Coals of Fire
All my life I've lived on a barge. My father, he worked a barge fromLondon to Tonbridge, and 'twas on a barge I first see the light whenmy mother's time come. I used to wish sometimes as I could 'avelived in a cottage with a few bits of flowers in the front, but Ithink if I'd been put to it I should have chose the barge ratherthan the finest cottage ever I see. When I come to be grown up andtook a husband of my own it was a bargeman I took, of course. He wasa good sort always, was my Tom, though not particular about Sundaysand churchgoings and such like, as my father always was. It used tobe a sorrow to me in my young married days to think as Tom was sofar from the Lord, and I used to pray that 'is eyes might be openedand that 'e might be led to know the truth like me, which was vanityon my part, for I've come to see since that like as not 'e wasnearer the Lord nor ever I was.We worked the William and Mary, did Tom and me, and I used to thinkno one could be 'appier than we was them first two years. Tom was askind as kind, and never said a hard word to me except when he was inliquor; and as to liftin' his 'and to me, no, never in his life. Butafter two years we got a little baby of our own, and then I knew asI hadn't known what 'appiness was before. She was such a prettylittle thing, with yellow hair, soft and fluffy all over her head,the colour of a new-hatched duck, and blue eyes and dear littlehands that I used to kiss a thousand times a day.My mother had married beneath her, they said, for she'd been toschool and been in service in a good family, and she taught me toread and write and cipher in the old days, when I was a little kidalong of 'er in the barge. So we named our little kid Mary to belike our boat, and as soon as she was big enough, I taught 'er allmy mother had taught me, and when she was about eight year old myTom's great-uncle James, who was a tinsmith by trade, left us a bitof money--over L 200 it were.'Not a penny of it shall I spend,' says my Tom when he heard of it;'we'll send our Mary to school with that, we will; and happen she'llbe a lady's-maid and get on in the world.'So we put her to boarding-school in Maidstone, and it was liketearing the heart out of my body. And she'd been away from us afortnight, and the barge was like hell without her, Tom said, and Ifelt it too though I couldn't say it, being a Christian woman; andone night we'd got the barge fast till morning in Stoneham Lock, andwe were a-settin' talking about her.'Don't you fret, old woman,' says Tom, with the tears standin' inhis eyes, 'she's better off where she is, and she'll thank us for itsome day. She's 'appier where she is,' says 'e, 'nor she would be inthis dirty old barge along of us.'And just as he said it, I says, ''Ark! what's that?' And we bothlistened, and if it wasn't that precious child standing on the bankcallin' 'Daddy,' and she'd run all the way from Maidstone in 'erlittle nightgown, and a waterproof over it.P'raps if we'd been sensible parents, we should 'ave smacked 'er andput 'er back next day; but as it was we hugged 'er, and we huggedeach other till we was all out o' breath, and then she set up on 'erdaddy's knee, and 'ad a bit o' cold pork and a glass of ale for 'ersupper along of us, and there was no more talk of sendin' 'er backto school. But we put by the bit of money to set 'er up if sheshould marry or want to go into business some day.And she lived with us on the barge, and though I ses it there wasn'ta sweeter girl nor a better girl atwixt London and Tonbridge.When she was risin' seventeen, I looked for the young men to becomin' after 'er; and come after 'er they did, and more than one andmore than two, but there was only one as she ever give so much as akind look to, and that was Bill Jarvis, the blacksmith's son atFarleigh. Whenever our barge was lyin' in the river of a Sunday, hewould walk down in 'is best in the afternoon to pass the time of daywith us, and presently it got to our Mary walking out with 'imregular.'Blest if it ain't going to be "William and Mary" after all,' saysmy