re stoppin’ to tea an’ you num sample ’em ,owcr. I’ve sot your chair by Bob Hallock” (she nevetf could be induced to pronounce tho name properly). “He’s t’shyest but lie’s t’mooast brass; ink no nontiee of his blacked eyes. You mun time him well, he’s t’ pick o’ t’ bunch.” In a few moments Mary, looking limp and spiritless, but too much of a woman to be afraid of young fellows, entered the kitchen preceded by her noisy and triumphant relative. “Ay. sit here, lass. Now;. Bob, mak room for her—eh, what? Now let her alone! You chaps is so forrad.” As Mary sank quietly into her seat Bet stopped Bob’s amazed potest with a significant wink, and the other males looked out at the wide window to hid# their sheepish grins.

IL > A month later big Ben Greg was coming home from market and just rounding the shoulder of Witehbarrow hill. He was utterly oblivious of the bright spring weather, and was engaged in earnest conversation with the only person lie ever said much to—his neat little mare. -It’s a faet, lass, 1 daresay thou thought it niver wod come, but it has wi' a vengeance! The big soft mester s i’ love, lass, clean muddled and moidered in it once and for all and for ever.” • With a flash of self-recollection he started and looked guiltily round, and then he shook his head and resumed: "She's nobbut a little bit of a thing, five feet nowt in her stockings, a whitefaced townified mite as doesn’t know a churn from a wozzel, and Nance” —here he dropped his voice in a sudden gush of confidence —“I niver wanted a woman afore, and I’s niver want one again, and she wodn’t look at me!” Nance chucked up her head in apparent dissent, but her master was not to be convinced. “I’ve telled thee, now. She wodn’t touch me vv’ t’ end of a stick. Why, woman, she’ll want a parson or a doctor—a gentleman, thou knows.” At this point Nance sauntered absently towards a fieldgate, which she opened with her mouth, and then proceeded along the hedge side towards Buskill. Ben. absorbed in his ruminations, observed nothing, and presently began again. “Thon’s seen her thyself, Nance, her gurt eyes and pretty —Hollow!” Nance had stopped with a jerk that nearly pitched him oil', for there under the hedge, her face buried in the young grass, lay Mary Astley sobbing as though her heart would break. Before he could grasp the situation she was on her feet, and clinging pleadingly at his saddle side. “Oh save me, Ben, save me! I’ve nobody to help me, and she’s making me! Oh, I couldn’t, I couldn’t!” and the redeyed face turned so piteously up was

smeared with tears and anguish. “Why, woman, woman!” and he was at her side, and timidly supporting her with a trembling arm in an instant. “You are good, Ben, you are my friend. You will save me won’t you?” “Sa-sa—why sartin. Whatever’s to do, woman?” “You’re good, Ben, you’re kind and true, and 1 like you, oh 1 do like you! ” Poor Ben! In her frantic fear she little knew what she was saying. The great tender fellow licked his dry lips, looked helplessly at the pleading faee, and shook like a leaf. In a torrent of fresh tears and pitiful agitation she told him her jumbled story, and he, going from gasp to gasp as tlie ease was made dear to him, was alarmed to discover that all the other elements of the difficulty were fading away before a fury of mad jealousy that was rising within him. “But—but- it’s a free country, woman, and you needn’t have ’em if you don’t want, and —and, ay, and you’ve brass of your own — “I? Not a penny, Ben. Why, she bought the very clothes I wear!” This was beyond him; his face became a map of wrinkles, and he put his hands on her shoulders, and pushed her back that he might search her faee. Then as tlie truth broke upon him he felt himself dwindling—he was as much afraid of his termagant housekeeper as tlie rest, —and he felt he was going smaller and smaller as he reflected. But the other thought was strongest; his neighbours and chums were robbing him. were taking more than life itself, and he trembled as he recognised the fierce nature of the emotions within him. “She’s had her finger in ivery match that’s been made i’ Crowbeck, —but what have they being doing? Have they bothered you?” “N-o, not much, only Bob Hallatt—but don't mind them, Ben.” “Bob? what’s he done?” His question was almost hissed out. “Well, lie—hut don’t mind, Ben, I’m

not afraid of them, he says he’ll have me or swing for me.” “Bigow that’s Bob! But leave him to me, and all —oh Lorjus days!” Ben had started, and was now going limp with fear, for there a few yards away her hand in Nance’s bridle stool Aunt Bet glaring at them in. highest indignation. “Oh, that’s it, is it, we can’t tak t’ neighbour’s lads cause we want t’ gaffer do we? Walk this way, Miss.” Mary stood still and panted, whilst the long terrorized Ben emitted a low groan. “D’ye hear me?” this in higher key. Mary eould not have moved to save her life. “Oh, God, God!” she moaned, and then shrank once more towards her shaking protector as Bethia began co stride towards them. Ben stood like, one hypnotised and then with a growl of defiance went forward to meet the enemy. As they approached, Ben suddenly lifted his eyes and caught those of the approaching woman. Both of them stood still, both were visibly panting. One long tense moment, their faces set and white, their eyes met in one terrible clinch. Then it was over; with a hoarse, defiant, but defeated laugh, Bethia began to waver, and by the time he reached the mare’s bridle his aunt was in full retreat.

