SMETHURSTSES, mum--yes,
mum, on accounts of me bein' Smethurst an' the wax-works mine. Fifteen year I've
been in the business, an' if I live fifteen year more I shall have been in it
thirty; for wax-works is the kind of a business as a man gets used to and
friendly with, after a manner. Lor' bless you! there's no tellin' how much
company them there wax-works is. I've picked a companion or so out of the
collection. Why, there's Lady Jane Grey, as is readin' her Greek Testyment;
when her works is in order an' she's set a-goin', liftin' her eyes gentle-like
from her book, I could fancy as she knew every trouble I'd had an' was glad as
they was over. And there's the Royal Fam'ly on the dais an a settin' together
as free and home- like and smilin' as if they wasn't nothin' more than flesh
an' blood like you an' me an' not a crown among 'em. Why, they've actually been
a comfort to me. I've set an' took my tea on my knee on the step there many a
time, because it seemed cheerfuller than in my own little place at the back. If
I was a talkin' man I might object to the stillness an' a general fixedness in
the gaze, as perhaps is an objection as wax-works is open to as a rule, though
I can't say as it ever impressed me as a very affable gentleman once said it
impressed him.
"Smethurst,"
says he, "you must have a blamed clear conscience (though, bein' rather
free-spoken, `blamed' was not the precise word employed)--you must have a
blamed clear conscience or I'm blamed if you could stand so many blamed pair of
staring eyes gimleting you year in an' year out. An' as to them with
works," says he, "they're worse than the others, for even if they
turn away a minute they always turn back again, as if they wouldn't trust you
out of their sight."
But somehow, I never
thought of it in that way, an' as to not liking the quiet, why shouldn't I? In
a general way I haven't got no more to say than they have, and so it suits me
well enough. I will own though, as I've never felt particular comfortable in the
Chamber of Horrors, an' never wouldn't have had one, but even in a small
collection like mine the public demands it, an' wouldn't hear of bein'
satisfied without one, "for" says they, "what's the use of a
wax-works without Manning an' them, an' the prisoners in the dock an' the knife
as the young woman was cut up in pieces with?" So I was obliged to have
the little back room hung with black, like Madame Tussaud's in a small way, and
fitted up with murders and a model of the guillotine and two or three heads of
parties as come to a untimely end in the French Revolution. But it aint my
taste for all that, and there's always a heaviness in the air as makes me
low-like an' I'm glad to turn the key on 'em at night an' leave 'em to have a
rest from the stares an' talk an' stirrin' up of their sin, an' the shame an'
agony of their dreadful deaths. Good Lord! it turns me sick to think of them
havin' been real livin' creatures with mothers an' wives an' friends, some of
'em perhaps livin' to-day all crushed an' blasted with the horror they've went
through.
But that aint the story
as I've half-way promised to tell you. If you really want to hear it, mum, I
don't mind tellin' it, though I don't know as it will be interestin'--I've
often wondered if it would be as interestin' to outsiders as it was to me,
bein' as it's the story of a friend of mine as was something like me an
likewise had a wax-works. Would you mind settin' there, mum, next to the
Japanese party? This lady's works was broke an' her bein' absent at the
cleaner's leaves the chair vacant most convenient.
His name it was
Joe--this acquaintance of mine, an', as I said, he was somethin' of my build
an' temper. He was a quiet chap an' a lonely chap, an' London was his native
place-- leastways, I don't see as it could have been no nativer than it was,
bein' as he was laid at the door of a London foundlin' when he wasn't no more
than a few days old, and London fed him and clothed him until he was big enough
to take care of hisself. He hadn't a easy life of it as you may be sure. He
wasn't handsome nor yet sharp, he couldn't answer back nor yet give cheek; he
could only take it, which he had to do frequent.
There was plenty of
folks as give him the character of a nat'ral born fool, an' they may have been
right. They said as no chap as had his right senses could be as good-natured
an' ready to forgive a injury an' above all as slow to suspect as one was bein'
done him. I think they thought his bein' slow to suspect harm a-goin' on was
the best proof of his bein' a fool,--an' he wasn't ready enough with his tongue
to argy the point. He wasn't never good at a argyment--Joe wasn't.
