HESSIE'S STORY.

EVERY year the William Forsters spent the summer vacation at Mount Salem, and the winter one on the Continent. After a time a large room, hitherto unused, came to be known as the nursery, and sundry small Forsters made more noise there in one day than their mother had ever made in all her life!

The old Rector of Grassley was dead, and a very good and energetic man succeeded him. He gladly accepted the offer of help to pay a curate for Blackmead, which he could not have done without help. Mr. Arkwright also got together funds for building a substantial house, with a large room which could be used as a school-room, and in which, for the present, services could be held. Among his friends there were many who, like himself, gave freely: the funds were soon ready, and the building was begun.

The people were pleased, because they were employed, such of them as could work fairly well. A fine large room was soon built, with rooms over it for the curate, a young man who had been a great cricketer, and who declared that he preferred to live on the spot, and was not a bit afraid to do so.

Indeed, Mr. Tregarthen, a tall, athletic Cornishman, in the prime of life and strength, could probably have given a very good account of the men of Blackmead, who were not remarkable for courage. Ben Marks, who would have been a formidable antagonist, was no longer the man he once had been. I am not advocating the propriety of knocking a man down as a first step towards reforming him, but with people like those at Blackmead, it is an advantage to look as if you could do it. However, Mr. Tregarthen never had to use his strength in any worse emergency than the punishment, or forcible ejectment, of a rebellious boy.

To begin with, he was a gentleman, and that goes a long way—I mean where the gentlehood is real, and not a matter of kid gloves and scented handkerchief. Then too, unlike the poor preacher whom they had treated so badly, he had a good room in which to receive them, and benches for them to sit on; the place was his own, and if any one misbehaved, he had a right to turn that person out. Then again, he brought help and comfort in many ways besides the services and the teaching; he had in his service a good nurse, and a doctor came once a week and gave, for the present, medicine free of expense.

I need not go into further particulars. The place was small, and therefore the expenses could be easily borne by the Arkwrights, Forsters, and their friends. And though the reformation was very slow, and some were never really better except in merely outward things, yet Blackmead ceased to be the miserable, filthy, hopeless spot that it had been when Christie Brent lived there.

Christie heard all about this mission, as it may well be called, and listened anxiously to all his master told him, in hope of hearing something pleasant about Hessie Marks. But her name was never mentioned. At last, he asked his master to inquire about her, and particularly if she was one of those who welcomed the new order of things.

The Rector of Grassley promised to find out, but added that he had been in Blackmead several times, and had never seen such a girl as Mr. Arkwright described.

In a few days, he wrote again. Mr. Tregarthen knew no such girl; Marks the blacksmith was a married man with two small children, but had no grown-up daughter.

"Sir," said Christie, "let me go and find out what's become of Hessie. Somehow I don't fare to feel she's dead. She was not like one that would die. But I cannot rest till I know, and I will be away only two days I hope, sir."

"That man, Marks, is very violent, they tell me; he may resent your visit, Christopher. Better let me request Mr. Tregarthen to speak to him."

"It would be weeks before we had news. Oh, let me go, sir! I'm real unhappy about my poor Hessie."

Of course Mr. Arkwright let him go: though he told his wife in the evening that he greatly wished that Christopher could forget that girl altogether, for that she would certainly work him mischief yet.

"And yet," added the old gentleman, "I should not esteem Christopher as highly as I do, if he could forget her."

Christie reached Blackmead early in the day, and trusting to the improved state of things, walked boldly up to the new building, which stood just where the track to his old home joined the village street.

To tell you the truth, Christie was a little disappointed—the place looked so like its old self still. Perhaps it was cleaner, but it was still quite dirty enough. There were fewer boys and girls idling and brawling in the street, but Billy Kirby lay at length on the rough bit of green before his mother's door, and looked as ragged as ever. Moreover, he scowled at Christie, and swore under his breath, because "here was another stuck-up jackass coming to worry and bother."

Christie thought it better not to claim acquaintance with this young gentleman, and in a few steps more, he reached the school-house. He opened the door and looked in. School was going on; there were ten boys and some girls, and a loud buzz prevented Mr. Tregarthen from hearing the sound of the door. Christie did not like to interrupt, so he turned his face towards the forge.

On his way up, he met his Aunt Jane—grown very aged in appearance, and frowning as fiercely as when, in old times, she used to order poor Bob to shut his mouth.

