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Bessie's Fortune by Mary J. Holmes

M >> Mary J. Holmes >> Bessie\'s Fortune







CHAPTER X.

GREY.


Between the man of twenty-three and the boy of fourteen, who had knelt
upon the snow in the leafless woods and asked God to forgive him for his
grandfather's sin, and had pledged himself to undo as far as was
possible the wrong to others that sin had caused, there was the
difference of nine years of growth, and culture, and experience, and
knowledge of the world; but otherwise the boy and the man were the same,
for as the Grey of fourteen had been frank, and truthful, and generous,
and wholly unselfish, with a gentleness in his nature like that of a
tender, loving woman, so was the Grey of twenty-three whom we last saw
upon the steamer which was taking him away from home and the lonely
woman watching so tearfully upon the wharf, and feeling that with his
going her joyless life was made more desolate.

Since that time there had been a year's travel upon the Continent with
his parents, and then he had entered at Eton, where he renewed his
acquaintance with Neil McPherson, between whom and himself there sprung
up a friendship which nothing had weakened as yet. Several times he had
been a guest in Neil's home, where Lady Jane treated him with the utmost
civility, and admitted that for an American he really was refined and
gentlemanly. He knew Jack Trevellian, and Blanche, and all Neil's
intimate friends, and had the _entree_ to the same society with them,
whenever he chose to avail himself of it, which was not very often. He
was in Europe for study, he said, and not for society, and he devoted
himself to his books with an energy and will which put him at the head
of his class in Eton, and won him an enviable reputation for scholarship
at Oxford, where he had now been for nearly four years, and where he
intended to remain until his Aunt Lucy, and possibly his Aunt Hannah,
crossed the sea and joined him for an extended tour.

Then he was going home for good to settle down and marry, he said, for
in all Grey's dreams of the future there was always the picture of a
happy home with some fair, sweet-faced girl in it, reigning equally as
mistress with the dear Aunt Hannah, still living her solitary life in
the old farm house, and keeping watch over that hidden grave under the
bedroom floor, and laying up year by year the interest on the gold which
was one day to go to the heirs of Elizabeth Rogers, of Carnarvon, if
they could be found. But could they? That was the question both she and
Grey asked themselves as the years went on and no trace was discovered
of any such person either in or around Carnarvon, for Grey had been
there more than once, and with all due precaution had inquired of
everybody for the woman, Elizabeth Rogers, and finally, as he grew a
little bolder, for Joel Rogers himself, who went to America many years
before. But all to no avail; both Joel and Elizabeth were myths, and the
case was getting hopeless.

Still, Grey did not despair, and resolved that during the holidays he
would go again to the old Welsh town and try what he could do, and so it
came about that he accompanied Neil as far as Carnarvon, where he
proposed to spend a day and then go over to Stoneleigh on Christmas Eve,
more to please Neil, who had urged him so strongly to stop there, than
for any particular satisfaction it would be to him to pass the day with
strangers, who might or might not care to see him. He knew there was a
cousin Bessie, a girl of wondrous beauty, if Neil was to be believed,
and he remembered to have heard of her, years ago, when he was a boy and
first met Neil McPherson at Melrose. Faint memories, too, he had of
hearing her talked about at the memorable Thanksgiving dinner which had
preceded his grandfather's death and his own sickness, when they said he
had asked Miss McPherson to send for her and stuff her with mince pie,
as a recompense for the many times she had gone hungry to bed because
there was not money enough to buy dinner for three. And all this came
back to him as he stood in the station in Carnarvon waiting for the
train.

"She must be a young lady now seventeen or eighteen years old," he
thought; "and Neil says she is beautiful. But I dare say she is like
most English girls--with a giggle and a drawl and a supreme contempt for
anything outside the United Kingdom. I fancy, too, she is tall and thin,
with sharp elbows and big feet, like many of her sisters. I wonder what
she will think of me. People say I am more English than American, which
I don't like, for if there is a loyal son of Uncle Sam in this world I
am he. I can't help this confounded foreign accent which I have picked
up from being over here so long, and I do not know as I wish to help it.
Perhaps it may help me with Miss Bessie, as well as my English cut
generally," and Grey glanced at himself in the dingy little glass to see
how he did look.

