Grandsire Triples
I was promised to William, in a manner of speaking, close upon sevenyear. What I mean to say is, when he was nigh upon fourteen, and wasto go away to his uncle in Somerset to learn farming, he gave me akiss and half of a broken sixpence, and said--'Kate, I shall never think of any girl but you, and you must neverthink of any chap but me.'And the Lord in His goodness knows that I never did.Father and mother laughed a bit, and called it child's nonsense; butthey was willing enough for all that, for William was a likely chap,and would be well-to-do when his good father died, which I am sure Inever wished nor prayed for. All the trouble come from his going toSomerset to learn farming, for his uncle that was there was a Roman,and he taught William a good deal more than he set out to learn, sothat presently nothing would do but William must turn Roman Catholichimself. I didn't mind, bless you. I never could see what there wasto make such a fuss about betwixt the two lots of them. Lord loveus! we're all Christians, I should hope. But father and mother wasdreadful put out when the letter come saying William had been'received' (like as if he was a parcel come by carrier). Father, hesays--'Well, Kate, least said soonest mended. But I had rather see youlaid out on the best bed upstairs than I'd see you married toWilliam, a son of the Scarlet Woman.'In my silly innocence I couldn't think what he meant, for William'smother was a decent body, who wore a lilac print on week-days and aplain black gown on Sunday for all she was a well-to-do farmer'swife, and might have gone smart as a cock pheasant.It was at tea-time, and I was a-crying on to my bread-and-butter,and mother sniffing a little for company behind the tea-tray, andfather, he bangs down his fist in a way to make the cups rattleagain, and he says--'You've got to give him up, my girl. You write and tell him so, andI'll take the letter as I go down to the church to-night topractice. I've been a good father to you, and you must be a goodgirl to me; and if you was to marry him, him being what he is, I'dnever speak to you again in this world or the next.''You wouldn't have any chance in the next, I'm afraid, James,' saidmy mother gently, 'for her poor soul, it couldn't hope to go to theblessed place after that.''I should hope not,' said my father, and with that he got up andwent out, half his tea not drunk left in the mug.Well, I wrote that letter, and I told William right enough that himand me could never be anything but friends, and that he must thinkof me as a sister, and that was what father told me to say. But Ihope it wasn't very wrong of me to put in a little bit of my own,and this is what I said after I had told him about the friend andsister--'But, dear William,' says I, 'I shall never love anybody but you,that you may rely, and I will live an old maid to the end of my daysrather than take up with any other chap; and I should like to seeyou once, if convenient, before we part for ever, to tell you allthis, and to say "Good-bye" and "God bless you." So you must findout a way to let me know quiet when you come home from learning thefarming in Somerset.'And may I be forgiven the deceitfulness, and what I may call theimpudence of it! I really did give father that same letter to post,and him believing me to be a better girl than I was, to my shame,posted it, not doubting that I had only wrote what he told me.That was the saddest summer ever I had. The roses was nothing to me,nor the lavender neither, that I had always been so fond of; and asfor the raspberries, I don't believe I should have cared if therehadn't been one on the canes; and even the little chickens, Ithought them a bother, and--it goes to my heart to say it--a wholesitting was eaten by the rats in consequence. Everything seemed togo wrong. The butter was twice as long a-coming as ever I knowed it,and the broad beans got black fly, and father lost half his hay withthe weather. If it had been me that had done something unkind,father would have said it was a Providence on me. But, of course, Iknew better than to speak up to my own father, with his hay lyingrotting and smoking in the ten-acre, and telling him he was a-beingjudged.Well, the harvest was got in. It was neither here nor there. I haveseen better years and I have seen worse. And October come. I wasgetting to bed one night; at least, I hadn't begun to undress, for Iwas sitting there with William's letters, as he had wrote me fromtime to time while he was in Somerset, and I was reading them overand thinking of William, silly fashion, as a young girl will, andwishing it had been me was a Roman Catholic and him a Protestant,because then I could have gone into a convent like the wicked peoplein father's story-books. I was in that state of silliness, you see,that I would have liked to do something for William, even if it wasonly going into a convent--to be bricked up alive, perhaps. And thenI hears a scratch, scratch, scratching, and 'Drat the mice,' says I;but I didn't take any notice, and then there was a little tap,tapping, like a bird would make with its beak on the window-pane,and I went and opened it, thinking it