"Aunt Jane!" cried Christie, hurrying to meet her. "I was intending to go to see you presently. Why, you've not forgotten me, have you?"

"I do declare," she said, staring at him, "'tis that unfort-nate Christie!—not that you look unfort-nate now. But you 'were' an unlucky chap before you ran off. And you were up here since and never came a-nigh me, though I was always your friend, Christie."

"I know you were. I was afraid to go to you because of Robert and Jem and Jenny; and I had to leave the place at once when Ben Marks threatened to raise the village. But I suppose there's no fear of that now?"

"Well, I think not. Robert and Jem do all the carpenters' work for Mr. Tregarthen, and that would keep them quiet. The only one I'd have you attend to is Billy Kirby. Where others get better, Billy gets worse, and I do pity his mother, though she's a bad old body herself. Where are you going, Christie?"

"To speak to Ben Marks. After that, I'll come to you, if I may."

"Ay, of course. What d'ye want of Ben?"

"I want to see Hessie."

Jane Brent looked all round, saw that no one was near, and then said—

"You won't see Hessie, my boy. Turn about and go back, for I can tell you as much about Hessie as any one can—and from Ben you'll get nothing but impudence. Did you know that Ben is married to my Jenny?—poor soul!"

"I knew he was married; but I didn't know 'twas to Jenny."

"'Tis to Jenny, then, and I do wish it wasn't. After the little fellow came preaching, Hessie was never the same girl. Marks was very angry. I think she was fretting, but I never knew the ins and outs of it properly. But one day Marks came to my place and asked Jenny to marry him, and she said yes—and in three weeks' time married they were, down in Grassley Church. And she and Hessie did not get on; and Hessie went off with herself, quite unknown to Jenny, and, if you may believe him, to Ben Marks. Sight nor token of Hessie no one has seen since."

Christie seemed only half to understand. He kept saying, "Hessie gone! Hessie lost! I must find her."

"Christie, come home with me."

"Not yet. Ben 'must' know where she is. I will ask him."

He walked on, at first like one who could not see, but after a few steps, he looked all right again.

Jane followed him at a little distance.

At the door of the blacksmith's house sat a pale little child in a little wooden chair, into which it was tied with a strip of dirty calico. In the kitchen were Ben himself, his wife, and the baby: dinner was going on. Ben faced the door, and he knew Christie at once.

"So!" said he, with an oath. "What brings you here again?"

"Where's the need of swearing, Ben?" said Christie. "I came to ask you a question, and I hope you'll answer it civil, as I ask it. I want to know where Hessie is."

"I can't tell you, because I don't know. This woman, your cousin Jenny, worried my girl out of her senses, and so one night she ran away. I have never heard of her since. 'Tis more than two years ago. I can't tell you what I don't know."

"Ben, I don't feel to believe you. You 'do' know."

"I thought you were to be civil," replied Marks, with a laugh. "If I did know, I wouldn't tell you, Christie Brent. You may go now; you'll get no more out of me."

The child at the door began to cry, and Jenny got up and went out to him, carrying the baby in her arms. Christie looked at her for the first time, and thought that he would not have known her anywhere else. She looked thin and anxious and frightened, and as she passed him, she seemed to shrink from him.

"Oh, you may well look at her," said Ben; "she's a pretty object, ain't she? And she's never done whining and fretting, till I'm half crazed! And did you see the brat at the door? Little white-faced fool, rickety, and always crying! A fine exchange she gave me for my pretty Hessie, that had some spirit in her, and could hold her own with me. Indeed I wish I'd never seen her ugly face—the stupid owl. What are you waiting for, Christie Brent?"

"To know where Hessie is," said Christie.

Ben got up and came towards him, but Christie stood his ground.

"Be quiet now, Ben; I'm as strong as you, if you come to that, but I don't want to come to it if I can help it. All the same I do believe you know where she is, and that she's safe enough. I know that if you have it in you to care for aught, you do care for Hessie."

Ben declared with many oaths that he did not care for her, nor know where she was.

Christie left him, for he knew there was no use in saying more. At the door he stopped to speak to Jenny, and the child, an ugly, sickly little creature, struck at him viciously and screamed with fright.

"Christie," whispered Jenny, "say just one word. Say you don't bear malice, though I was bad to you. 'Twas all for he—and you see how that has ended. As to Hessie, I was not to blame. If I knew anything I'd tell you, even if he beat me for it."