Well, he growed up, an'
he did first one thing an' then another, until at last he was picked up by a
travelin' wax-works showman as had just such a collection as this here of
mine-- havin' in it just such a Lady Jane Grey, and likewise a sim'lar Royal
Fam'ly.
"Well," says
the wax-works man, when Joe first goes to ask for work, "what can you
do?"
"Not much,
perhaps," says Joe; "leastways, I've not been in the business before;
but if you'll give me a job, Mister, I can do what I'm told."
The showman gives him a
look from head to foot.
"Well," says
he, "at all events, you're not one of them blarsted sharp uns as knows
everything an' can't dust a figger without knockin' its head off. I've had
enough of them sort"-- savage like--"a-ruinin' my Richard Cure the
Lion, an' a-settin' Mary Queen o' Scottses insides all wrong" (which was
what his last young man had been adoin').
"No," answers
Joe, slow an' serious, "I don't think as I'd do that."
The showman gives him
another look, an' seems sort of satisfied.
"Go inside an' get
your dinner," he says. "I'll try you just because you haven't got so
much cheek."
And he did try him, an'
pretty well they got on together, after a while. Slowness is not a objection in
a wax-works as much as in a business as is less delicater. I've thought myself
as p'r'aps wax-works has their feelin's, an' knows who means respec'ful by 'em
an' who doesn't, an' this Joe meant respec'ful, an' never took no liberties as
he could help. He dusted 'em reg'lar, an' wound 'em up an' set 'em goin'
accordin' to rules; but he never tried no larks on 'em, an' that was why he
gets along so well with his master.
"That other chap
was too fond of his larks," says the showman, kind of gloomy whenever he
mentions the first young man. He never forgave him to the day of his death for
openin' the collection one day with Charles the Secondses helmet on Mrs. Hannah
Mooreses head, an' Daniel in the Lions' Den in William Pennses spectacles, with
some other party's umbrella under his arm.
But Joe weren't of a
witty turn, an' not given to jokes, which is not suited to wax-works as a rule,
collections bein' mostly serious. An', as I say, him an' his master got along
so well that one day, after they had been together a year or so, the showman,
he says to him, "Joe," says he, "I'm blessed if I'd mind takin'
you in as a partner." An' that very mornin' he has the reg'lar papers made
out, an' the thing was done without no more said about it. An' partners they
was til he died, which happened very unexpected--him a sayin' sudden one night
when they was a- shuttin' up together, "Joe, old chap, I'm blessed if my
works aint a runnin' down," an' gives one look round at the figgers, an'
then drops--which the medical man said as it was dropsy of the heart. When his
things was looked over, it was found he'd left everythin' to Joe except one
partic'lar ugly figger, as turned his eyes with a squint an' couldn't be done
nothin' with, an' him he'd left to a old maid relation as had a spite agin him;
"for," says the will, "she'd ought to have him, for he's the
only chap I ever see yet as could match her--let alone stand her, an' it's time
she was takin' a partner, if she's goin' to." They did say as it was
nearly the party's death, for, though they'd quarreled reg'lar for twenty-five
years an' hated each other deadly, she'd always believed as she'd come into his
belongin's if she outlived him, thinkin' as he wouldn't make no will.
Well, havin' had
company for so long, it was nat'ral as Joe should feel lonely-like after this,
an' now an' then get a trifle down-hearted. He didn't find travelin' all alone
as pleasant as it had been, so when he was makin' anything at all in a place,
he'd stay in it as long as he could, an' kind of try to persuade hisself as it
was kind of home to him, an' he had things to hold him to it. He had a good
many feelin's in secret as might have been laughed at if people had knowed 'em.
He knew well enough as he wasn't the kind of chap to have a home of his
own--men as has homes has wives, an' who'd have wanted to marry him, bless
you--he wasn't the build as young women take to. He weren't nothin' to look at,
an' he couldn't chaff, nor yet lark, nor yet be ready with his tongue. In
general, young women was apt to make game of him when their sweethearts brought
em' into the collection, an' there was times when a pretty, light-hearted one
would put him out so as he scarcely knew the Royal Fam'ly by name, an' mixed up
the Empress of the French an' Lucreecher Borgiar in the description.
