Well, then the woman looks sharp at him.
"What do you mean?" she asks. "Do you want me to take her home with me?"
"Ma'am," says Joe, "yes, if a pound or so----"
But she stops him by turning to the girl.
"Are you a respectable young woman?" she asks.
The pretty face was hidden on the sofa-arm, an' the little figure looked so droopin' that Joe could stand that less than he could stand the other. "Ma'am," says he hurried, "if five pound----"
It seemed like the woman's heart was touched, though she answered him rough.
"Young man," she says, "you're a fool--but if you don't want me to speak out before her, take me into I the next room an' we'll talk it over."
So Joe took her into the collection an' the end of it was that they made an agreement, an' sharp as she seemed, the woman showed as she was fair and straight an' would take no advantage. She let Joe persuade her at last to take the girl with her an' ask no questions, an' he was to pay her a trifle to make it straight an' no burden to her.
"Though," says she, "if she had a different face an' one as wasn't so innocent an' young, I wouldn't take her at no price--for I've girls of my own as I tell you, an' p'r'aps that's what makes me easier on her."
When they was gone away, Joe goes into the room they'd left an' sets hisself down by the fire an' stares at the sofa.
"She set there," he says, "an' she laid her head on the arm, and likewise drunk out of that there cup. I've seen her again as sure as I'm a man."
An' not a wink of sleep does he get that night, but sits, an' stares, an' thinks until the fire dies out into ashes, an' it's gray early mornin'.
Through a delicateness of feelin', he does not go anywheres near her for a day or so, an' then the woman--whose name is Mrs. Bonny--calls in to see him.
"Well," she says, "it seems all right so far. She's a nice little thing, an' she's got work in a millinery down town, an' I've kept my word an' asked no questions, an' will you come an' have a cup of tea with us this evening?"
Of course he went, glad enough, though awkward, an' he saw her again, an' she was prettier an' innocenter lookin' than ever, though pale an' timid. When she give her hand at partin' an' says, "Thank you for bein' so kind to me," he couldn't say a single word in answer, he were so bashful an' upsot.
He was always bashful enough, even after they knew each other better an' was good friends, which they came to be. She seemed to take a childish liking to him, an' always to be a rememberin' as she'd somethin' to be grateful for.
"What made you so kind to me that night, Joe?" she'd say. "You hadn't never seen me before, you know. Oh, how good you was, Joe!" An' he hadn't never the courage to tell her as he had.
Through one thing an' another, it was quite a while before she chanced to see the collection, but, at last, one afternoon, they all comes down--Mrs. Bonny, the girls, an' Polly.
Polly was a-goin' 'round with Joe, an' he couldn't help wonderin' anxious if she would remember as she had seen the place an' him before. An' she did. Before she had been in the room three minutes, she begins to look round strange an' puzzled, an' when she comes to Lady Jane Grey, she catches Joe's arm an' gives a tremblin' start.
"I've been here before," she says. "I was here last races--I--oh, Joe,----"an' she breaks off with a sob.
He sets her in a chair and stands before her, so as the Bonnys can't see.
"Don't cry, Polly," he says, but he says it with a sinkin' feelin', because he sees as she doesn't remember him at all, an' that she hasn't forgot her handsome sweetheart.
She doesn't cry much more for fear of the Bonnys, but she doesn't laugh nor talk no more all the rest of the day, an' her little downcast face was enough to make a man's heart ache. I dare say you'll think as Joe was a fool to hang on so in the face of all this, but it was his way to hang on to a thing quiet an' steady, and you remember what I've said about his simpleness. So he does hang on without a bit of hope until through Polly herself he speaks almost without knowing it, an' it happens in the collection just three months from the day as she recognized Lady Jane Grey.
"What made you so good to me that night, Joe?" she says again to him, mournful an' gentle. "I never shall forget it. No one else would have been so good."
"Polly," he says, a-takin' out his bandanna an' wipin' his forehead, for, though a cool day, he had broke out in a free perspiration. "Polly, it was because I loved you." An' he went straight through an' told her the whole story.
"But," says he at the end. "Don't let that come between you an' me, Polly, for why should it? You have nothing to give me, Polly, an', consequently, I don't ask nothin'."
"No," says she, in a half whisper. "I haven't nothin' to give no one."