They were both calm and collected when half an hour afterwards Ben took Mary indoors. For the rest of the evening the house was like a house of death, Bethia cowed and sullen in the kitchen spending most of heitime in the outhouse, taking it out of the inaids. During the next few days Ben scarcely ever left the premises and plainly could not rest a moment if Mary was out of his sight. Her appeal to him had been subtlest flattery, but a strongman’s strong love had been added to it and if only she would give him a chance, he would end his own suspense, Mary’s intolerable sufferings, and his aunt’s long reign for ever. But she did not so encourage him; inside the house again all her fear of Bethia had returned, and with it the torturing thought that she was causing disturbance in a

peaceful household. It distressed, hen to observe that the servants were, no* too cautiously, taking her side and paying court to her in a hundred little ways and as this must be maddening to her aunt she lived in momentary dread of a terrible explosion. Then suddenly Bethia changed her tactics, became conciliatory apologetic, most extravagantly kind. The travelling draper received orders for finery that amazed him, and Bethia's latest fad for shopping by post brought consignments of expensive jackets, costumes, ete., which awoke all the woman in her one moment and set her protesting earnestly the next. Had she known, poor soul, that Bethia, mastered at last, was now turning her attention to the accomplishment of her designs with Beu for bridegroom, instead of Bob Hallatt, her misery would have been complete. The fortnightly market day came round again and Ben, after carefully studying all the weather signs and glasses in the evident hope that they might give him an excuse for remaining at home, had a’ whispered consultation with Jane Ann, the leading domestic, and then hurried off to town. Mary saw him go with A sinking heart, and well she might, for before Ben was fairly round the Witclibarrow Lizzie Hallatt appeared on the scene, and then for over an hour Lizzie and Bethia, poured out the vials of their wrath upon the unlucky girl. She escaped from them at last, fleeing like a wounded pigeon from hungry hawks and took refuge in her own room. Lying there on her bed crushed with despair ami shame, with every opprobrious epithet that coarse women can fling at each other still ringing in her ears, Mary heartily wished she were with her buried parents; and after thinking and struggling for hours came to the desperate resolve of escape. She knew' little of the world, had heard mucli of its harsh pitilessness, but death itself had become preferable to life at Boskill. A few' glances round at the window, the tress in the orchard outside, and the distance to the ground satisfied her; and then she heard the sound of horse’s hoofs and went to the far corner of the will-

4ow to peep. She could see Nanee coming into the fold yard smoking hot and evidently greatly disgusted at the unprecedented hurry of the homeward journey. The sound of Ben’s voice brought a gusli of weak tears, and hastily brushing her hair and laying her hot face in the basin she went down to face things out for a few short hours longer. Bethia was more fussy and gushing than ever, and called her “Honey,” and “Joy,” and “Bairn,” until even the quiet Ben began to look suspicious. It seemed a long evening. Ben, sitting between the wide opened window and the fireplace, with his inseparable long pipe for the most part unlighted, watched his “ cousin ” with hungry, anxious eyes, which she eould not evade. Those quiet eyes, in fact, seemed to get upon her nerves, and follow her every movement, and it was only when, half an hour earlier than her usual hour, she escaped to her own room, that she ceased to feel their haunting power. The house gradually became quiet; what noises there were, were in rooms upstairs, the distant yelping of a new puppy Ben had brought home for her, were the only sounds, and Mary lay, dressed, on the bed, fighting her difficulties, and nerving herself for her great effort. Then she slipped on her knees and played, but the only help that came was the dull solidifying of her previous resolve, and when she rose to her feet the die had been east. She put away the well-filled purse her aunt had given her, gathered the few trinkets that were her very own, paused in her tasks now and then, as her tightly strung nerves made her suspicious of the faintest outside sign, and then went to the wide, low window and unfastened the swinging middle panel. Her hands shook as she twisted sheets and blankets together so that she could scarcely do her work, and her heart was jumping into her mouth. She crept again to the window, looked out, anti listened. Then she shrank back witli a despairing moan, and stood struggling with nameless fears for several moments. She nerved herself, put the upper part of her body through the window, gripped tightly the twisted sheets, swung forward with a reekless plunge, hung for a moment in mid-air, her face scraping the wall, and then with a gasp and prayer let go. Her gasp became a frightful shriek, her falling body collided with a warm human frame, great arms were wrapped round her. strong whiskers brushed her face, and in a moment all Was blank. 111. When she recovered consciousness Mary was lying in her bed, and the sweet golden sunlight flooded her loom. She was stiff and aching, and as the events of the evening came rushing back upon her she was startled at unusual sounds in the house. There was much running up and downstairs, the bumping of heavy things on the floors, and Aunt Bethia’s strident voice raised in shrillest protest. Then the room door burst open, and Jane Ann came dancing in. '• Sha’s goin’l T’owd baggage is goin’,” —then stopping, she ran to the door, and, putting out her long red arm, joined in a general 800-000 ooo; finally she came back to explain, in excited gasps, that the Master had turned master at last, and Bethia was going for good and all. They were seated on an old bench in the orchard a week later, she quietly crotcheting, and he pulling dubiously at his pipe. There was more colour in her cheeks, but she looked worried even yet. “ Then you couldn’t put up wi’ a farmer ?” he was asking. " No—oh, yes, 1 like' you, Ben, I love you! You have been like a father to me.” Heaven and hell in a breath. Poor Ben lifted a long sigh. “ But 1 couldn’t like them if I couldn't, could I, Ben t” “ O’ course not,” this with puckered brow and heavy emphasis. “ And I couldn’t be so vulgar as to set my eap at them, now eould I!” “ O’ coorse not,” heavier than ever. “ And I couldn’t tell her I was engaged to Arthur when I wasn’t, could 1?” “Arthur?” this with gasping surprise and sudden fall of face. “ Yes—er. Oh, well, but I couldn’t tell anything to any of you when there was nothing to tell, could I?” Ben was shrinking into the very treo trunk against which he was leaning; his