was a bird that had lost itsway and was coming foolish-like, as they will, to the light. So Idrew the curtain and opened the window, and it was--William!'Oh, go away, do,' says I; 'father will hear you.'He had climbed up by the pear-tree that grew right and left up thewall, and--'I ask your pardon,' says he, 'my pretty sweetheart, for making sofree as to come to your window this time of night, but there didn'tseem any other way.''Oh, go, dear William, do go,' says I. I expected every moment tosee the door open and father put his head in.'I'm not going,' said William, 'till you tell me where you'll meetme to say "Good-bye" and "God bless you," like you said in theletter.'Though I knew the whole parish better than I know the palm of myhand, if you'll believe me, I couldn't for the life of me for themoment think of any place where I could meet William, and I stoodlike a fool, trembling. Oh, what a jump I gave when I heard a noiselike a heavy foot in the garden outside!'Oh! it's father got round. Oh! he'll kill you, William. Oh!whatever shall we do?''Nonsense!' said William, and he caught hold of my shoulder and gaveme a gentle little shake. 'It was only one of these pears as Ikicked off. They must be as hard as iron to fall like that.'Then he gave me a kiss, and I said: 'Then I'll meet you by theParson's Shave to-morrow at half-past five, and do go. My heart'sa-beating so I can hardly hear myself speak.''Poor little bird!' says William. Then he kissed me again and off hewent; and considering how quiet he came, so that even I couldn'thear him, you would not believe the noise he made getting down thatpear-tree. I thought every minute some one would be coming in to seewhat was happening.Well, the next day I went about my work as frightened as a rabbit,and my heart beating fit to choke me, trying not to think of what Ihad promised to do. At tea-time father says, looking straight beforehim--'William Birt has come home, Kate. You remember I've got yourpromise not to pass no words with him, him being where he is,without the fold, among the dogs and things.'And I didn't answer back, though I knew well enough it wasn'thonest; but he hadn't got my word. Father had brought me up carefuland kind, and I knew my duty to my parents, and I meant to do it,too. But I couldn't help thinking I owed a little bit of a duty toWilliam, and I meant doing that, so far as keeping my promise tomeet him that afternoon went. So after tea I says, and I do think itis almost the only lie I ever told--'Mother,' I says, 'I've got the jumping toothache, and it's that badI can hardly see to thread my needle.'Then she says, as I knew she would, her being as kind an old soul asever trod: 'Go and lie down a bit and put the old sheepskin coatover your head, and I'll get on with the darning.'So I went upstairs trembling all over. I took the bolster and pillowand put them under the covers, to look as like me as I could, and Iput the old sheepskin coat at the top of all; and as you come intothe room any one would have thought it was me lying there with thetoothache. Then I took my hat and shawl and I went out, quiet as amouse, through the dairy. When I got to the Parson's Shave there wasWilliam, and I was so glad to see him, I didn't think of nothingelse for full half a minute. Then William said--'It's only one field to the church. Why not go up there and sit inthe porch? See, it's coming on to rain.'So he took my arm, and we started across the field, where all thedays of the year but one you would not meet a soul. We went upthrough the churchyard. It was 'most dark, but I wasn't a bit afraidwith William's arm round me. But when we got to the porch and hadsat down, I was sorry I'd come, for I heard feet on the road below,and they stopped outside the lychgate.'Come, quick,' says I, 'or we're caught like rats in a trap. If I amgoing to give you up to please father, I may as well please him allround. There's no reason why he should know I've seen you.''So we stole on our tiptoes round to the little door that is hardlyever fastened, and so through to the tower. Father being one of thebellringers, I knew every step. There's a stone seat cut out of thewall in the bellringers' loft, and there we sat down again, and Iwas just going to tell him again what I had said in the letter aboutbeing his sister and a friend, which seemed to comfort me somehow,though William has told me since it never would have him, whenWilliam, he gripped my hand like iron, and ''S-sh!' says he,'listen.' And I listened, and oh! what I felt when I heard footstepscoming up the tower. I didn't dare speak a word to him, and onlykept tight hold of his hand, and pulled him along till we got to thetower steps, and went on up. But I says to myself, 'Oh, what's myhead made of, to forget that it's practising night? and Him thechurch was built for only knows how long they won't be herepractising!' We went on up the twisted cobwebby stairs, with bits ofbroken birds' nests that crackled under our feet that loud I thoughtfor sure the folks below must hear us; and we got into the belfry,and there William was for staying, but I whispered to him--'If you hear them bells when they're all a-going, you