Chapter XXI: Part I

Perhaps there is no pleasanter watering-place in England where to spend the fine summer months than Hastings, on the Sussex coast. The old town, nestling in a long, narrow valley, flanked by the East and West Hills, looks down upon the sea. At the valley mouth, on the shingly beach, stands the fish-market, where boatmen disembark the fruit of daily toil; where traffic is briskly plied, and maybe haggling rages; where bare-legged children dodge in and out between the stalls; where now and then a travelling show—dwarf, giant, or what not—arrests for brief days its wanderings.

Hard by the market, on the beach, stands the fishermen’s chapel— plain, but comely, with, near the door, its small chest for offerings. I know not whether chanted psalms and hymns rise within its walls; but if they do, the windy sea must sound an accompaniment exceeding in solemn harmony any played upon earthly organs, to such words as, ‘One deep calleth another, because of the noise of the water-pipes: all Thy waves and storms are gone over me;’ or, ‘They are carried up to the heaven, and down again to the deep: their soul melteth away because of the trouble;’ or, ‘Let not the waterflood drown me, neither let the deep swallow me up.’

It is a pretty sight in brilliant holiday weather to watch the many parties of health or pleasure-seekers which throng the beach. Boys and girls picking up shells, pebbles, and star-fishes, or raising with hands and wooden spades a sand fortress, encircled by a moat full of sea-water, and crowned by a twig of seaweed as a flag; mothers and elder sisters reading or working beneath shady hats, whilst after bathing their long hair dries in the sun and wind. Hard by rock at their moorings bannered pleasure-boats, with blue-jerseyed oarsmen or white sails; and if the weather is oppressively got and sunny, a gaily-coloured canopy is reared on light poles, for the protection of voyagers. When tide is high, a plank or a long step suffices; but at low water, as the shore is flat, boatmen have frequently to carry children, and even women, across the broad stretch of wet sands to and from the vessels.

Very different from such seafarers in sport are their near neighbours, the seafarers in earnest; who neither hoist canopies for fair weather, nor tarry at home for foul; who might say with the patriarch Jacob, ‘In the day the drought consumed me, and the frost by night;’ whose vigils often see the moon rise and set; who sometimes buffet with the winds and tug against the tide for very life.

It is with one of these that my tale has to do: let us peep into his cottage.

An accident to his boat, only just now, after hours of diligent labour, repaired, has kept Frank Hardiman on shore all day. Within another hour the tide will be favourable, and he must put to sea; till then he stays with his wife and two children, Jane and Henry. They are seated at tea, discussing the contents of a letter received that afternoon. Let us look at the faces and listen to the conversation.

Frank Hardiman is thirty-one years old, tall, stout, tanned by the sun, with a deep, jolly voice, bright eyes, and the merriest of laughs. His wife, Emma, is slim and rather pretty, dressed with considerable taste and uncommon neatness; for before her marriage she was upper nurse in a gentleman’s family, and, indeed, made acquaintance with her good man when loitering along the beach after her little charges. Jane is nine years old, quiet and shy, with a mild expression, redeemed from insipidity by lines of unusual firmness about the mouth: when she speaks it is mostly in a slow, apathetic manner; but now and then a flash of feeling reveals that there are strength and depth in her character. Harry has scarcely entered his seventh year, and is a miniature likeness of his father, only less sunburned.

The letter under discussion ran as follows:—

Dear Brother and Sister,

My husband died ten days ago in the hope of a blessed resurrection. Moreover God, Who does all things well, has been pleased to call my sin to remembrance, and to slay my son. I am alone indeed now; not in debt, having just enough in hand to pay my way till Thursday, and then come down to you. Will you receive me? We parted in anger, but perhaps you will forgive me when you know how much I have lost, and guess with how sore a longing I desire to lay my bones amongst my own people. If I do not hear from you by Thursday, I shall understand that you cannot forgive: nevertheless remember, in the next world if not in this, we must meet again.

Your sorrowful, affectionate sister,

SARAH LANE.

‘How can she fancy we’d bear malice after all her troubles?’ said Frank; ‘and when it was for her own good, too. Write at once, my dear, and make her welcome to all we’ve got, such as it is, and the best of it.’

‘Yes,’ replied Emma, dryly. She was jealously alive to her husband’s fondness for his sister, and by no means relished the prospect of her returning to live with them.

‘How old is aunt Sarah?’ inquired Jane.

‘Twenty-five last March; and five years ago she was the prettiest girl in Hastings. You must furbish up your room a bit, Jenny, and make your aunt as comfortable as you can. She’s got rather high notions, naturally; but I guess they must have come down by this time, poor thing! only don’t let us make her feel strange coming back to what used to be her home—and shall be her home again, please God, if she’ll come and share it. Well, I’m off, Emma,’ continued Frank, rising and shaking himself: ‘you’ll write a kind welcome, I know, for you’re the scholar; and you needn’t say a word about me, except that I’m just the same as five years ago. Good night.’—‘Good night.’ So he left the cottage.