An' yet, it wasn't three weeks before----; but, I'll tell you how it happened.
He'd been invited to the Bonnys' to tea, an' when he went there, he found Polly ailin'. She was white an' nervous, an' her eyes looked big an' woeful.
"She had a fright last night," Mrs. Bonny told him. "Some scamp of a fellow followed her all the way home an' it's upsot her."
She hardly spoke all the evenin', but lay back in the big rockin'-chair a-lookin' at Joe every now an' then as if she was askin' him to help her, an' when he'd bid 'em all good-night an' was half-way down the street, he hears the door open again, an' who should come runnin' after him, but her, all out of breath, an' catches him by the arm cryin'.
"Joe," she says, do you--do you love me yet, Joe?"
"Polly," he says, "what is it, my dear?" an' hearin' her ask him such a question, turned him almost sick with joy an' pain together.
"Because," she sobs out,--"because, if you love me yet,-- take me, Joe, an' keep me safe."
An' before he knows how it happens, he has her in his arms, with her face against his coat.
After they was both a bit quiet, he takes her back to Mrs. Bonny, an' says he:
"Mrs. Bonny, Polly an' me is goin' to be married." An' Mrs. Bonny says:
"Well, now, Polly, that's sensible; an' though I say it as shouldn't, I must own as I wouldn't care if it was 'Meliar."
An' she kisses Polly, an' the girls kisses her, an' they all shakes hands, an' it's a settled thing.
They was married almost immediate, an' Joe was as happy as a man could be under the circumstances; for mind you, he wasn't a-deceivin' hisself, an' knowed well enough as his wasn't the kind of a marriage where there's two hearts beatin' warm together, an' both is full of joy an' hope.
"But," says he, "I never expected this much, an' I'd be a queer sort of chap not to be grateful, as the woman I love could turn to me for comfort when she needed it; an' if love can bring love, mine'll be like to do it some day."
So he waited an' hoped, an' did his best, an' he sometimes thought as Polly drawed a bit nearer to him as time went on. At any rate, she was a good, gentle little thing, an' always seemed tryin' to please him in a wistful, longin' way, as if she had somethin' to make up for. Once, when they was settin' together at night, she came an' knelt down before him, and hid her face on his knee.
"Joe," she says, "was you never afraid to marry me,--when- -when you remember as I'd never told you nothin'?" "No," he answers. "No, Polly,--never."
"But I might have been a wicked girl," she whispers.
"No," says he, stout and tender. "You mightn't, Polly; "an' he stoops down an' kisses her pretty hair.
She burst out a-cryin', and creeps closer, so as to lay her cheek on his hand.
"I might have been," she says; "but I wasn't, Joe,--I wasn't, because God an' you helped me."
An' yet he knows as there's somethin' behind as keeps her from bein' happy, though she tries so hard an' faithful. He always sees the wistfulness in her eyes, an' hears it in her voice, an' time an' time again he knows she's lyin' awake at night a-grievin' quiet. One mornin', after she's been lower than common, a letter comes to her, an' he sees her turn white, an' after she holds it a minute, she walks up to the fire an' throws it in, an' before
he goes back to the collection, she comes an' catches him 'round the neck, an' says:
"I want to be a good wife, Joe,--I want to be, an' I will," an' cries a bit again.
That very afternoon there comes a swell into the wax- works, an' as soon as Joe sets eyes on him, he knows it's the chap he first see Polly with in the race-week, and there he is a- saunterin' 'round an' pretendin' to be unconcerned, an' yet keepin' a sharp look-out around him. So Joe goes up to him, and speaks to him quite firm and low:
"Was you lookin' for any one, sir?" he asks. The swell looks at him cool enough.
"What's that you say, my good fellow?" he answers.
"Well," says Joe, "nothing in a general way, perhaps; only sir, I was a-thinkin' as p'raps you might be lookin' for some one as was unprotected an' helpless, an' there aint no such a party here; an' if you'd like your money returned at the door,--me bein' the proprietor of the collection,--I shouldn't have no objection."
"D---- your collection!" says the swell; but he turns 'round an' goes out, half a-laughin'.
