S. Baring-Gould
Winefred
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Table of contents
CHAPTER I HOMELESS
CHAPTER II ON THE VERGE
CHAPTER III A COMMON CHORD
CHAPTER IV THE UNDERCLIFF
CHAPTER V DON'T
CHAPTER VI OVER THE PUNCH-BOWL
CHAPTER VII A LATE VISITOR
CHAPTER VIII ON THE PEBBLE-BEACH
CHAPTER IX SEEN THROUGH
CHAPTER X A RIFT
CHAPTER XI A PROPOSAL
CHAPTER XII BY NIGHT
CHAPTER XIII OUT OF THE SNARE
CHAPTER XIV BURIED ALIVE
CHAPTER XV CAST FORTH
CHAPTER XVI JOB'S SECRET
CHAPTER XVII J. H.
CHAPTER XVIII DECLARATION OF WAR
CHAPTER XIX EXIT JOB
CHAPTER XX A FIRST STEP
CHAPTER XXI FURTHER FORWARD
CHAPTER XXII HOUSE AND HOME
CHAPTER XXIII A PASSAGE OF ARMS
CHAPTER XXIV REVERSED POSITIONS
CHAPTER XXV THE STUDY OF A FACE
CHAPTER XXVI A THORN BOUGH
CHAPTER XXVII MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
CHAPTER XXVIII MOST HEARTILY
CHAPTER XXIX THE SHADOW OF A CHANGE
CHAPTER XXX A NEW WORLD
CHAPTER XXXI A CHARIOT DRIVE
CHAPTER XXXII AT THE MILLINER'S
CHAPTER XXXIII IN THE SQUARE
CHAPTER XXXIV MISCHIEF-MAKING
CHAPTER XXXV THE YOUNG MAN FROM BEER
CHAPTER XXXVI TO BATH
CHAPTER XXXVII CONFIDENCES
CHAPTER XXXVIII A LETTER FROM BATH
CHAPTER XXXIX THE BATH ASSEMBLY
CHAPTER XL WANTED—CHOUGHS
CHAPTER XLI THE WHITE CLIFF
CHAPTER XLIIA REVELATION
CHAPTER XLIII A REFUSAL
CHAPTER XLIV THE GATE OF THORNS
CHAPTER XLV HOLWOOD OR MARLEY?
CHAPTER XLVI OVER A TEA-TABLE
CHAPTER XLVII THE CURTAIN DRAWN
CHAPTER XLVIII THE BEGINNING OF THE END
CHAPTER XLIX RENT ASUNDER
CHAPTER L JOINED TOGETHER
CHAPTER I HOMELESS
One
grey, uncertain afternoon in November, when the vapour-laden skies
were without a rent, and the trailing clouds, without a fringe, were
passing imperceptibly into drizzle, that thickened with coming night,
when the land was colourless, and the earth oozed beneath the tread,
and the sullen sea was as lead—on such a day, at such a time of
day, a woman wandered through Seaton, then a disregarded hamlet by
the mouth of the Axe, picking up a precarious existence by being
visited in the summer by bathers.The
woman drew her daughter about with her. Both were wet and bedraggled.The
wind from the east soughed about the caves, whistled in the naked
trees, and hissed through the coarse sea-grass and withered thrift;
whilst from afar came the mutter of a peevish sea. The woman was
tall, had fine features of a powerful cast, with eyes in which
slumbered volcanic fire. Her cheeks were flushed, her rich, dark
hair, caught by the wind and sopped by the mist, was dishevelled
under her battered hat. She was not above thirty-six years old.The
girl she held and drew along was about eighteen. She partook of her
mother's fineness of profile and darkness of eye. If there were in
her features some promise or threat of the resolution that
characterised her mother's countenance, it was tempered by a lurking
humour that would not suffer them to set to hardness.This
woman, holding her daughter with a grip of iron, stood in the doorway
of a farm, talking with, or rather at, the farmer.'Why
not? Have I not hands, arms? Can I not work? Will not she work? Prove
us. I ask why you cannot take us in?''My
good woman, we require no one.''But
you do. You have needed me. When your wife was ill, and your hussy of
a maid had run away—did you not send for me? Did I hesitate to go
to you? I left then my huckstering that I might be useful in your
house. That was the hour of your need. Now it is mine. Did I not at
that time do my work well? Perhaps over well. Your wife said I had
scrubbed the surface off the table and rubbed into holes the clothes
I washed. Anyhow I did naught by halves. And your drones, they guzzle
and sleep, and when you are in straits—there is sickness,
disaster—then they run away. Take me and Winefred.''My
dear Mrs. Marley, it is of no avail your persisting to thrust
yourself on us. You can't stable more horses than you have stalls. I
have no vacancy.''Your
missus has turned away Louie Herne.''And
has engaged one in her place.''Then