"I bear you no ill-will, Jenny. Heaven help you, poor girl! If ever you know where she is, tell Mr. Tregarthen."

He hurried away, and Jane presently joined him again.

"Did you get a word out of him, Christie?"

"No; he says he does not know. But I don't believe him."

However, when Christie told his story to his master and mistress, he found that they were not inclined to agree with him. They were very sorry for him, but they thought it would be much happier for him if he never saw or heard of Hessie again.

This visit to Blackmead took place when Christie was about twenty years old, and poor Hessie, wherever she was, about eighteen.

And Christie was four-and-twenty before he heard of her again.

The William Forsters came to Mount Salem that year for their usual summer visit, bringing with them their children, and a maid to attend to them. Christie, working in the garden, heard the carriage drive up, and went to the garden door to see if he were wanted. But Mr. William and the driver had carried off the luggage, and they had all gone into the house. Christie only saw a tidy-looking girl carrying the baby, just as she too went in. So, as he wished the flower-beds to be quite free from weeds for Mrs. William, he went back to his work.

Mrs. William came out presently, and with her, Mr. William and her father and mother.

"Well, Christie! How are you? The garden grows lovelier every year, I think. I never see such flowers anywhere else. You and my father ought to be gardeners to the king."

"I'd rather be gardener to the master, Mrs. William."

They all stood talking to him for a few minutes, and then wandered on towards the greenhouse, all except Persis.

"Christie, my father looks older. Is he quite well? Is he strong for his work, as he used to be?"

"The dear master is as well and hearty as any man of his years in England; and as to hard work, he does not get much of that to do. I do watch, and manage to do the heavy bits, and leave him nice pleasant bits. And the mistress says that I keep him from over-tiring himself fairly well. Does not the mistress look right well, ma'am?"

"Indeed she does, ever so much stronger. You must come by and by and see my baby—such a fat, white little fellow, not like any of the others. Yes, William, coming!"

"Come to the strawberries," William Forster called out, laughing.

"Mr. William was always after the berries, wasn't he, ma'am?" said Christie, as she ran off.

Later, when the family was at tea, Christie was in the kitchen-garden, working away, when he heard a step on the gravel walk. Looking up he saw the young woman whom he had seen carrying the Forsters' baby—he knew her by her pretty pink gown. Christie was shy with young women, so he bent over his work again.

The steps came on slowly; then they stopped, quite close to him.

Well, he must be civil to the strange girl; so he raised himself and said—

"Were you wanting anything, miss?"

A laugh was the answer—a peal of mischievous, happy laughter, and in one moment Christie stood, in imagination, on the old mound over the Fever-pits, and saw Hessie, crowned with crimson poppies, dancing before him.

He took two long steps and stood beside the girl. He caught her arm and looked into her face. For a moment, he was in doubt. She was a tall, slight girl, neatly dressed in a gay pink gown, snowy apron, and a little cap with pink ribbons. She was very unlike Hessie, all rags and flowers. But then—she raised her eyes to his face: and they were Hessie's eyes—there was no doubt about that.

"Oh, Hessie dear! 'Tis really you!" he cried.

Hessie clapped her hands in great glee.

"Are you surprised? I thought you would be! Oh, I would never let you see me, Christie, as long as there was anything left of the wild, foolish girl you came to help, and who would not be helped. Are you glad, Christie? I've been looking forward to this meeting for a long, long time."

"I've been wondering should I ever hear of you again, and getting nearly out of heart lately. Come over to yon seat, and tell me how this came about. I can't believe that this is Hessie yet."

"I can stay," she said, "for I told the mistress all about it this afternoon, and she got Janet to mind the children."

"But—Miss Persis might have told me! Have you been long with her?"

"Two years. I'm housemaid. I came as nurse now because Mary Banks wanted to go home, and I wanted to see you. I thought that the time I had set myself had come. As to my mistress telling you, she could not, for she did not know. When I left Blackmead, I made up my mind to use my mother's name, to help to keep my secret, and Mrs. Forster calls me Hester Lee."

"Hessie, did your father know where you were?"

"Yes; of course he did."

"I went up to seek you, and Ben said he knew nothing about you."