At tea that evenin', Polly was dreadful restless an' timid, an' seemed to be a-listenin' to somethin', an' after a bit Joe finds out what it is,--it's footsteps a-passin' back'ard an' for'ard near the house,--passin' back'ard an' for'ard reg'lar; an' they goes on that way for a good hour, an' then stops; an' all the time Polly sits close to Joe, as if she was afraid to leave him, her eyes shinin' an' her voice shakin' when she speaks. Only that somethin' tells him as she doesn't want him to go, he would have went out; an' in the middle of the night he was almost sorry he didn't, for she started out of her sleep, callin' out, frightened:
"Oh! the footsteps!--the footsteps! Make them go away!-- save me from them, Joe, or I must go!"
She was quite ill an' weak for a month, an' then, queer enough, a change came over her. She got her color back gradual, an' went out oftener, an' was brighter when she was in the house. She went to see the Bonnys frequent, a-helpin' them get ready to take their trip to the sea-side, which they did reg'lar; for though workin'-people, they was comfortable off. There was such a alteration in her, that Joe began to feel hopeful, an' was as cheerful as the day is long; an' well he might be, for she actually lays her pretty head on his breast once, an' whispers:
Joe, I believe I'm goin' to be happy,--an' it's all through you bein' so lovin' an' patient. You bore with me a long time,--didn't you, Joe?"
They had been married near twelve months then, an' the week the Bonnys goes away, Joe has to go too, bein' called away by business; an' sorry enough he was to go. But he says to Polly when he kisses her good-bye at the door:
"If you get lonesome, pack up an' go to the Bonnys, my dear, an' let them take care of you; but I wont be no longer than I can help."
An' she gives his neck a little wistful squeeze, half laughin', with the tears in her eyes, an' says:
"No, you mustn't, because no one can take such care of me as you;--an' I want you, Joe."
Well, it happened as his business was got over quicker than he'd looked for, an' he gets home within two weeks. But when he gets back he doesn't find Polly. Things are a bit upsot, as if she'd gone off in a hurry, an' he finds a little letter on the table as says, "I've gone to the Bonnys', dear Joe--it was so lonesome without you."
An' when he reads it he sees tear-marks on it, an' he says to hisself, "Why, here a tear fell, Polly. You must have been a bit low, my dear." He had that there letter in his hand, an' was still a-lookin' at it, when there comes a knock at the door an' he answers it, an' in walks Mrs. Bonny herself.
"Well," she says, "you've come back, have you? How are you, an' how's Polly?" "Polly!" says he. "Polly!"
"Yes, to be sure," she answers him back, "Polly; for, to tell the truth, I've been a bit anxious about her, an' that's why I came here the minute I got back to town."
Well, they both stood still an' looked at each other--her a bit impatient an' him cold an' dazed.
"Mrs. Bonny, ma'am," says he at last, "Polly went to you a week ago, for here's the letter as tells me so."
"Joe," says Mrs. Bonny, a fallin' back an' turnin' pale too, "Polly aint never been nigh us!" , "Then," says Joe, "she's dead."
He never thought of nothin' else but that some cruel thing had happened as had cut her off in her innocence an' youth. Think harm of Polly, as had laid her cheek against his breast an' begged him to come back to her? Lor' bless you, ma'am, he loved her far too tender!
It was Mrs. Bonny as first said the word, for even good women is sometimes hard on women, you know. She followed him into the room an' looked about her, an' she broke out a-cryin', angry an' yet sorrowful.
"Oh, Joe! Joe!" she says. "How could she have the heart to do it?" But Joe only answered her bewildered. "The heart ma'am!" he says. "Polly?"
"The heart to leave you," she says. "The heart to go to ruin when there was so much to hold her back--the heart to shame a honest man as loved her, an' her knowin' what she did!"
"Ruin, ma'am?" says Joe. "Shame, ma'am? Polly?"
He rouses himself to understand what she meant, an' he sees it's what the other people will say, too, an' he cannot help it or save Polly from it.
"It isn't true," he cries, wild-like. "It isn't nat'ral as it should be. She's trusted me all along, an' we was beginnin' to be happy, an'----"
"You've trusted her," says Mrs. Bonny. "An' so have I; but she's kept her own secrets, an' we knew she had 'em. An' there's my 'Meliar as heard of some fine gentleman a-follerin her on the street an' talkin' to her." But Joe stops her.
"If she doesn't come back," he says, "she's dead, an' she died innocent," an' wouldn't hear another word.