old man.'He was pleased, I could see, for Bill Jarvis, he'd been put to hisfather's trade, and 'e might look to come into his father's businessin good time, and barrin' a bit of poaching, which is neither herenor there, in my opinion there wasn't a word to be said against 'im.And so things went along, and they was all jolly except me, but Ihad it tugging at my heart day and night, that the little gell as'ad been my very own these seventeen years wouldn't be mine nolonger soon, and, God forgive me, I hated Bill Jarvis, and Iwouldn't 'ave been sorry if I'd 'eard as 'arm 'ad come to him.The wedding was fixed for the Saturday; we was to 'ave a nice littlespread at the Rose and Crown, and the young folks was to go 'ome andstay at old Jarvis's at Farleigh, and I was to lose my Pretty. Andon the Friday night, my old man, 'e went up to the Rose and Crown tosee about things and to get a drink along of 'is mates, and when 'ecome back I looked to see 'im a little bit on maybe, as was onlynatural, the night before the weddin' and all. But 'e come backearly, and 'e come back sober, but with a face as white as my apron.'Bess,' says 'e to me, 'where's the girl?''She's in 'er bunk asleep,' says I, 'lookin' as pretty as a picture.She's been out with 'er sweet'eart,' says I. 'O Tom, this is thelast night she'll lay in that little bunk as she's laid in everynight of 'er life, except that wicked fortnight we sent 'er toschool.''Look 'ere,' says 'e, speaking in a whisper, 'I've 'eard summat upat the Rose and Crown: Bank's broke, and all our money's gone. I seeit in the paper, so it must be true.''You don't mean it, Tom,' says I; 'it can't be true.'''Tis true, though, by God,' says 'e, ''ere, don't take on so, oldgirl,' for I'd begun to cry. 'More's been lost on market-days, asthey say: our little girl's well provided for, for old Jarvis, 'e'sa warm man.''She won't 'ave a day's peace all 'er life,' says I, 'goin'empty-'anded into that 'ouse. I know old Mother Jarvis--a cat: we'dbest tell the child, p'raps she won't marry 'im if she knows she'snothing to take to 'im,' and, God forgive me, my 'eart jumped up atthe thought.'No, best leave it be,' says my old man, 'they're fair sweet on eachother.'And so the next morning we all went up to the church, me cryin' allthe way as if it was 'er buryin' we was a-goin' to and not 'ermarryin'. The parson was at the church and a lot of folks as knewus, us 'avin' bin in those parts so long; but none of thebridegroom's people was there, nor yet the bridegroom.And we waited and we waited, my Pretty as pale as a snowdrop in herwhite bonnet. And when it was a hour past the time, Tom, 'e ups andsays out loud in the church, for all the parson and me said ''Ush!''I'm goin' back 'ome,' says 'e; 'there won't be no weddin' to-day;'e shan't 'ave 'er now,' says my old man, 'not if 'e comes to fetch'er in a coach and six cram full of bank-notes,' says 'e.And with that 'e catches 'old of Mary in one and and me in theother, and turns to go out of church, and at the door, who should wemeet but old Mother Jarvis, 'er that I'd called a cat in my wickedspite only the day before. The tears was runnin' down her fatcheeks, and as soon as she saw my Pretty, she caught 'er in 'er armsand 'ugged 'er like as if she'd been 'er own. 'God forgive 'im,'says she, 'I never could, for all he's my own son. He's gone off fora soldier, and 'e left a letter sayin' you wasn't to think any moreof 'im, for 'e wasn't a marryin' man.''It's that dam money,' says my goodman, forgettin' 'e was in church;'that was all 'e wanted, but it ain't what he'll get,' says 'e. 