So he lived on,
lonesome enough, for two or three year, an' then somethin' happened. He went up
to London to stay while the races was goin' on, an' one day, when the
collection was pretty full, there comes in a swell party with a girl on his
arm. The swell, as was a tall, fine-lookin' chap, was in high sperits, an' had
just come in for the lark of the thing, Joe sees plain, for he were makin' his
jokes free an' easy about everythin', an' laughin' fit to kill hisself every
now an' then. But the girl were different; she were a little rosy thing, with
round, shinin' eyes, an' a soft, little timid way with her. She laughed too,
but only shy an' low, an' more because she was happy an' because the swell
laughed. She wasn't the kind of young woman as the swell ought to have been
a-goin' with. She was dressed in her best, an' was as pretty as a pictur'; but
her clothes was all cheap, an' Joe could see as she belonged to the workin'
class, an' was out for a holiday. She held close to the gentleman's arm, an'
seemed half frightened, an' yet so glad an' excited that she would have minded
you of a six-year-old child. It were the first time she'd ever been into a
wax-works, an' things looked wonderful to her. When they come to Lady Jane Grey
she was quite took with her, an' begun to ask questions in the innocentest way.
"She's one of the
nobility, sir, isn't she?" she says to her companion. "Did you ever
see her? Isn't she beautiful, sir?"
He laughs delighted,
an' squeezes her hand a bit with his arm.
"No, Polly,"
he says. "I never saw her until to-day. She didn't keep her head on her
shoulders long enough. It was cut off some time ago, my dear." An' then he
whispers: "An' it wasn't nearly as pretty a head as yours, Polly,
either."
The little girl blushes
like a rose, an' tries to laugh too; but Joe knew as she'd took the words more
to her innocent heart than was good for her.
"Lor' me!"she
says. "What a shame it was to cut her head off,--an' her so sweet an'
quiet!"
"Yes, Polly,"
says the young gentleman, a-laughin' more. "Very quiet. Wax-works are, as
a rule. A nice time a proprietor would have, if they were not, with such a lot
of queer customers,--Bloody Mary, for instance, and Henry the Eighth, and Nana
Sahib, and John Knox, and Lucretia Borgia,--though you don't know much of their
amiable characteristics, my dear."
They went on in that
way through the whole room,--him a- jokin' an', makin' light, an' her enjoyin' herself
an' admirin' everythin' she set eyes on, an' Joe a-watchin' her. He couldn't
help it. Somethin' queer seemed to have took hold of him the minute he first
sees her. He kep' a-wishin' as the collection was ten times as big, so as it
would take longer for her to go through. He couldn't bear the thought of seein'
the last of her, an' when they comes to the Russian party, as stands near the
door, dressed for the winter season,--his nose bein' protected with fur, after
the fashion of the country,--his heart were in his mouth, an' when she passed
out into the crowd, he seemed to swallow it with a gulp, as took it into the
heels of his boots. "Lor'!" he says, all of a tremble in his insides.
I shan't never see her again,--never!" He hadn't no spirit in him all that
day, nor the next either. It was as if somethin' altogether out of common had
happened, an' he couldn't never be the same man again. He were miserable, an'
down an' nervous, an' there wasn't a figger in the collection as didn't seem to
know it. He took to standin' at the door whenever he could, a-lookin' at the
people a-passin' by. An' yet he scarcely knowed what for. If he'd seen the face
he wanted to, he wouldn't 'a' dared to say a word, nor yet to move a step; an'
still he was a-hungerin' day an' night for a glimpse of what couldn't be no
good to him.
Well, if you'll believe
me, mum, instead of gettin' easier as time went on, he got uneasier. He was as
lonesome again as he had been, an' he took his tea a-settin' with the Royal
Fam'ly reg'lar,--he couldn't have swallowed it by hisself. After shuttin' up,
he'd go out wanderin' in the streets melancholy and wistful like, an' one night
he stops short all at once, a-feelin' hisself turn pale in consequence of it
comin' to him sudden what ailed him.