What he saw was a broad-shouldered, finely-formed young man, who stood
so erect, that he seemed taller than he really was. A face which
strangers would trust without a moment's hesitancy; large dark-blue
eyes, thick brown hair just inclined to curl at the ends; and a smile
which would have made the plainest face handsome and which was Grey's
chief point of attraction, if we except his voice, which, though rich
and full, was very sweet, and expressive of the genuine interest and
sympathy he felt for every human being in distress or otherwise. No
tired, discouraged mother in a railway car, trying to hush her crying
infant, would ever fear that he would be annoyed or wish her and her
child in Jericho. On the contrary, she would, if necessary, ask him to
hold her baby for a moment, and the child would go to him
unhesitatingly, so great was the mesmeric power he exercised over his
fellow-creatures. This influence or power was inborn, and he could no
more have helped it than he could have helped his heartbeats. But, added
to this, was a constant effort on his part to make those with whom he
came in contact happy, to sympathize with them in their griefs, to help
them in their needs, to sacrifice his own feelings to their pleasure,
for in this way he felt that he was in part atoning for the wrong done
by the poor old man dead long ago and forgotten by nearly all who had
known him.

Such was the Grey Jerrold whom Neil McPherson met at the Menai station
and escorted along the road to Stoneleigh.

"I should have driven out for you, only there is no carriage. I think I
told you that Mr. Archie McPherson is awfully poor," he explained
apologetically as he saw Grey pull his fur cap over his ears, for the
wind was blowing a gale and drifting the snow in their faces.

"I do not think you ever told me in so many words that they were very
poor, but I had an impression that they were not rich," Grey said,
adding, "I prefer to walk, and rather enjoy battling with a
north-wester: it takes me back to New England, the very land of snows
and storms."

They were in the park by this time, nearing the house, when suddenly the
curtains of a window parted, letting out a flood of light into the
darkness and Grey saw for an instant pressed against the pane a face
which made his heart throb quickly with a kind of glad surprise as if it
were a face he had seen before, while with it came a thought of his Aunt
Hannah, and the lonely old house in the pasture land in far-off
Allington. A moment later, and the face was looking up to his with a
half fearful curious expression, which was, however, changed to one of
great gladness as Bessie met his winning smile and the kind eyes bent so
searchingly upon her. She had no fear or dread of him now, and she gave
him her hand most cordially and bade him welcome to Stoneleigh with a
warmth which made him feel at home, and put him at his ease.

"Perhaps you would like to go to your room at once, and Neil will show
you the way," she said to him; then, in an aside to Neil, "my room, you
know, at the head of the stairs."

Neil looked at her in surprise, while a cloud gathered upon his brow.
That Bessie should give her room to Grey seemed to him absurd, though he
never stopped to ask himself where she could put him if not there Neil
knew perfectly well the capabilities of the old stone house, and that
spare rooms were not as plenty as blackberries, but so long as he was
not incommoded it was no business of his to inquire into matters; nor
could he understand that an extra fire even for a day was a heavy drain
on Bessie's purse. But Grey's quick ear caught Bessie's whispered words,
and before he entered the warm, pretty room at the head of the stairs he
knew it belonged to her, and guessed why she had given it to him. Under
any circumstances he would have known by certain unmistakable signs that
it was a young girl's apartment into which he was ushered, and after
Neil left him he looked about him with a kind of awe at the
chintz-covered furniture, the white curtains at the window, and the
pretty little toilet table with its hanging glass in the center, and its
coverings of pink and white muslin.

Just then, through the door, which had inadvertently been left a little
ajar, he caught the sound of voices in the hall below, Neil's voice and
Bessie's and Neil was saying to her, disapprovingly:

"Why did you give your room to Grey? Was it necessary?"

"Yes, Neil; there was no other comfortable place for him; the north room
is so large and the chimney smokes so we could never get it warm,"
Bessie said, and Neil continued:

"And so you are to sleep there and catch your death-cold?"

"Not a bit of it," Bessie replied. "Dorothy will warm the bed with her
big warming-pan and I shall not mind it in the least. I am never cold."