'Youkeep 'im out of my way, for it 'ull be the worse for 'im if 'e comeswithin the reach of my fisties.'And with that we went along 'ome, the three of us. And the sun kepta-shinin' just as if there was nothin' wrong, and the skylarksa-singin' up in the blue sky till I would a-liked to wring theirnecks for them.And we 'ad to go on up and down the river as usual, for it was ourlivin', you see, and we couldn't get away from the place whereeverybody knew the slight that had been put upon my Pretty. You'dthink p'raps that was as bad as might be, but it wasn't the worst.We was beginnin' June then, and by the end of August I knew thatwhat my Pretty 'ad gone through at the church was nothin' to whatshe'd got to go through. Her face got pale and thin, and she didn'tfancy 'er food.I suppose I ought to 'ave bin angry with her, for we'd always keptourselves respectable; and I know if you spare the rod you spoil thechild, and I felt I ought to tell her I didn't 'old with suchwickedness; so one night when 'er father, 'e was up at the Rose andCrown, and she, a-settin' on the bank with 'er elbows on 'er kneesand 'er chin in 'er 'ands, I says to 'er, 'You can't 'ide it nolonger, my girl: I know all about it, you wicked, bad girl, you.'And then she turned and looked at me like a dog does when you 'itit. 'O mother,' says she, 'O mother!' And with that I forgoteverything about bein' angry with 'er, and I 'ad 'er in my arms in aminute, and we was 'oldin' each other as hard as hard.'It was the night before the weddin',' says she, in a whisper. 'Omother, I didn't think there was any harm in it, and us so nearlyman and wife.''My Pretty,' says I, for she was cryin' pitiful, 'don't 'e take onso, don't: there'll be the little baby by-and-by, and us 'ull loveit as dear as if you'd been married in church twenty times over.''Ah, but father,' says she; 'he'll kill me when 'e knows.'Well, I put 'er to bed and I made 'er a cup of strong tea, and Ikissed 'er and covered 'er up with my heart like lead, and nobody asain't a mother can know what a merry-go-round of misery I'd got inmy head that night. And when my old man come 'ome I told 'im, and'Don't be 'ard on the girl, for God's sake,' says I, 'for she's ourown child and our only child, and it was the night before theweddin' as should 'ave bin.'''Ard on 'er?' says 'e, and I'd never 'eard 'is voice so soft, noteven when 'e was courtin' me, or when my Pretty was a little un, and'e hushin' her to sleep. ''Ard on 'er? 'Ard on my precious lamb? Itain't us men who is 'ard on them things, it's you wimmen-folk; theday before 'er weddin', too!'Then 'e was quiet for a bit--then 'e takes 'is shoes off so as notto make a clatter on the steps near where she slept, and 'e comesout in a minute with my Bible in 'is 'and.'Now,' says 'e, very quiet, 'you needn't be afraid of my bein' 'ardon 'er, but if ever I meet 'im, I'll 'ave 'is blood, if I swing forit, and I'm goin' to swear it on this 'ere Bible--so help me God!'He looked like a mad thing; his eyes was a-shinin' like lanterns,and 'is face all pulled out of its proper shape; and 'e plumps downon 'is knees there, on the deck, with the Bible in 'is 'ands. Andbefore I knew what I was doin', I'd caught the book out of 'is'ands, and chucked it into the river, my own Bible, that my ownmother had given me when I was a little kid, and I threw my armsround his neck, and held his head against my bosom, so that hismouth was shut, and 'e couldn't speak.'No, no, no, Tom,' says I, 'you mustn't swear it, and you shan't.Think of the girl, think of your poor old woman, think of the poorlittle kid that's comin', what ud us all do without you? And youhanged for the sake of such trash as that! Why, 'e ain't worth it,'says I, tryin' to laugh.Then 'e got 'is 'ead out of my arms and stood lookin' about 'im,like a man that's 'ad a bad dream and 'as just waked up. Then 'esmacks me on the back, 'All right, old woman,' says 'e, 'we won'tswear nothin', but it'll be a bad day for him when 'e comes a-nighthe William and Mary.'So no more was said. And we got through the winter somehow, and thebaby was born, as fine a gell as ever you see; and what I said cometrue, for we couldn't none of us 'ave loved the baby more if itsfather and mother 'ad been married by an archbishop in WestminsterAbbey. And the folks we knew along the banks would have been kind tomy Pretty, but she wouldn't never show her face to any of them.'I've got you, mother, and I've got father and the baby, and I don'twant no one else,' says she.My Tom, he wasn't never the same man after that