"I've fell in
love," says he, fearful an' respec'ful,-- "that's it,--an' there's no
help for me. I'm not the man as should have done it, for I can't look for
nothin' to come out of it."
He give hisself up to
it, because he didn't see no way out of it. Nobody wasn't troubled but hisself,
an' so it didn't matter. He got pale an' thin, an' didn't sleep well o' nights,
but there wasn't no one to bother themselves about him,--there weren't even a
soul as he could 'a' left the collection to, if he'd 'a' died.
It went pretty hard
with him to leave London, an' when he did leave it, he couldn't stay away; an'
I'm blessed if he didn't come back in less than six months; for, says he to
hisself:
"Here's a place as
is somethin' more than the others, at least, though it is in a sorrowful way,
an' I'd rather as the collection would earn me a bare livin' in a side-street
in London, than make money away from it. I might see her again; an', Lor' bless
me! what do I want of money a-layin' back?"
Well, the very first
night after he came back, he did see her again. He'd set, out the collection in
the room he'd hired, an' then he'd gone out in the old wanderin' way, an' he
hadn't hardly stepped into the street before he comes on a crowd gathered around
somethin' near a lamp-post; so he stops nat'ral, an, makes inquiries.
"Anybody hurt?" says he.
"No, not
exactly," answers the man he'd spoke to. "It's a young woman as has
fainted, I think."
He makes his way a bit
nearer, an' as soon as he claps his eyes on the deathly face under the
lamp-light, he sees as it's the face he's been lookin' for an' thinkin' about
so long.
"It's her!"
he says, so shook as he didn't know what he was doin'. "It's Polly!"
"Polly!" says
the woman as was holdin' her head. "Do you know her, young man? If you do,
you'd better speak to her, for she's just comin' to, poor little thing!"
He knew he couldn't
explain, an' he thinks, besides, as the feelin' he had for her might make his
face look friendlier than a stranger's, so he kneels down as the woman tells
him, just as she opens her eyes.
The crowd seemed to
frighten her, an' she began to tremble an' cry; an' so Joe speaks to her, low,
an' quiet, an' respec'ful:
"Don't be afraid,
miss," he says,--"don't. You'll be well directly."
She catches hold of his
hand like a frightened baby.
"Send them
away!" she says. "Please, don't let them stare at me. I can't bear
it!"
"Miss," says
Joe, "would you mind bein' took into a collection, if this good lady would
go with you?"
"A
collection!" she says, all bewildered. I haven't got any money. What is it
for? Oh! please make them go away!"
"Not a hat took
'round, miss," says Joe. "Oh, dear, no! I was alludin' to a wax-works
which is quite convenient, an' belongs to me, an' a fire an' a cup of tea ready
immediate, an' a good lady to stay with you until you feel better,--an' all
quite private."
"Take me anywhere,
please," she says. "Thank you, sir. Oh! take me away."
So between them, joe
an' the good woman helps her up an' leads her to the door as was but a few
steps off, an' Joe takes them in an' on to the back room, where the fire was a
burnin' an' the kettle singin' an' there he has them both to sit down.
The woman makes the
girl lie down on the sofa by the fire, an' she bein' weak an' wanderin' yet did
as she was told without askin' a question.
"A cup of tea'll
set her up," says the woman, "an' then she can tell us where she
lives an' we can take her home."
Joe went about like a
man in a dream. His legs was unsteady under him an' he was obliged to ask the
woman to pour the water on the tea, an' while she was doin' it he takes a
candle and slips into the collection secret, to make sure the Royal Fam'ly was
there an' he wasn't out of his head.
The woman, havin' girls
of her own, was very motherly an' handy an' did all she could, but she couldn't
stay long, and after she'd given Polly her tea, she says she must go.
"An' I dare say as
the young man as is so kind-hearted'll come along with me an' we'll see you
home together, my dear."
They both looks at
Polly then a-waitin' to see what she would say, but she only looked frightened
an' the next minute hides her face in her little hands on the sofa-arm an'
begins to sob.
"I haven't got no
home," she says, "nor nowhere to go. What shall I do--what shall I
do?"