won't neverhear much else. We must get on up out of it unless we want to bedeaf the rest of our lives.'And it was pitch dark in the belfry, except for the little greyslits where the shuttered windows are. The owls and starlings werefrightened, I suppose, at hearing us, though why they should havebeen, I don't know, being used to the bells; and they flew aboutround us liker ghosts than anything feathered, and one great owlflopped out right into my face, till I nearly screamed again. It wasall very, very dusty, and not being able to see, and being afraid tostrike a light, we had to feel along the big beams for our waybetween the bells, I going first, because I knew the way, andreaching back a hand every now and then to see that William wascoming after me safe and sound. On hands and knees we had to go forsafety, and all the while I was dreading they would start the bellsa-going and, maybe, shake William, who wasn't as used to it as Iwas, off the beams, and him perhaps be smashed to pieces by thebells as they swung.I don't know how long it took us to get across the belfry to thecorner where the ladder is that leads up to the tower-top. Williamsays it must have been about a couple of minutes, but I think it wasmuch more like half an hour. I thought we should never get there,and oh! what it was to me when I came to the end of the last beam,and got my foot down on the firm floor again, and the ladder in myhand, and William behind me! So up we went, me first again, becauseI knew the way and the fastenings of the door. And that part of itwasn't so bad, for I will say, if you've got to go up a long ladder,it's better to go up in the dark, when you can't see what's belowyou if you happen to slip; and I got up and opened the door, and itwas light out of doors and fresh with the rain--though that hadstopped now.Then William would take his coat off, and put it round me, for all Ibegged him not, and presently the tower began to shake and the bellsbegan, and directly they began I knew what they was up to.'O William,' I says, 'it's Grandsire Triples, and there's fivethousand and fifty changes to 'em, and it's a matter of threehours!'But he couldn't hear a word I said for the bells. So then I took hiscoat and my shawl, and we wrapped them round both our heads to shutthe bells out, and then we could hear each other speak inside.I'm not going to write down all I said nor all he said, which wasonly foolishness--and besides, it come to nothing after all. Butsomehow the time wasn't long; and it's a funny thing, but unhappyand happy you can be at the same time when you are with one you loveand are going to leave. William, he begged and prayed of me not togive him up. But I said I knew my duty, and he said he hoped I wouldthink better of it, and I said, 'No, never,' and then we kissed eachother again, and the bells went on, and on, and on, clingle,clangle, clingle, chim, chime, chim, chime, till I was 'most dazed,and felt as if I had lived up there all my life, and was going tolive up there twenty lives longer.'I'll wait for you all my life long,' says William. 'Not that I wishthe old man any harm, but it's not in the nature of things yourfather can live for ever, and then--''It ain't no use thinking of that, William,' said I. 'Father is sureto make me promise never to have you--when he's dying, and I can'trefuse him anything. It's just the kind of thing he'd think of.'Perhaps you will think William ought to have made more stand, foreverybody likes a masterful man; but what stand can you make whenyou are up in a belfry with the bells shouting and yelling at you,and when the girl you are with won't listen to reason? And you haveno idea what them bells were. Often and often since then I havestarted up in the bed thinking I heard them again. It was enough todrive one distracted.'Well,' says William, 'you'll give me up, but I'll never give youup; and you mark my words, you and me will be man and wife someday.'And as he said it, the bells stopped sudden in the middle of achange. The rain had come on again. It was very chill up there. Myteeth was chattering, and so was William's, though he pretended hedid it for the joke.'Let's get inside again,' says he. 'Perhaps they are going home, andif they are not, we can stay there till they begin it again.'So we opened the door and crept down the ladder. There was light nowcoming up from the bellringers' loft through the holes in the floor,and we got down to the belfry easy, and as we got to the bottom ofthe ladder I heard my father's voice in the loft below--'I don't believe it,' he was shouting. 'It can't be true. She's aGod-fearing girl.'And then I heard my mother. 