"Well, I think it a shame!" Neil said, feeling more annoyed that Grey
was to sleep in Bessie's room, than that Bessie was to pass the night in
the great, cheerless north chamber with only old Dorothy's warming-pan
for comfort.

But it never occurred to him that he could give Grey his room and
himself take the cold and the dreariness of the north room, nor yet that
he could share his bed with Grey. He never thought for others when the
thinking conflicted with himself, and returning to the dining-room he
sat down by the fire with anything but a happy expression on his face,
as he wished that he had not invited Grey to Stoneleigh.

Something in the expression of Bessie's and Grey's faces as they looked
at each other had disturbed him, for he had read undisguised admiration
in the one, and confidence and trust in the other, and knew that there
were already sympathy and accord between them, and that they were sure
to be fast friends at least, just as he had told himself he wished them
to be.

Meanwhile Grey was thinking, as he made his toilet for supper, and as a
result of his thoughts he at last rang the bell which brought old
Dorothy to him.

"My good woman," he said, flashing upon her the smile which always won
those on whom it fell, and drawing her inside the door which he shut
cautiously, "My good woman, I do not wish to be particular or
troublesome, but really I should like a room without a fire, the colder
the better. One to the north will suit me, if there is such a one. No
matter for the furniture; a bed and wash-stand are all I require. You
see, I have so much health and superfluous heat that I like to be cool;
and then I have the--" he stopped short here, for he could not quite
deviate from the truth so far as to say he actually had the asthma, so
he added, in an undertone, "If I had the asthma I could not breathe, you
know, in this small room, pretty as it is, and upon my word it is
lovely. Have you no larger chamber which I can take?"

"Ye-es," Dorothy said, slowly, with a throb of joy, as she reflected
that her young mistress might not be deprived of her comfortable
quarters after all. "There is a big chamber to the north, cold enough
for anybody, but Miss Bessie got this ready for you. She will not like
you to change. Do you have the _tisick_ very bad?"

Grey did not answer this question, but began to gather up his brushes
and his combs, and putting them into his valise, he said, "I want that
north room; take me there, please, and say nothing to your mistress."

Dorothy knew this last was impossible; she should be obliged to tell
Bessie; but she did not oppose the young man whose manner was so
masterful, and whom she led to the great, cheerless room with its smoky
chimney down which the winter wind was roaring with a dismal sound,
while across the hearth a huge rat ran as they entered it.

"'Tis a sorry place, and you'll be very cold, but I'll warm your bed
and give you plenty of blankets and hot water in the morning," Dorothy
said, as she hastily gathered up the few articles belonging to Bessie,
who had transferred them from her own room to this.

"I shall sleep like a top," Grey replied. "Much better than by the fire.
This suits me perfectly, and the cold is nothing to what America can
do."

He was very reassuring; and wholly deceived by his manner, Dorothy
departed and left him to himself.

"Whew!" he said, as a gust of wind stronger than usual struck the
windows and puffed down the chimney, almost knocking over the
fire-board. "This is a clipper and no mistake. And what an old stable of
a room it is, and what a place for that dainty little Bessie to be in.
She would be frozen solid before morning. I guess I shall sleep in my
overcoat and boots. What a lovely face she has, and how it reminds me of
somebody--I don't know whom, unless it is Aunt Hannah, whose face I
seemed to see right side by side with Bessie. They must be awfully poor,
and I wish I had brought her something better for a Christmas present
than this jim-crack," and opening his valise he took out a pretty little
inlaid work-box fitted up with all the necessary appliances, even to a
gold thimble.

Remembering the Christmas at home when a present was as much a part of
that day as his breakfast, Grey had bought the box in London as a gift
to Bessie, and when he caught a glimpse, as he did, of the worn basket,
with its spools and scissors and colored yarns for darning, which
Dorothy gathered up among other articles belonging to Bessie, he was
glad he had made the choice he did. But now, as he surveyed the
apartment and felt how very poor his host and daughter must be, he
wished that he could give them something better than this fanciful box,
which could neither feed nor keep them warm.