Then the woman looks
very serious an' a bit hard-like about the mouth--though not as hard as some
might have done.
"Where's your
mother?" she says, just the least short.
"I haven't
none," says Polly. "I lost her a month ago." "You aint in
mournin'," says the woman.
"No, ma'am,"
says Polly, "I couldn't afford it." "An' your father?"
But this made the poor
little thing cry harder than ever. She wrung her hands an' sobbed pitiful.
"Oh, father!"
she says. "Good, kind, easy father, if you was alive I wouldn't be like
this. You always loved me--always. You never was hard, father."
"What have you
been livin' on?" says the woman, lookin' as if she was a-relentin'.
"I was in a
shop----" But Joe couldn't stand no more.
"Ma'am," he
says in a undertone, "if a pound or so, which not bein' a fam'ly man an' a
good business at times, I have it to spare, would make matters straight, here
it is." An' he pulls a handful of silver out of his pocket and holds it
out quite eager an' yet fearful of givin' offense.
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.
"Polly," says
he, "is it because you're dead that you've come back to me?" An' he
makes a step, gropin' an' staggerin', an' would have fell if she hadn't run an'
caught him, an' pushed him into a chair.
"Joe," she
cries out, kneelin' down before him,--"Joe, dear Joe, what's the matter?
It's Polly, an'--" an' she puts her face against his vest in the old way--
"an' you mustn't frighten me."
That, an' the touch of
her hand brings him back, an' he knows in a second as he has her safe, an' then
he catches her an' begins to hug her tight, too shook to say a word.
But she pulls back a
bit, half frightened an' half joyful.
"Joe," she
says, "didn't you think I was at the Bonnys'? Have you been anxious?"
An' then, a-laughin' nervous-like, "You mustn't squeeze so, Joe--don't you
see?"
An' she lays the bundle
on his knee an' opens the shawl an' shows him what's in it.
"He's--he's only a
little one," she says, a-laughin' an' cryin' true woman fashion, but he
grows every day, an' he's noticin' already."
Joe makes an effort an'
just saves hisself from bustin out in a sob as might have told her all--an'
this time he folds 'em both up an' holds 'em, a-tryin' to stumble at a prayer
in his mind.
"Polly," he
says after a bit, "tell me all about it, for I don't understand how it is
as it's come about."
But girl as she is, she
sees as there's somethin' behind an' she gives him a long look.
"Joe," she
says, "I've more to tell than just how this happened, an' when I lay quiet
with little Joe on my arm, I made up my mind as the day I brought him home to
you, was the day as had come for you to hear it, an' so you shall--but first I
must lay him down an' make the room warm."
Which she gets up an'
does, an' wont let Joe do nothin' but watch her, an' while she's at it he sees
her sweet young face a-workin', an' when everythin's done, an' the fire burnin'
bright, an' the kettle on, an' the little fellow comfortable on her arm-- she
draws a little wooden stool up to his knees an' sits down on it an' her face is
a-workin' still.
"Not as I'm afraid
to tell you now, Joe, though I've held it back so long; but sometimes I've
thought as the day would never come when I could, an' now I'm so glad--so
glad," she whispers.
An' then a-holdin' his
hand an' the child's too, she tells him the whole story of what her secret was
an' why she kep' it one, an' as you may guess it was all about the man as Joe
had seen her with.
The night she'd fainted
in the street she'd found out his cruel heart for the first time an' it had
well-nigh broke her own. The people as she worked for had turned her off
through hearin' of him, an' her own mother, as was a hard, strict woman, had
believed the scandal an' turned against her too. An' then when she had gone to
him in her fear an' trouble he had struck her down with words as was worse than
blows.
"But bein' so
young, Joe, an' so weak," she says, "I couldn't forget him, an' it
seemed as if I couldn't bear my life; an' I knew that if he come back again it
would be harder to turn away from him than ever. An' it was--an' when he
follorred me an' tried me so as I knew as I'd give up if there wasn't something
to hold me strong. An' I asked you to save me that night, Joe, an' you said you
would. Joe," she whispers, "don't hate me for bein' so near to sin
an' shame."
After a little while
she tells him the rest.
