HER STORY.
MRS. GILLYFLOWER and she were sitting next morning in the kitchen, at the little deal table, with a coarse but very white cloth on it, and the tea-things. Mall Darrell had done her breakfast, and was washing potatoes and peeling turnips, quite out of hearing, at the open door of die scullery, through which, faintly, were audible in the kitchen the crow and gobble of the busy poultry; and close to the kitchen-window, that opened in the side-wall, roses, planted by Peter Clinton, shook themselves up and nodded in the comparative shelter, and tapped on the panes, while the tall trees outside swayed their boughs and rustled boisterously in the still vehement wind.
“Darrat ta, lass! yer no gangin’ to-day. Why, see how it blaas, an’ the branches swings, an’ the Squire himsel’ has bid ye. An’ I tell ye ye’ll no flit the day — ye shan’t goa noo, not a bit — ye’ll just bide where ye er; ye’ll stay ower the night, an’ gang in the mornin,’ if ye will. I like ye, lass; I see ye’re none o’ them fiirligig fools; ye hev sense an’ observation, an’ ye ken the aid saw to ‘be merry an’ wise.’ Ye can make a body laugh when ye like. But ye’re no gilliver, not a bit; ye heve principles an’ feelin’ like mysel’, though ye don’t keep braggin’ o’ them, nor talkin’ any such clish-ma-clash; an’ I like ye, lass, an’ I should na wonder if I came to like ye better.”
Old Martha was talking heartily, and honestly too. She had formed instinctively a good opinion of her new acquaintance; and such opinions, mysteriously but irresistibly derived, command our confidence often more than any others.
She meant to be encouraging; she had placed her broad dumpy hand upon the slender one of the girl, whose arm rested on the table.
The girl looked at her with a grave countenance, in which were yet mingled expressions odd: something of amusement — something of disdain — something of liking.
“Well, Mrs. Gillyflower,” she said, drawing back her hand sedately, “you’re kind — I don’t mind if I do; ‘twill be four rounds of the clock to-morrow; after that, I provide for myself.”
“Provide for yersel’? Well, I’m glad ye hev no care o’ that sort to grieve ye; ye’re sure ye can?”
“I can.”
“H’m! Well, that’s a comfort — people and friends, I daresay?”
“I have friends, and I have relations,” said the girl, quietly.
“Where do they live?”
“A good many miles away, but not so far that my feet won’t carry me to them. I can walk a long way, when I like.”
Mrs. Gillyflower was curious; her little round gray eyes were peering vainly into the dark, fiery, unfathomable eyes of the girl.
She felt that this girl was a different nature — a more potent spirit — that she could make nothing of her.
“Well, lass, I tell ye what,” said the old woman. “We are not ower rich here, any o’ us; that is, we hev quite enough, d’ye mind, but none to spare. But I doubt ye’r ill-provided — an’ I have a bit o’ money by me — an’ I’d like to lend ye a pound, an’ ye’ll pay me whean ye can, or whean ye like; but ye’ll want somethin’ by the way, an’ ye’ll no refuse.”
The girl quickly replaced her hand on the dumpy fingers of the old woman, with a movement like a caress; and with a wild smile she looked on her for a moment, and said, “You are very good-natured, Mrs. Gillyflower — yes, and if it ever lies in my way to do you a good turn, I’ll do it Thank you very kindly; it was well-meant, but I don’t need it, Mrs. Gillyflower. Look here!” and from her pocket she took a little scarlet-cloth purse with a silk cord tied round it, and poured out a tiny pile of silver on the table; and then, sweeping it back again, she continued: “And I’ll tell you how I happen to be making this journey alone — I didn’t intend, but you’re good-natured — I ran away!”
“Ran away, child — hey? Not from a husband, though?” she asked, with a sudden consternation.
The stranger laughed.
“No — no! that never was our way. I’ve been used cruel bad. I’ve a stepmother. I wouldn’t wonder if you had a stepmother yourself, once?” she added, after a moment’s pause.
“Well, noo, that is queer. So I had, lass, that was a tazzle, I can tell ye, and mickle she made me dree. I forgie her, an’ may God forgie her too! But I’ll never forget her, if I was to live for a thousand year. — An’ so ye hev a stepmother? Tell me more, poor lassie! I ween there was cause, an’ to spare, why ye should flee out o’ her hands, as Jacob did fra the hands o’ his unnatural brother Esau.” ‘
“’Twas all about a man,” said the girl.
“A man?” repeated Martha Gillyflower, much interested. “Well — go on, dear.”
“She wanted to give me to a wicked man — the worst fellow, almost, she knew. Ha!”
The ejaculation was like a gasp, quick and hard, and accompanied with a strange smile that showed her little white teeth suddenly — expressed abhorrence powerfully.
“That fellow, as I guess from the looks and whispers of some that knows all about him, has murdered people — several, and I think I know where some of the graves is. Well, there was a man to choose! And I said ‘No.’ She wanted to be rid o’ me, for one thing, and to put me into the hands of a devil for smother. I said ‘No, I’d die first’”
“Ye were right; I’d a’ done the same my lass. I telt ye, right I kenned quick enough ye were nane o’ them strackle-brained queans, I kenned ye had reason for what ye did.”
“Ay, so I had. And she and I had words, and she snatched up the cudgel to break my head; and I caught it fast in my hand, and I flung her down; and ’twas just ay or no with me should I kill her — it’s a heavy cudgel— ’twas like lightnin’; I did not know myself — just a flicker and a chance — but I didn’t come down with it, and I flung it over the casties; and said I, ’Tis the last time ye’ll ever lift that to me!’ and I left her that night.”
“And right well done o’ you. I’m maist sorry ye did not gie her a clink whaar ’twould make her lugs sing, a-toppa t’ head; but ye did right to spare her, ’twas only what a Christian should.”
“And she’ll try to set that fellow on my track,” continued the girl, “to kill me, if she can.”
“And where did you live?”
“Well — a good way off — the name don’t matter.”
“And where are ye gangin’?”
“To friends and kin.”
“And had ye no kin living nigh yer stepmother?”
“Ay, some; they left me to her, though — they don’t care. I have a grand-aunt there; if she was younger, she loves me, and would not see me wronged, but she’s too old for that work; and — ye were so kind, I’ve told ye all — and I mind the time I thought there was not a sore heart or wildered brain in all the world. — Hey! Why, there’s a bird and a pretty cage! That’s a bullfinch, and it can’t whistle, I’m sure, but I’ll teach it!” And by this time she was beside the cage, and began very sweetly to whistle a little tune. “Ay — av, see how he cocks his ear! I love birds! He will, the darling — he’ll whistle, I tell ye!”