As he had finished his toilet in Bessie's room there was nothing now for
him to do except to give an extra twist to his cravat, run his fingers
through his brown hair and then he was ready for the dining-room, where
he found Bessie alone. As a matter of course, Dorothy had gone to Bessie
and told her of the exchange, which delighted her far more than it did
her mistress.

"Mr. Jerrold in that cold, dreary room!" Bessie exclaimed. "Oh,
Dorothy, why did you allow it, and what must he think of us?"

"I could not help myself, darling, for he would have his way," Dorothy
replied. "He was that set on the cold room that you couldn't move him a
jot. His breathing apparatus is out of killer; he has the _tisick_ awful
and can't breathe in a warm room. I shall give him some _cubebs_ to
smoke to-morrow. And don't you worry; he won't freeze. I'll put a bag of
hot water in the bed. He is a very nice young gentleman, if he is an
American."

Bessie knew she could not help herself, but there was a troubled look on
her face when Grey came in, and, approaching her as she stood by the
fire, made some casual remark about the unusual severity of the weather
for the season.

"Yes, it is very cold," she said, adding quickly, as she looked up at
him: "Oh, Mr. Jerrold, Dorothy has told me, and I am so sorry. You do
not know how cold that north chamber is, and we cannot warm it if we
try, the chimney smokes so badly. You will be so uncomfortable there.
You might let the fire go down in m--, in the other room, if the heat
affects you. Dorothy says you suffer greatly with asthma."

"Yes--no," Grey replied, confusedly, scarcely willing to commit himself
again to the asthma. "I shall not mind the cold at all. I am accustomed
to it. You must remember I come from the land of ice and snow. You have
no idea what blizzards America is capable of getting up, and ought to
hear how the wind can howl and the snow drift about an old farm-house in
a rocky pasture land, which I would give much to see to-night."

There was a tone of regret in his rich, musical voice, and forgetting
that Neil had said he was from Boston. Bessie said to him:

"Is that farm-house your home?"

"Oh, no; my home proper is in Boston," he answered her, "but I have
spent some of my happiest days in that house, and the memory of it and
the dear woman who lives there is the sweetest of my life, and the
saddest, too," he added, slowly; for, right in Bessie's blue eyes,
looking at him so steadily, he seemed to see the hidden grave, and for a
moment all the old bitter shame and humiliation which had once weighed
him down so heavily, and which, naturally, the lapse of years had tended
to lighten, came back to him in the presence of this young girl who
seemed so inextricably mixed up with everything pertaining to his past.

It was like some new place which we sometimes come suddenly upon, with a
strange feeling that we have seen it before, though when we cannot tell;
so Bessie impressed Grey as a part of the tragedy enacted in the old New
England house many, many years ago, and covered up so long. He almost
felt that she had been there with him and that now she was standing by
the hidden grave and stretching her hand to him across it with an offer
of help and sympathy. And so strong was this impression that he actually
lifted his right hand an instant to take in it the slender one resting
on the mantel, as Bessie talked to him.

"What would she say if she knew?" he thought, feeling that it would be
easy to tell her about it,--feeling that she was one to trust even unto
death.

Bessie was interested in Grey, and already felt the wonderful mesmeric
influence he exercised over all who came in contact with him. In the
_salons_ of fashion, in the halls of Eaton and Oxford, in the railway
car, or in the privacy of domestic life, Grey's presence was an
all-pervading power, or as an old woman whom he had once befriended
expressed it:

"He was like a great warm stove in a cold room."

And Bessie felt the warmth, and was glad he was there, and said to him:

"I wish you would tell me about that house among the rocks and the woman
who lives there, I am sure I should like her, and I know so little of
America or the American people. You are almost the first I have ever
seen."

Before Grey could answer her Neil came in, and as supper was soon after
served, no further allusion was made to America until the table was
cleared away, and the party of four were sitting around the fire, Archie
in his accustomed corner with Bessie at his side, her hand on the arm of
his chair and her head occasionally resting lovingly against his
shoulder. Neil was opposite, while Grey sat before the fire, with now
and then a shiver running down his back as the rising wind crept into
the room, even through the thick curtains which draped the rattling
windows behind him. But Grey did not care for the cold. His thoughts
were across the sea, in the house among the rocks, and he was wondering
if his Aunt Hannah was alone that Christmas Eve, and was thinking just
how dark, and ghostly and cold was the interior of that bedroom, whose
door was seldom opened, and where no one had ever been since his
grandfather's death except his Aunt Hannah and himself. As if divining
his thoughts, Bessie said to him: "I wish you would tell us about that
house among the rocks. Is it very old?"