lips formed for his invariable “ o' coorse, ’ but not u sound came. Mary was disturbed. The conversation was not going as she wished it, and Ben looked most surprisingly glum. “I’ve always known Arthur, you know; he is only a workman’s son, but we got friends as children. 1 loved him always, and love him now, but I couldn t be engaged when we were only children, now eould I?” Ben had never heard of Arthur before, and his whole soul was up in arms against the introduction of Ins name at this point, but she was waiting, ami he had to squeeze out a dazed “Coourse -not.” “He was poor and fighting his way with scholarships, and trying to become a doctor, and 1 couldn't hinder him, could I?” A vague hope began to rise in Ben's labouring breast, and he chimed in more cheerfully, “Coourse not.” “And when he went away he wanted to be engaged, but I was only sixteen, and a person can’t be engaged at sixteen, can they, Ben?” “Coourse not”—very hot and eager. “And when dear father died he came right home, and wanted to find me a home there and then, but 1 couldn't spoil his career, could I now?” Ben wanted to cry, but one emotion frustrated the other, and he laughed ridiculously, “Coourse not.” “And I couldn’t be engaged when he is so brilliant, and I am so simple; at least not until he got his diploma and—and—and had seen other girls, now eould I?” This sentence had a break in it, and Ben felt like wringing young Arthur’s neck, and so to save his face, he muttered, “Coourse not.” “And knowing what he would instantly do I couldn’t let him know I was unhappy with Auntie, Could 1?” “Coourse not,” very thick and py"And I couldn't know beforehand that she wanted me to marry one of these men; ami when I found it out I couldn’t tell her I was engaged when I wasn’t, could I?” No reply, but as Mary was going for a finish she did not notice, but hurried on. “And I couldn’t be untrue to my pwn true love, eould I?” And as his pursed lips were parting for a reluctant reply, Mary glanced up, and cried alarmedlv, “Whv, Ben, you’re ill!” “Coourse not, coourse not.” Poor Ben got up, and began to stamp about as though to restore circulation, but really to conceal almost uncontrollable emotion. Ben will remember that night to his dying day. If he had spoken a word it must have been a bursting avowal of his love, and if she refused him she would have felt unable to stay at Boskill, and he would have been no better to her than Bethia. So lie left her and fled to the fields, and tramped about for hours. It was only when the first drowsy chirps of the awakening birds greeted the coming day that he stole indoors and went to his bedroom. A few days later he dropped into the habit of way-laying the postman, sneaking into the cowhouse io read his letters, and little though he liked writing he spent a whole forenoon over a letter that ultimately went into six lines. On tlie Friday before Whitsunday he went away to some “Hoss fair,” but coming back very early drove up fo the seldom used front door, and dropped into Mary's arms, when she came rushing out, with the form of a fine young fellow, with a student’s air about him. It was a grand wedding. Mary, during her four years residence at Boskill. had become a great favourite, and everybody was invited to the celebration; the young farmers, her erstwhile lovers, included. The day was perfect and the scene memorable, but when the young doctor and his bride came out to take their departure, a big man wearing a. dingy farm coat over his wedding garments stood in non-committal attitude behind the happy weddingeis, with one eye on the scene, and the other on a. pen of prize pigs. The bride went down the long lane of friends shaking hands, and saying bright thanks to each, but. as she got to the end and was turning’ towards the waiting carriage she stopped, looked round, made a sudden dash at the oddly rcssed inspector of pigs, and taking lwm by the neck, and punctuating each word with a kiss, she cried, “Noblest, kindest,

truest of all men, God bless you!'* The whiskered farmer bore it all with confusedly happy looks, and as the carriage moved away, and the slippers battered against its rear, he turned to scratch an old sow, and murmured, imitating to ease his heart, Mary’s own tones. "She couldn't have took a gurt lollopin’ chap like me, now eould she?” And then, as he caught with a quick glance the last glimpse of the departing carriage, he held his face towards the sky as though feeling for impossible rain, and murmured, “Of coourse not.”