night 'e 'd got outthe Bible to swear. He give up the drink, but it didn't make 'im nocheerfuller, and 'e went to church now and then, a thing I'd neverknown 'im do since we was married. And time went on, and it wasAugust again, with a big yellow moon in the sky.My Pretty and the baby was in bed, and the old man and me, we wasjust a-turnin' in, when we 'eard some one a-runnin' along thetow-path. My old man puts 'is 'ead out to see who's there, and as 'elooked a man come runnin' along close by where we was moored, and 'ejumped on to our barge, not stoppin' to look at the name, and, 'ForGod's sake, hide me!' says 'e, and it was a soldier in a red coatwith a scared face, as I see by the light of the moon. And it wasBill Jarvis what 'ad brought our girl to shame and run away and left'er on 'er weddin' morn; and I looked to see my old man take 'im bythe shoulder and chuck 'im into the water. And Jarvis didn't seewhose barge he'd come aboard of.'I've got in a row,' says 'e; 'I knocked a man down and he's dead.Oh, for God's sake, hide me! I've run all the way from Chatham.'Then my old man, he steps out on the deck, and Jarvis, 'e see who itwas, and--'O my God!' says 'e, and 'e almost fell back in the waterin 'is fright.Then my old man, 'e took that soldier by the arm, and 'e open thedoor of the little cabin where my Pretty and 'er baby were. Then 'eslammed it to again. 'No, I can't,' says 'e, 'by God, I can't.' Andbefore the soldier could speak, he'd dragged him down our cabinstairs, and shoved 'im into 'is own bunk and chucked the covers over'im. Then 'e come up to where I was standin' in the moonlight.'What ever you done that for?' says I. 'Why not 'a give 'im up toserve 'im out for what 'e done to our Pretty?'He looked at me stupid-like. 'I don't know why,' says 'e, 'but Ican't'; and we stood there in the quiet night, me a-holding on to'is arm, for I was shivering, so I could hardly stand.And presently half a dozen soldiers come by with a sergeant.'Hullo!' cries the sergeant, 'see any redcoat go this way?''He's gone up over the bridge,' says Tom, not turnin' a 'air, 'imthat I'd never 'eard tell a lie in his life before,--'You'll catch'im if you look slippy; what's 'e done?''Only murder and desertion,' says the sergeant, as cheerful as youplease.'Oh, is that all?' says my old man; 'good-night to you.''Good-night,' says the sergeant, and off they went.They didn't come back our way. We was a-goin' down stream, and wepassed Chatham next mornin'.Bill Jarvis, 'e lay close in the bunk, and my Pretty, she wouldn'tcome out of 'er cabin; and at Chatham, my old man, 'e says, 'I'mgoin' ashore for a bit, old woman; you lay-to and wait for me.' Andhe went.Then I went in to my Pretty and I told her all about it, for sheknew nothin' but that Jarvis was aboard; and when I'd told 'er, shesaid, 'I couldn't 'a' done it, no, not for a kingdom.''No more couldn't I,' ses I. 'Father's a better chap nor you and me,my Pretty.'Presently my old man come back from the town, and he goes down tothe bunk where Bill Jarvis is lying, and 'e says, 'Look 'ere, Bill,'says 'e, 'you didn't kill your man last night, and after all, it wasin a fair rough-and-tumble. The man's doing well. You take my tipand go back and give yourself up; they won't be 'ard on you.'And Bill 'e looked at 'im all of a tremble. 'By God,' says 'e,'you're a good man!''It's more than you are, then, you devil,' says Tom. 'Get along, outof my sight,' says 'e, 'before I think better of it.'And that soldier was off that barge before you could say 'knife,'and we didn't see no more of 'im.But we was up at Hamsted Lock the next summer. The baby wasbeginnin' to toddle about now; we'd called her Bessie for me. Sheand her mother was a-settin' in the meadow pickin' the daisies, whenI see a soldier a-comin' along the meadow-path, and if it wasn'tthat Bill Jarvis again. He stopped short when he saw my Pretty.'Well, Mary?' says 'e.'Well, Bill?' says she.'Is that my kid?' says 'e.'Whose else's would it be?' says she, flashing up at him; 'ain't itenough to deceive a girl, and desert her, without