give us leave to sleep in your barn, and I'll work in the fields for
you, hoeing, weeding, gathering up stones—ay, better than can a
man.''No,
thank you. I do not care to have my barn burnt down. You have too
much fire in you to be safe among straw.'The
woman quivered with disappointment and rage. Erect, with rigid arms
and stiff neck, she flared out: 'Ay! I could tear down your stacks,
or fire them. I am "Dear Jane Marley" when
you need me. "Out,
you vagabond," when
I am in need.''If
you dared do what you threaten,' said the farmer, suddenly becoming
harsh in tone and manner, 'into prison you should go, and then,
indeed, your Winefred would be a vagabond, and all through you.'The
woman shut her mouth, but sparks scintillated in her eyes.'Mother,
let us go elsewhere,' said the girl and endeavoured to draw her
mother away.'Not
yet,' answered the woman impatiently. 'Do you not know, Moses
Nethersole, that I and my Winefred are homeless? My cottage has gone
to pieces, and the whole cliff is crumbling away. The wall is down
already, and the lime-ash floor is buckled up and splitting. No one
now may go nigh the place. It needs but the hopping of a wagtail to
send the whole bag of tricks into the sea. And you—you have the
heart to deny us shelter and bread, and work whereby to earn both.''Bread
you shall have and a cup of milk.''I
will have neither as an alms. I ask no charity. I desire to work for
my meat and for my housing. Have I not done so like an honest woman
hitherto? Would you make a beggar of me? Give me work, I ask. I seek
nothing more.''Mother,
come away,' pleaded the girl.'I
will,' said the woman curtly, and turned round with an abrupt action.
Then suddenly she stooped, stripped off her shoes, and, running
forward as the farmer backed, she beat the soles against the
doorposts.'There,'
she said, 'there is Scripture for you. I cannot shake off the dust o'
my feet as testimony against you, but I can the mud and the oozing of
the water from the sodden leather. May that cling there till the Day
of Judgment, and bring the blight to your wheat, the rot to your
sheep, to your cattle, the worm and canker to your store, and fester
into your blood. It is the curse of the widow and the fatherless that
will lie on you.'The
farmer slammed his door in her face, and retreated to the kitchen. He
was a phlegmatic and amiable man, but the fury of the woman, and her
denunciation of woes had shaken him; his ruddy face was mottled, and
his hand shook as he let himself down into the settle.'By
my soul, she's a vixen!' he gasped.'Moses,'
said his wife, 'you've done right. If I hadn't been minding ironing
of your shirt-front for Sunday, I'd have gone out and given that same
vixen a bit of my mind.''I
wish you had, Mary—I'm no match for the likes o' she.''If
I had heard the smallest mite o' wavering in your voice, I would have
done so for certain,' said Mrs. Nethersole; 'and so you call her
"dear Jane," do you? Things come out unexpected at times,
and "Mistress Marley" is she? You know as well as I do that
she is no honest woman, howsomever she may brag of her honesty. She
is just a wild lostrel as has got no belongings, save that girl as
never ought to have come into this world of wickedness.''Mary,
perhaps it's all along of it being a world of a wickedness that she
did come. Jane Marley's case is a sad one. She has been driven from
her cottage.''Turned
out?''The
cliff has given way. You know where it stood.''Not
I—it is on the other side of the water.''It
was on the edge of the cliff, and the rock has been breaking away for
some time—that is how she had it cheap. Now it is part down, and
they say there be a great crack right along the ground—and the
whole cliff will go over, and be munched by the waves.''That's
no concern of ours, Moses; she does not belong to the parish.''True,
but she has worked for us when we were short and in difficulties.''And
was paid for it—and we wiped our hands of her.''Mary,
you are over hard.''And
you like butter on dog-days. I know you men. Dear Jane, indeed!'Mrs.