"But even when he
knowed I was a good man's wife he wouldn't let me rest. He tried to see me
again an' again, an' wrote me letters an' besot me in every way, knowin' as I
wasn't worthy of you, an' didn't love you as I ought. But the time come when he
grew weaker an' you grew stronger, Joe. How could I live with you day after day
an' see the contrast between you, an' not learn to love the man as was so
patient an' true to me, an despise him as only loved hisself an' was too
selfish an' cruel to have either mercy or pity? So the day come when I knew I
needn't fear him nor myself no more an' I told him so. It was then I told you I
was goin' to be happy; an' Joe dear, I was happy--particular lately. Do you
believe me, Joe?--say as you do."
"Yes, Polly,"
says Joe. "Thank God!"
"Kiss me,
then," she says, "an' kiss little Joe, an' then I'll tell you how the
other come about."
He did it prompt, an'
with a heavin' heart, an' then the other was soon told.
"I hadn't seen him
for a long time when you went away," she tells him, "an' I thought
I'd seen the last of him; but you hadn't been gone a week before I met him face
to face in the street; an' that same night a letter come, an' through me bein'
lonesome an' nervous-like, an' seein' him so determined, it frightened me, an'
I made up my mind I'd go to the Bonnys an' get heartened up a little before you
come back. So I started all in a hurry as soon as I could get ready. But before
I'd got more than half way to my journey's end, we had a accident,--not much of
a one, for the trains as met each other wasn't goin' so fast but that they
could be stopped in time to save much real harm bein' done, an' people was
mostly badly shook an' frightened. But I fainted away, an' when I come to
myself I was lyin' on a bed in a farm- house near the line, an' the farmer's
wife, as was a good soul, she was a-takin' care of me, an' says she, `Where's
your husband, my girl?' an' I says, `I'm not sure I know, ma'am,' an faints
away again.
"Well, the next
mornin' I was lyin' there still, but little Joe was on my arm, an' I had the
strength to tell where I lived, an' how it was I didn't know where to send for
you. An' the farmer's wife was like a mother to me, an' she cheers me up, an'
says, `Well, never mind. Bless us! what a joyful surprise it'll be to the man!
Think of that!' An' I did think of it until I made up my mind as I wouldn't
send no word at all until I could come home myself; for, says I, `He'll think
I'm at the Bonnys', an' it'll save him bein' worried.' An' that was how it was,
Joe," kind of hesitatin'. "Have you anything to tell me?"
She looks at him timid
an' gentle, an' he looks down at the fire. "Not if you'd rather not,
Joe," she says; but I thought----"
Joe, he thinks a bit,
an' then answers her grave an' slow:
"Polly," says
he, "I found a piece of that there letter. Will you forgive me, an' let it
pass at that for little Joe's sake?"
She stoops down and
kisses his hand, with tears in her eyes.
"Yes," she
answers, "an' for yours too. You've more to forgive than me, Joe,--an' it
was quite nat'ral."
An' she never asks him
another question, but sets there sweet an' content, an' they both sets there
almost too happy to speak; an' there's such a look in her face as goes to Joe's
heart, an' he breaks the quiet, at last, a-sayin':
"Polly,--I hope it
aint no wrong in me a-thinkin' it,--for this aint no time for me to have none
but the reverentest an' gratefulest humble heart,--but as you set there with
the little fellow so peaceful on your breast, I can't help bein' 'minded of the
Mother as we see in the churches, an' as some prays to."
Well, mum, that's the
whole story, an' somehow it's run out longer than I thought for; but there's
nothin' more left to say, but that if you could see that there little Joe
to-day he'd astonish you; for though but five year old, I'm blessed if he don't
know every figger in the collection by name, an' is as familiar with Henry the
Eighthses fam'ly as I am myself; an' says he to me only the other day,
"Father----" at least---- Well, mum, I suppose I may as well own up
to it, now I've done,--though a nat'ral back'ardness made it easier for me to
tell it the other way. But you're right in supposin' so; an' not to put too
fine a point to it, the story is mine,--that there Joe bein' me an' Polly my
wife, an' that there collection Smethurstses.