throwing mud inher face on the top of it all? Whose else's should the child be butyours?''Go easy,' says Bill, 'I didn't mean that, my girl. Look 'ere, says'e, 'I got out of that scrape, thanks to your father, and I want tolet bygones be bygones, and I'll marry you to-morrow, if you like,and be a father to the kid.'Then Mary, she stood up on her feet, with the little one in 'erarms.'Marry you!' says she, 'I wouldn't marry you if you was the only manin the world. Me marry a man as could serve a girl as you served me?Not if it was to save me from hanging? Me give the kid a father likeyou? Thank God, the child's my own, and you can't touch it. I tellyou,' says she, 'shame and all, I'd rather have things as they are,than have married you in church and 'ave found out afterwards what acowardly beast you are.'And with that she walks past 'im, looking like a queen, and downinto her cabin; and 'e was left a-standin' there sucking the end ofhis stick and looking like a fool.'I think, perhaps,' says I afterwards, 'you ought to 'ave let 'immake an honest woman of you.''I'm as honest as I want to be,' says she, 'and the child is all myown now.' So no more was said.And things went on the same old sleepy way, like they always do onthe river, and we forgot the shame almost, in the pleasure of havingthe little thing about us. And so the time went on, till one day atMaidstone a Sister of Charity with one of those white caps and a bigcross round her neck, come down to the water's side inquiring forTom Allbutt.'That's me,' says my old man.'There's a young man ill in hospital,' says she. 'He's dying, I'mafraid, and he wants to see you before he goes. It's typhoid fever,but that's over now; he's dying of weakness, they say.'And when we asked the young man's name, of course it was BillJarvis. So we left my Pretty in charge of the barge, and my old manand me, we went up to the hospital.Bill was so changed you wouldn't 'ardly 'ave known 'im. From being afleshy, red-cheeked young fellow, he'd come to be as thin as askeleton, and 'is eyes seemed to fill half 'is face.'I want to marry Mary,' says 'e. 'I'm dying, I can't do her and thekid no 'arm now, and I should die easier if she'd marry me here; thechaplain would do it--he said so.'My old man didn't say nothin', but says I, 'I would dearly like herto be made an honest woman of.''It's me that wants to be made an honest man of,' says Bill. Andwith that my old man, he took his hand and shook it. Then says Billwith the tears runnin' down his cheeks,--partly from weakness, Isuppose, for 'e wasn't the crying sort--'So help me God, I neverknew what a beast I was till that day I come to you in your bargeand you showed me what a man was, Tom Allbutt; you did, so, and I'vebeen trying to be a man ever since, and I've given up the drink, andI've lived steady, and I've never so much as looked at another girlsince that night. Oh, get her to be my wife,' says 'e, 'and let medie easy.'And I went and fetched 'er, and she came along with me with thechild in her arms; and the chaplain married them then and there. Idon't know how it was the banns didn't have to be put up, but it wasmanaged somehow.'And you'll stay with me till I die,' says 'e, 'won't you, Mary, youand the kid?'But he didn't die, he got better, and there isn't a couple happierthan him and Mary, for all they've gone through.And the doctor says it was Mary saved his life, for it was after hehad had a little talk with her that he took a turn for the better.'Mary,' says 'e, 'I've been a bad lot, and you was in the right whenyou called me a coward and a beast; but your father showed me what aman was, and I've tried to be a man. You was fond of me once, Mary;you'll love me a little when I'm gone, and don't let the kid thinkunkind of her daddy.''Love you when you're gone?' says she, cryin' all over 'er face, andkissin' 'im as if it was for a wager; 'you ain't a-goin' to die,you're goin' to live along of me and baby. Love you when you'regone?' says she, 'why, I've loved you all the time!' she says.
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