'Come home, James,' she said, 'comehome--it's true. I told you you was too hard on them. Young folkswill be young folks, and now, perhaps, our little girl has come toshame instead of being married decent, as she might have been,though Roman.'Then there was silence for a bit, and then my father says, speakingsofter, 'Tell me again. I can't think but what I'm dreaming.'Then mother says--'Don't I tell you she said she'd got thetoothache, and she was going to lie down a bit, and I went to takeher up some camomiles I'd been hotting, and she wasn't there, andher bolsters and pillows, poor lamb, made up to pretend she was, andJohnson's Ben, he see her along of William Birt by the Parson'sShave with his arm round her--God forgive them both!'Then says my father, 'Here's an end on't. She's no daughter o' mine.If she was to come back to me, I'd turn her out of doors. Don't letany one name her name to me never no more. I hain't got nodaughter,' he said, 'and may the Lord--'I think my mother put her hands afore his mouth, for he stoppedshort, and mother, she said--'Don't curse them, James. You'll be sorry for it, and they'll havetrouble enough without that.'And with that father and mother must have gone away, and the otherringers stood talking a bit.'She'd best not come back,' said the leader, John Evans. 'Outa-gallivanting with a young chap from five to eight as I understand!What's the good of coming back? She's lost her character, and a galwithout a character, she's like--like--''Like a public-house without a licence,' said the second ringer.'Or a cart without a horse,' said the treble.There was only one man spoke up for me--that was Jim Piper at thegeneral shop. 'I don't believe no harm of that gal,' says he, 'nomore nor I would of my own missus, nor yet of him.''Well, let's hope for the best,' said the others. But I had a sortof feeling they was hoping for the worst, because when things goeswrong, it's always more amusing for the lookers-on than wheneverything goes right. Presently they went clattering down thesteps, and all was dark, and there was me and William among thecobwebs and the owls, holding each other's hands, and as cold asstone, both of us.'Well?' says William, when everything was quiet again.'Well!' says I. 'Good-bye, William. He won't be as hard as his word,and if I couldn't give you all my life to be a good wife to you, Ihave given you my character, it seems; not willing, it's true; butthere's nothing I should grudge you, William, and I don't regret it,and good-bye.'But he held my hands tight.'Good-bye, William,' I says again. 'I'm going. I'm going home.''Yes, my girl,' says he, 'you are going home; you're going home withme to my mother.' And he was masterful enough then, I can tell you.'If your father would throw you off without knowing the rights orwrongs of the story, it's not for him you should be giving up yourhappiness and mine, my girl. Come home to my mother, and let me seethe man who dares to say anything against my wife.'And whether it was father's being so hard and saying what he didabout me before all those men, or whether it was me knowing thatmother had stood up for us secret all the time, or whether it wasbecause I loved William so much, or because he loved me so much, Idon't know. But I didn't say another word, only began to cry, and wegot downstairs and straight home to William's mother, and we toldher all about it; and we was cried in church next Sunday, and Istayed with the old lady until we was married, and many a yearafter; and a good mother she was to me, though only in law, and agood granny to our children when they come. And I wasn't so unhappyas you may think, because mother come to see me directly, and shewas at our wedding; and father, he didn't say anything to preventher going.When I was churched after my first, and the boy was christened--inour own church, for I had made William promise it should be so ifever we had any--mother was there, and she said to me: 'Take thechild,' she said, 'and go to your father at home; and when he seesthe child, he'll come round, I'll lay a crown; for his bark,' shesays, 'was allus worse than his bite.'And I did so, and the pears was hard and red on the wall as they wasthe night William climbed up to my window, and I went into thekitchen, and there was father sitting in his big chair, and theBible on the table in front of him, with his spectacles; but hewasn't reading, and if it had been any one else but father, I shouldhave said he had been crying. And so I went in, and I showed him thebaby, and I said--'Look, father, here's our little baby; and he's named James, foryou, father, and christened in church the same as I was. And now Ihave got a child of my own,' says I, for he didn't speak, 'dearfather, I know what it is to have a child of your own go againstyour wishes, and please God mine never will--or against yourseither. But I couldn't help it, and O father, do forgive me!'And he didn't say anything, but he kissed the boy, and he kissed himagain. And presently he says--'It's 'most time your mother was home from church. Won't you besetting the tea, Kate?'So I give him the baby to hold, for I knew everything was all rightbetwixt us.And all the children have been christened in the church. But I thinkwhen father is taken from us--which in the nature of things he mustbe, though long may it be first!--I think I shall be a RomanCatholic too; for it doesn't seem to me to matter much one way orthe other, and it would please William very much, and I am sure itwouldn't hurt me. And what's the good of being married to the bestman in the world if you can't do a little thing like that to pleasehim?
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