Marley, with labouring bosom, heaving after the storm, drew her
daughter with her into the village street, to the village inn, the
Red Lion, kept by Mrs. Warne.She
walked in, with a manner almost defiant, and encountered the landlady
issuing from the cosy parlour behind the bar, in which a good fire
burnt, and where sat a couple of commercial travellers.'I
have come,' said Jane Marley, 'and have brought my Winefred. Our
house is going to pieces under our feet, over our heads, and we are
homeless. I desire that you take my child and me. I do not ask it as
a favour. Look at my arms. I can work, and will be an ostler for you,
and she shall serve in the inn.''I
really do not require you,' said Mrs. Warne. 'I am sorry for your
misfortunes, but I cannot help. You do not belong to this parish.''And
are love and mercy never to travel beyond parish bounds?' asked the
woman, with her vehemence again breaking out. 'Is the tide of charity
to flow on one side of the hedge and not on the other? Is the dew of
heaven to moisten the wool on the fleece of the parish sheep only?''Jane,
be reasonable. Our duties are limited by the parish boundaries, but
not our charity.''Then
extend some charity to Winefred and me, not alms, mind you, only
consideration.''Charity
must be governed by circumstances,' said Mrs. Warne.'Oh,
yes,' retorted Jane scornfully. 'It is like a canal, so much of it
let out through the sluices as the dock-keeper thinks well.''If
you will be patient,' said the hostess, a woman rubicund, plump and
good-humoured, at the moment impatient to be back with the
commercials, especially with one who had an engaging eye and tongue.
'If you will be patient, I will tell you how I can oblige you. I do
not mind taking on Winefred.''But
Tom Man, your ostler, is dead.''Well,
but I must have a man in the stables, not a woman.''No,'
said Mrs. Marley, 'I will not leave the child unprotected in a
public-house. See me, I have neither father, nor mother—no relation
of any sort. What my story is, that concerns none but myself; but,
such as it is, it has made me alone, with only my child to love. All
the love you have to your mother and sisters and brothers and
cousins, that with me is gathered into one great love for the one
child I have. Where she is, there am I. She is a handsome girl,
blooming as a rose. No, I will not let her be seen in a tavern,
unless I be near also to watch over her against your leering bagmen.'Mrs.