"Oh, well, he knew all about it. I'm going to tell you the whole story now. Before you came, just after the preaching man, I had got dreadful ashamed of myself, and after you came I took to fretting over it. I did not see what was to become of me, if I went on as I was, and yet father had no one else, and was fond of me. How could I leave him? Yet I knew that sooner or later I should fall into the old wild ways, but I tried to keep out of it all.

"Father was angry; he said I was stupid, and—we had words, often. He said I was no use to him, and that he'd marry Jenny Brent if I did not mind what I was about. I did try to please him, but it got harder and harder. Then one day he told me he was married, and in walked Jenny—and a nice life we had! I think she wanted to be friends, but I would not. Father needed me no longer, and I had my plans. You know, Christie, 'twas all your doing, after all."

"How was it my doing?"

"'Twas you told me of the training-school, and when I snapped the paper away from you, I kept it. So when I had kept them all dancing mad long enough—and really I did lead Jenny a frightful life—I told father that I should never be any better, but that, if he liked, I would go and learn to be a servant, and trouble him no more. But, said I, you'll have to pay."

"Ay—and did he say yes?"

"Not at once. He bid me say nothing to any one else, and he'd think it over. And I coaxed him, and plagued Jenny. I never would do a thing to help her, but played her every trick I could think of, till she was nearly mad."

"I don't doubt it," said Christie.

"If I was sure that no one could see us, I'd box your ears for that," said Hessie.

"I don't doubt that neither. Not the first time by a good many would it be. But go on, Hessie, for 'tis nearly time for me to go after the cow."

"Bother the cow! That's just you, Christie! I never knew you yet but in a hurry to do something else when I wanted to talk to you."

"Well, well! But you went to the training-school by the name of Hester Lee?"

"I did. Father gave in at last. But he didn't want Jenny to know that he either has money saved, or has some one that can give it to him; I think 'that's' it, because the payments for me were made by a Mr. Lardner, who has a big shop in Bradstone. Father got me into the school through him too.

"When it was all settled, he made me slip out and go down the road by the Water, and Mr. Lardner met me and took me off in a chaise. I was there for nearly three years. Many a time, specially at first, I thought I 'must' run off back to Blackmead; but they were very kind to me, and I thought of you, and of Mammie Brent, and I made up my mind to stick to it and learn to be good. I don't know that I am good, Christie, but I'm better than you had any right to expect.

"Then I got a place, and before long, I found out who my mistress was. But I kept my secret, because I would not tell you my story till I had proved that I 'can' work, and—and be a decent, good kind of girl, Christie—" with a little sob.

"You always could be, or do, anything you chose. I know that, Hessie. Dear heart, you've made me very happy. I do tell you true—the fear that harm would come to you, or want, was such that often I could think of nothing else. You know I always loved you well. I expect, Hessie, neither you nor I ever forgot the promise?"

"'Do' you want to have your ears boxed?" she said, blushing rosy red.

"Yes," he answered; "and not only just once, like this, but I want to make sure of getting them boxed often, all the rest of my life. But see," pulling out the cherished watch, "'tis getting very late for the cow."

Hessie sprang up, and ran down the garden as fast as her feet could carry her.

Christie stood gazing till she shut the gate, and could be seen no more. Then, just as he had done years ago, when he and she got safe out of the old mine, he took off his hat and said—

"Thanks be to God! My Hessie is safe."

* * * * *

Poor old Mr. Arkwright always called this the "uncomfortable year." First, he did not very heartily approve of dark, swift-moving, outspoken Hessie, even though Persis gave her a very good character. Then, too, though Christie lived close by, and never allowed his dear master to be inconvenienced, it was not quite the same as having him in the house, and Mr. Arkwright was old enough to dislike a change, just because it "was" a change. Then, too, Ben Marks, when Christie wrote to him, merely replied that he and Hessie must do as they liked, but that he never wanted to see either of them.

Mr. Arkwright was distressed at this, but I cannot say that Christie cared.

And Hessie only laughed, and said, "We'll pay him a visit, sir, some day."

I do not know whether Mrs. Christie Brent ever boxed her husband's ears, but if she did, it agreed with him. They were a very happy couple.

But, with the curious reticence of his character, not even to his Hessie did Christie ever explain the mystery of his father's death. He had been silent about it so long that he really could not break that silence now. So poor Giles rests undisturbed in his wild grave.

THE END.

Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay.

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