As soon as he could get his strength together, he gets up an' begins to set the place in order, a-makin' it look just as much as if she was there as he could. He folds away the two or three things as she's left about, an' puts 'em in the drawers an' shuts 'em up, an' Mrs. Bonny sets a- watchin' him. She couldn't understand the slow, quiet way as he does everything.
"Joe," she says, when he's done, "what do you mean?"
"Mrs. Bonny, ma'am," he says, I mean to trust her, an' I mean to be ready for her an' a-waitin', whenever she comes back, an' however." "However?" says Mrs. Bonny.
"Yes, mum," he says, "howsumever, for love isn't a thing as is easy killed; but, mind you, I'm not afraid as her soul has come to hurt, an' I've no thought of givin' her up."
Mrs. Bonny, she sees he's in earnest, an' she shakes her head. She meant kind enough, but it wasn't her as had been in love with Polly, an' had worked so hard to win her. When she went Joe followed her to the door.
"Ma'am," he says, "have you any objections as this here should be a secret betwixt you an' me?"
Well, I've no doubt as it was a bit hard on her as she shouldn't have the tellin' of it an' the talkin' of it over, an' she couldn't help showin' it in her looks; but she's a good soul, as I've said, an' she promises, an' Joe, he answers her, "Thank you, ma'am; an' would you mind givin' me your hand on it?" An' she does, an' so they part.
You may think what the next week or so was to Joe, when I tell you as, though he tried night an' day, he couldn't hear a word from Polly, or find no sign. An' still believin' in her, he wouldn't make no open stir an' talk. He had a fancy as perhaps somethin' of her old trouble had took her off, an' he stuck to it in his mind as she'd come back an' tell him all. An' I dare say you'll say, "Why should he, in the name of all that's simple?" Well, ma'am, he had a reason, an' that there reason held him up when nothin' else would. But it seemed as if all hope was to be tore from him. A-cleanin' up the room one afternoon, he comes across a piece of half-burnt paper as has lodged in a corner, an' in pickin' it up somethin' catches his eye as strikes him blind an' weak an' sick--a few words writ in a fine, flourishin' hand, an' these was them:
"--wasting your life, my sweet Polly, on a stupid fellow who has not even sense enough to see that you are making a sacrifice and breaking your innocent, foolish heart. Don't break mine, too--don't turn away from me as you did on
that dreadful night. If you love me, trust me. Come to----"
That was all, for the rest was burnt; but when he'd read it, Joe's hope was swept away complete. She'd been gettin' love- letters from another man, an' readin' them an' keepin' them secret, an' now she was gone!
He set down, an' let the paper drop on the floor.
"I--didn't know," he says, "as them--was women's--ways. Lord help you, Polly, an' me,--an' Lord be pitiful to It!"
There's no use of makin' the story longer than can be helped, an' besides, words wouldn't tell what sufferin' that there little back room saw in the three next weeks. There's no knowin' what kept the poor chap from staggerin' in from his work some night an' fallin' heart-broke in death on his lonely hearth. He suffered an' strove an' bore, an' yet kept his secret close. He neither eat nor slept, his face growed white an' haggard an' his eyes holler. He kept away from the Bonnys, an' kept away from all as knowed him. Even the sight of the collection was too much for him. He'd set there by the ashes of the fire hour after hour at night, a-lookin' at the grayness, an' not carin' to stir.
"I didn't know," he'd say again an' again over slow to hisself an' the emptiness an' quiet,--"I didn't know--as them-- was women's ways."
Just five weeks from the time as he'd come home an' found his wife gone, he was a-settin' this very way over the grate one evenin' at dusk, when he hears a key a-turnin' in the door gentle-like, an' he lifts his head to listen. "Who's that," he says, "as is tryin' to come in?"
But the next minute he starts up, a-knockin' the chair over back'ard, his heart a-beatin' loud enough to be heard, for the one as turned the key was in, an' had light feet, an' come an' pushed the room door open an' stood there a second. An' it was Polly, with a bundle in her arms. She didn't look guilty, bless you, though she were a little pale an' excited. She was even a-laughin', in a shy, happy, timid way, an' her eyes was wide an' shinin'.
But Joe, he weren't strong enough to bear it. He breaks out into a cry.
Smethurstses Page 2