Warne bridled up.'Bagmen,
indeed! Tut, woman, surely you may trust me?''I
can trust none. You are not her mother. You must take us both.''I
cannot receive you both. I have made you a fair offer. If you will
not accept, go over the river to your own parish.'Then
Mrs. Warne retreated into the bar, shut the door, drew down the
window, and went to the fire and the commercials. Jane Marley left
the Red Lion. The cloud darkened on her brow.She
said no word to her daughter, but directed her way up the street to a
small shop, in which already a light was burning.In
the greensand beds about Seaton, or rather on the beach, washed from
them, are found chalcedonies, green and yellow, red jasper, and moss
agates, also brown petrified wood that takes a high polish. There was
a little dealer in these at Seaton, an old man who polished and set
them, and sold them as memorials to visitors coming there for
sea-bathing and air. To this man, Thomas Gasset by name, the
distressed woman betook herself.He
was sitting at his work-table, with a huge pair of spectacles in horn
rims over his nose, engaged in mounting a chalcedony as a seal.He
looked up.'Got
some stones for me, Mrs. Marley?' he asked. 'I hope good ones this
time. Those Winefred brought last were worthless.''No,
Mr. Gasset, they were not,' said the girl. 'I know a stone as well as
you.''Thomas
Gasset,' said the mother, 'I come to you with a proposal. Will you
take Winefred and me into your service? That is to say, let us both
lodge with you. She shall collect the precious pebbles, and as she
says she knows one that is good from another that is worthless, she
can help polish; turn the grindstone, if you will; and I will go
about the country selling them, instead of tapes and papers of
pins—or with them.''My
dear good creature,' gasped the jeweller—as this dealer in such
stones as jasper and agate elected to be called—more correctly a
lapidary—'the business would not maintain all three. The season
here is short, and I sell in that only.'He
looked out of the corners of his eyes at his wife, who was darning
where she could profit by his lamp. She pursed up her lips and drew
her brows together.'The
business is a starving, not a living,' said Mrs. Marley, 'because it
is not pushed. I have just been in at the Red Lion—there are
commercials, them travelling for some habberdash or hosiery firm—they
work up the trade. It pays to employ them. You make me your
traveller, I will go about with your wares to Dorchester, to
Weymouth, to Exeter—wherever there be gentlefolk with loose money
to spend in such things. It will pay you over and over again. If this
sort of working a business can keep those commercials in the lap of
luxury in Mrs. Warne's bar, drinking spirits and dining off roast
goose, it will keep me who never take anything stronger than milk,
and am content with a crust and dripping. Let me travel for you and
look to this as my home, where Winefred is.''No,'
said Mrs. Gasset, snapping the answer from her husband's mouth; 'no,
indeed, we take none under our roof who cannot produce her marriage
lines.''Then
I will lodge elsewhere if you will take my child, Mr. Gasset. You may
trust her. Your goods will be safe with me. I will render account for
every stone. You will have as security what is more to me than silver
or gold—my Winefred.'The
man again peered out of the corners of his eyes at his wife, and
again she answered for him.'No,'
she said. 'I don't doubt your honesty. You have been honest always
save once. But there are reasons why it cannot be. That is final.'And
she snapped her mouth, and at the same moment broke her
darning-needle.Jane
Marley left the shop.When
her back was turned Mrs. Gasset flew at her husband.'You'd
have given way—I saw it by the way you twitched the end of your
nose.''My
dear Sarah! it was such an opportunity. The woman is right—my
business——''Oh!
much you thought of your business. It was her great brown eyes—not
your agates.''My
dear Sarah! surely at my age——''The
older a man is, the more of a fool he becomes.''Well,
well, my honey-bee, I didn't.''No,
you didn't, because I was by,' retorted the honey-bee, and put forth
her sting. 'If I had been underground, you'd have taken her in. I
know you; yah!'And
in the little parlour behind the bar, the comfortable Mrs. Warne
settled herself before the fire, and drew up her gown so as not to
scorch it, and looked smilingly at the more attractive bagman of the
two, and said, 'Ah! Mr. Thomson, if you only knew from what I have
saved you.''From
what, my dearest Mrs. Warne?''From
fascinations you could not have resisted. There has been here a
peculiarly handsome woman wanting a situation—as ostler. If she had
come, there would have been no drawing you from the stables.''Madame—elsewhere
perhaps—but assuredly not here.'The
women were all against Jane Marley because she was still
good-looking.