"Yes, one of the oldest in Allington," Grey replied, and instantly
Archie roused from his usual apathetic State and repeated:

"Allington? Did you say Allington, in Massachusetts?"

"Yes," Grey replied. "Allington, in Massachusetts; about forty miles or
so from Boston. Do you know the place?"

"My aunt lives there--the woman for whom Bessie was named, Miss Betsey
McPherson. Do you know her?"

"Yes, I used to know her well when I was so often in Allington before my
grandfather died," Grey replied, and Neil said to him:

"What manner of woman is she? Something of a shrew, I fancy. I saw her
once when I was a boy, and she boxed my ears because I called her old
Bet Buttermilk, and she said that I and all the English were fools,
because I asked her if there were any wildcats in the woods behind her
house."

"Served you right," Grey said, laughingly, and then continued; "She is
rather eccentric, I believe, but highly respected in town. My Aunt Lucy
is very fond of her. Did you ever see her?" and he turned to Bessie, who
replied:

"I saw her once at Aberystwyth, when I was a child; and she afterwards
sent me this turquois ring, the only bit of jewelry I own," and Bessie
held to the light her hand on which shone the ring Daisy had unwillingly
given up to her on the occasion of her last visit to Stoneleigh.

For a long time they sat before the fire talking of America and the
places Grey had visited in Europe, and it was rather late when the party
finally retired for the night, Neil going to his warm, comfortable room
facing the south, and Grey to his cheerless one facing the north, with
only the cold and the damp, and the rats for his companions, if we
except the bag of hot water he found in his bed, on which Dorothy had
put woolen sheets and which she had warmed thoroughly with her big
warming-pan.

"This is not very jolly, but I am glad I am here instead of Bessie,"
Grey thought, and undressing himself more quickly than he had ever
undressed before, he plunged into the bed which was really warm and
comfortable, and was soon wrapped in the deep sleep which comes to
perfect health and a good conscience.




CHAPTER XI.

CHRISTMAS DAY.


When Grey awoke the next morning there was a little pile of snow on the
foot of his bed, which stood near a window, and more on the hearth,
which had sifted down the chimney, while the wind was, if possible,
blowing harder than on the previous night.

"Whew!" Grey said, as he rubbed his cold nose, "I believe this beats
Allington! How shall I ever get myself together?"

Just then Anthony came in with jugs of hot water and a huge soapstone on
which he said the young man was to stand while he dressed himself.

"Sharp weather this, even for Wales!" he began, as he lingered a little
and put back the curtains to admit more light.

"Sorry, sir, I cannot make you a fire. Hope the cold did not keep you
awake?"

"Never slept better in my life, I did not mind the cold at all," Grey
said, and Anthony continued:

"Yes, you like air, _Tisicky_ my old woman says, and she sent me out
last night for a pipe and some cubebs which you are to smoke three times
a day. Nothing like cubebs for your disorder. Had it long?"

"Thank you, no, sir; you are very kind," Grey said, with a little groan,
as he wondered if the confounded things would make him sick, inasmuch as
he had never smoked in his life.

Making his toilet with all speed, and finding the soapstone and hot
water great comforts to him, he hastened down to the dining-room, where
he found Neil, looking rather tired and worn, and out of sorts, as if
there was something on his mind.

Neil had not slept well at all, though, after Archie, he had the best
bed and the best room in the house, and, his fire burned all night and
was replenished by Anthony, early in the morning. He had been restless,
and nervous, and had lain awake for hours, watching the flickering
firelight on the wall, thinking of Bessie, and wondering if she would
not be frozen stiff before morning.

He had known nothing of the exchange of rooms, and when he heard
footsteps in the north chamber, which adjoined his, though it did not
communicate with it, he supposed it was Bessie, and was surprised that
she stepped so heavily, and moved the chairs with such a jerk.