CHAPTER II ON THE VERGE
Jane
Marley wrapped her
shawl about her; her head was bowed, her lips set, her grip on her
daughter unrelaxed.She
turned from the village, and walked along the shingly way to the
water's edge. The Axe flows into the sea through a trough washed out
of the blood-red sandstone that comes to the surface between the
hills of chalk; but the fresh water does not mingle with the brine
unopposed. A pebble ridge has been thrown up by the sea at the mouth,
that the waves labour incessantly to complete, so as to debar the Axe
from discharging its waters into it. Sometimes high tide and storm
combine to all but accomplish the task, and the river is strangled
within a narrow throat; but this is for a time only. Once more the
effluent tide assists the river to force an opening which the
inflowing tide had threatened to seal.One
of the consequences of this struggle ever renewed is that the mouth
has shifted. At one time the red Axe discharged to the west, but when
a storm blocked that opening it turned and emptied itself to the
east.On
the farther side, that to the rising sun, the chalk with dusky
sandstone underneath rears itself into a bold headland, Haven Ball,
that stands precipitously against the sea, as a white, cold shoulder
exposed to it. Up a hollow of this hill, a combe as it is called, a
mean track ascends to the downs which overhang the sea, and extend,
partly in open tracts, in part enclosed, as far as Lyme Regis.There
is no highway. The old Roman coast-road lies farther to the north,
but there is a track, now open, now between blasted hedges, always
bad, and exposed to the gale from the sea and the drift of the rain.But
to reach this, the Axe estuary must be crossed. This is nowadays a
matter of one penny, as there is a toll-bridge thrown from one bank
to the other. But at the time of my story transit was by a
ferry-boat, and the boat could ply only when there was a sufficiency
of water.Jane
Marley seated herself on a bench by the landing-stage, and drew her
daughter down beside her.The
wind was from the south-east, and spat cold rain in their faces. She
passed her shawl round Winefred, regardless of herself.Presently
up came the ferryman.'Good
e'en, Mistress Marley. Do you want to cross again?''Yes—when
possible.''In
ten minutes. Will you come under shelter into my cabin?'The
woman shook her head impatiently.'You
will get wet.''I
am wet already.''And
cold.''We
shall be colder presently.''Poor
comfort I call that,' said the boatman. 'But you was always a
headstrong, difficult woman, hard to please. Where be you going to,
now?''Where
I shall be better off than I am here.'Presently
Jane raised her face, streaming with rain, and said, 'There are
springs hereabouts that turn the moss into stone, and the blades of
grass are hardened to needles. I reckon that the spray of these
springs has watered the hearts of the people; they are all stone, and
the stone is flint. I shall go elsewhere.''It
is a long way to Lyme—if you be bound thither. And over the cliffs
it is exposed as well, and not safe with the falling darkness. I do
not say this on your account. You, Jane, are not one who cares for
length of way and badness of weather. But I speak for pretty
Winefred's sake.''I
am her mother, and I am the person to consider her, not you, Olver
Dench.''No
offence meant. But my cat had kittens, and when all were drowned but
one, she carried that remaining one about in her mouth everywhere,
and never let it go till she had nipped the life out of the kitten;
and, I swear, you remind me of that cat.'Then
ensued a silence that lasted for some minutes. The ferryman reopened
the conversation.'I
suppose you knew it was coming.''Knew
what?' asked she.'That
the cottage would go to pieces.''Yes.
I got it cheap because of the risk.''And
now, I make bold to ask, what have you done with your furniture?''There
is not much. What I have is there. I have no house into which to move
it. In the parish I am refused—in Seaton they cast me back on the
parish, and the parish casts me off altogether.''You
do not belong to it by birth.''No.
I belong nowhere. I have no home.''But
are you not afraid your bits of furniture will be stolen?''What
if they be? If there be no shelter for Winefred and me, what care I
for housing a poor bedstead and a rotten chair? The great grey sea
has torn away the rock on which I stood. The wall has fallen, and my
house is thrown open to all. Whither shall I go? Where shall I
shelter my child? We have no place.'The
man shrugged his shoulders. He was a red-faced man with white hair;
in the failing light of winter the red looked dull purple and the
white a soiled grey.'Come
now!' said the woman, starting up, 'my affairs are none of yours.
They touch you in no way. The tide flows.'She
did not notice a peculiar expression that came up into his face and
creamed it as she said the words, but Winefred, who was looking
wistfully at him, was struck by it.Without
another word, he went to the ferryboat, unfastened the chain, and
held out his hand to assist Jane in.She
thrust his hand aside with a gesture of impatience, and stepped in
with firm foot, then turned and helped her daughter.Nothing
was said as the man rowed across. The woman was immersed in thought
of the most gloomy complexion; the daughter was too wretched to
speak. The tears that flowed from her eyes were mingled with the rain
that beat on her face.The
rower looked from one to the other with a sinister expression.After
the boat had grounded, when Mrs. Marley left it, he said, 'You'll not
go away—right away, I mean—without letting me know where you may
be; because it might chance—there's no telling—there is hope
yet.'He
did not complete his sentence.'There
is no hope,' said the woman coldly, 'no more than there is sun above
these clouds and this dribbling rain. The sun has gone down. After
nineteen years hope dies.'Then
she left him, and extending her arm, again grasped the wrist of her
daughter.'Mother,'
said Winefred, 'Mr. Dench hates us.''It
matters nothing to us whether he hate or love. Why should he hate
us?''That
I cannot say, but hate us he does.''All
the world hates us, for all the world has money, comforts, shelter,
and,' she muttered in her bosom, 'there are some who have a husband
to care for them, and a father to watch over them. We have neither,
and the sight of us, as we are, in our need, our nakedness, our
desolation, is an offence, like garbage, to be swept aside and cast
on the dunghill. Seaton says, Away, across the water! you do not
belong to us. And Axmouth says, Away! you were not born here, and we
are not responsible for you. Let us warm our feet at a sea-coal fire,
and drink mulled ale, and turn into our downy beds—go you wanderers
in night and cold and wet—die, but do not trouble us.'Up
the steep path that led through the crease in the hillside pushed the
weary mother, drawing along her yet more weary child. Yet in the
passion of her heart at the contrast her imagination drew she pressed
forward fast till arrested by shortness of breath.Thus
in silence they continued to mount. It was a climb of four hundred
feet. The woman looked neither to right nor to left. Wet, trailing
brambles caught at her garments with their claws. As she passed under
a stunted thorn it shuddered and sent down a shower. The flints in
the way lay in beds of water; the grass was slippery with rain. Dank
and rotting sting-nettles, oozy, but poisonous in their decay, struck
at their knees as they mounted.'O
mother,' sobbed the girl, when the summit was attained, and the cruel
east wind slashed in their faces, splashing them with ice-cold rain,
'O mother, I can go no farther.''How—where
can we stay? Answer me that.''Why
should we go on if we go nowheres?''No—we
go nowhere, for we have nowhere to go to for shelter and food.''Let
us go home.''The
sea has taken it from us.''Let
us shelter somewhere.''We
must find first some one who will take us in.''There
is the Poor House.''Not
for us—we do not belong to the place. And, further, it is full.''Let
us creep into some hay-loft.''They
will turn us out.''Into
the church.''That
at Axmouth is locked; that at Rousdon the roof has fallen in.''Mother,
we must go somewhere.''So
we shall—to the only shelter open.''Is
it far?''No.'She
still hurried the girl along, now at a faster pace, for they walked
on fairly level down.The
day had completely closed in; all, however, was not inky darkness. On
looking behind, seen through a blur of mist, could be caught some
glimmer of lights from Seaton. There was, perhaps, a moon above the
clouds, but the light sufficed only to show that there was not
absolute obscurity above.It
was to Winefred as though life was being left behind, and they were
plunging into boundless and black despair.A
wheeling gull screamed in her ear.Suddenly
the mother halted.The
wind lashed her hair, and flapped her sodden gown. She gripped
Winefred now with both hands, and turning her back to the blast and
splashing rain, said, 'Child! you shall know all now, now that there
is no place whatever left for us. Your father has deserted you, he
has abandoned me. He did this nineteen years ago. Not a word, not a
shilling has he sent me. I know neither where he is, nor what he has
been doing. He may be rich, he may be poor. He may be in blustering
health, he may be sick or dead. Neither by letter nor by messenger
have I been told—and I care not. I love him no more. I hate the man
who has suffered us to come to this. Child, if a father can be stone
to his own child, if a hus——if a man who has loved a woman can
forget her who loved him with her whole young fresh heart—then is
it a marvel that other men on whom we have no claim, to whom bound by
no ties, are stone also? Child—you and I are alone. We are
everything to each other. I have none but you; you have none but me.