At last, however, all was still; Bessie was asleep, no doubt, and did
not feel the cold or hear the wind as he heard it moaning through the
old yew trees, and screaming around the house, as if it were some
restless spirit trying to get in. Suddenly, however, there was a sound
which made Neil start, and listen, and raise himself on his elbow to
make sure he was not mistaken.

"No I am not" he whispered to himself. "It is a _snore_," and he gave a
groan as he thought: "Bessie snoring! and such snores! who would imagine
that she could do anything so vulgar and unlady-like! Heavens and earth,
it is enough to raise the rafters! If I did not know Bessie was in
there. I'd swear it was a man. How can a girl--and Bessie of all
girls--go it like that?" and the fastidious Neil stopped his ears with
his fingers to shut out the obnoxious sounds which grew louder as Grey's
sleep became more profound.

There was a feeling of keen disappointment in Neil's heart, a sense of
something lost, or as if in some way he had been wronged, and then he
thought of Blanche, and wondered if she snored, and how he could find
out.

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Murder One closing so did we commit this crime?
Articles published by guardian.co.uk Books

Poetry Workshop creature features

For many years my local corner shop displayed a large sign in its window telling local residents to "use us or lose us!" It always looked a rather toothless threat to me. After all, if I didn't use them, what difference would it make to me if they weren't there? And surely a corner shop, one that had been there for years, would have enough customers to survive without recourse to such apocalyptic warning? But it didn't and was soon converted into flats.

This community shop was destroyed not so much by the pressures of the supermarkets or people's commuting patterns, but simply by customer apathy. It's something to think about as crime writers and readers across the world mourn the imminent passing of Maxim Jakubowski's celebrated Charing Cross Road bookshop in London, Murder One.

Apathy is a strange word to connect to a bookstore that thrives on passion. It's noticeable when you walk through the door, when you speak to the friendly, knowledgeable staff, when you look at the shelves and see the vast range of titles on offer. This isn't your regular kind of bookstore: the first time I visited spent a whole lunch break looking up and down, from floor to ceiling from table to table; it was an hour that changed my perception of both crime writing and of bookselling.

Murder One was – and for a few weeks will remain – a shop that took crime seriously. Not in the sense that it intellectualised it, or made unsubstantiated claims for its importance, but in the way that it treated crime writing with the respect it was due. With a genre that has so many off-shoots, branches and sub-genres, it took a shop of Murder One's calibre to show just how diverse, interesting and mentally stimulating crime could be – far more than the guilty pleasure I had, until then, considered it.

Thanks to judicious recommendations, enticing table displays and hours of foraging among the stacks, I discovered writers that I would never have picked up, let alone read. You could always get the latest blockbuster, but delve a little deeper and you'd find books that were not stocked anywhere else, novels that, like the perfect crime, were hidden from public view. The Martin Beck novels by Sjöwall & Wahlöö – probably my favourite sequence of novels in any genre – were introduced to me via Murder One, as were Kem Nunn, Sue Grafton, and Henning Mankell. It's also the staff of Murder One who piqued my interest in the inimitable Fred Vargas, and I can't thank them enough for the introduction.

Inclusive and without snobbery, Murder One amply demonstrated that the best bookshops are places not just of commerce, but of community; places that make feel you belong. It's the kind of store that bibliophiles dream about: well-stocked, well-staffed and shabby enough to lose days browsing within. It's just unfortunate that such shops don't have enough paying customers to keep them afloat, or that these customers visit all too infrequently – something of which I'm certainly guilty.

These kinds of shops are facing a long, bloody battle – and one which, without significant reinforcements, they are likely to lose. As we hear of the travesty of another brilliant independent going down, we'll mourn the loss, wring our hands and damn Amazon and the supermarkets and Waterstone's. Yet perhaps the most important detail we'll probably keep under wraps: the last time we actually spent any money there.

Murder One closing its doors for the final time is undoubtedly a .38 shell for independent bookshops, but whether it's body blow or a warning shot all depends upon us, the consumers. No one, no matter how iconic or established, can exist on fond memories alone: just ask Woolworths. Use these shops now, because it doesn't take a master sleuth to deduce what will happen if we don't.

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