If I go, you are lost. If you go—I am no more. We are tied up in
one another, to live and die together. Come on.'Again
she turned and faced the tearing, rain-laden wind.'Mother,
I cannot take another step,' sobbed the girl.'We
have not far to go.''Mother,
I hear the sea; you have lost the way.''I
know my course.''There
is no path here.''I
know it; paths lead to men and their homes—to firesides and warm
beds.''We
are on the cliff.''I
came to the cliff.''We
are drawing to the edge!''I
know it: we are at the very brow.''But
what if we fall over?'Then
with a hoarse voice Jane Marley said, as she held her child with a
firmer grasp, 'Why, then, we shall not feel the wind and the cold and
the rain and our weariness, we shall say good-bye to a stony world.
There is no other refuge for us outcasts. Locked in each other's
arms, mother and child must die.'For
a moment Winefred was petrified with horror. For a moment she was
unresisting as the powerful woman gathered her up and strode with her
to the verge, the water oozing about her from the soaked garments
under the pressure.But
it was for a moment only. In that moment it was to Winefred as though
she heard the sea in louder tone, multiplied five-fold, laugh and
smack its lips, conscious that living beings with human souls were to
be given to it to tumble and mumble, to pound on the pebbles and hack
on the reefs. It was as though she saw through the darkness the cruel
ocean throw up spray-draped arms to catch and clutch her as she fell.But
the moment of pause and paralysis was over. With a shriek and a
knotting together of all her powers, and a concentration of all her
faculties, she writhed in her mother's arms and fought her. She smote
in her face, she tore at her hair, she turned and curled, and
gathered herself into one muscular ball, she straightened herself,
and threw herself backward in hopes of over-balancing her mother. 'I
will not!' she shrieked. 'Let go! I will not.' Instead of freezing
rain trickling down her brow, the sweat broke out in scalding drops.
Her blood surged and roared in her veins and hammered in her ears.
Fire danced before her eyes—then there came a falling. O God!—a
falling——And
then a stillness.'What
is this?'And
a light smote into her face.
CHAPTER III A COMMON CHORD
Almost
before she had recovered her senses, Winefred found herself in a
cottage, warm, where a good fire burnt, throwing out waves of yellow
light as well as grateful heat, and she was being undressed by her
mother and put to bed. She was stupefied, exhausted by her struggle
for life.The
thoughts in her head were as straws, leaves, feathers in a swirl of
water. She knew not whether what she experienced was a phase of dream
or a piece of reality. But when food was forced upon her, and a mug
of hot elderberry wine put to her lips, she drew a long breath,
rubbed her eyes that were brimming with tears, rain, and sweat,
looked about her and asked, 'Mother, where am I?''With
me,' answered Jane Marley.'Where
are we both?''Captain
Job Rattenbury has taken us in,' said the woman. 'Enough for you to
know at present. Go to sleep and dream away the past.''O
mother, did you really intend to throw me over the cliff?''Winefred,
I would have cast myself over with you in my arms. But that is
gonebyes. Forget and sleep.'
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!