Then Jane busied herself with washing the tea-things and ‘tidying up;’ Harry, at the imminent risk of his fingers, began hacking a small bit of wood, to produce what he dubbed a boat, and Emma sat down to write the letter of invitation—I cannot say welcome:—

My dear Sister,

Your letter came to hand this afternoon, and Frank and I are very sorry for your troubles; but if you come here I dare say you will mind less. Frank says, ‘Come and welcome, and be as all was five years ago:’ only ours is but a poor place for such as you, and you must not mind having Jenny in bed with you; and you cannot expect me to do nothing but wait on you, as I have a good handful with Frank and the children, I tell you plainly.

So next Thursday we shall expect you, and no more at present from

Your affectionate sister,

EMMA HARDIMAN.

While Emma wrote her letter, Jane, I say, washed the tea-things. There was brisk thoroughness in her manner of washing; no great handiness, but concentrated energy: she was evidently conscientious. Next she coaxed Harry to forego his hacking and be put to bed, showing tact and good nature with firmness in the transaction. Then, returning with her bonnet on her head and a basket on her arm, she asked her mother whether she should not take her letter to the post.

‘Yes,’ answered Emma; ‘and you must make haste, too, or it won’t be in time. Here’s a penny for a stamp; and,’ putting a crown-piece into the little girl’s hand, ‘you must bring me in some butter, and sugar, and treacle, and a load, and some tea; and call at Mrs. Smith’s for my bonnet, and get a reel of black cotton and a paper of needles. And you must run, too; you’ll have running enough, I reckon, when madam comes.’

Away ran Jane with all her might, reaching the post-office in much more than time to catch the evening mail. ‘Well, my little woman, is it a love-letter you’re carrying?’ said the post-master; to which she answered demurely, ‘No, sir, please; it’s to my aunt in London.’ Seeing he was busy she added no more, but set off on her next errand. This took her to a various-smelling shop in one of the back streets, where she ran glibly through the accustomed list of articles: ‘Half a pound of butter, a pound of sugar, two pennyworth of treacle (for Harry), a quartern loaf, a quarter of a pound of three-and-fourpenny tea, and rashers of bacon,’ supplying the last item from her knowledge of what must be wanted, though her mother had forgotten to name it. She packed all carefully in her little basket, counted the change from her crown-piece, chirped to a poor imprisoned lark, which could catch not one glimpse of sky from his nail in the shop, stroked her old friend the black cat, and started for Mrs. Smith’s smart establishment in the High Street.

Mrs. Smith, in a false front and staring flowers, presiding behind her millinery counter, looked somewhat formidable. Jane preferred asking the young woman on the other side for the black cotton and needles. These were supplied and paid for; then Mrs. Smith called out to know if she wanted anything else. ‘Please, ma’am,” began Jane, is mother’s bonnet—’

‘Oh!’ cried Mrs. Smith, shortly, ‘tell your mother that her bonnet isn’t done yet, and she needn’t keep bothering after it; for when it’s done I’ll send it home, and not before. Good evening!’ This bonnet was a bone of contention between the two women; it was to be trimmed in return for certain errands already executed by Jane; and the milliner’s hands being filled just now with more lucrative orders, great delay ensued in its completion.

When Jane reached home, she found her mother seated hard at work making a black-and-white muslin dress with flounces—Emma loved to be smart on Sunday—for her own wear. Jane put away the purchases, handed what change remained to Mrs. Hardiman, and sat down to write a copy and work an addition sum for Mrs. Grey, the curate’s wife, who gave her an hour’s instruction two or three times a-week. The little girl laboured to do her very best, and had just produced a particularly correct capital B when her mother shook the table. Not a word said poor Jane, though a great blot was jerked out of the pen on to the B. She tried again and again for six lines more, but without equalling the defaced B; then, that page finished, turned her mind to the sum. ‘4 and 4 are 8, and 1 are 9, and 7—’ ‘Jane,’ cried her mother, ‘there’s nothing for supper; run out and fetch two rashers.’ ‘I got them, mother, when I was out, because I knew they were wanted,’ was the cheerful answer, and reckoning recommenced. ‘4 and 4 are 8, and 1 are 9, and 7 are sixt—’ ‘Jane.’ ‘Yes, mother.’ ‘Was the letter in time?’ ‘Oh, much more than time. 4 and 4—’ ‘I shall never get through these flounces to-night: put away your books, child, and help me. I’m sure your schooling isn’t worth much if it doesn’t teach you to mind me.’

Jane jumped up, though she could have cried, laid by her book and slate, and sat down close to her mother. In another minute two pairs of hands were hemming as fast as they could hem at the flounces. Why was Emma in such a hurry to finish making her dress? It could not be out of regard to her sister-in-law’s feelings, as she and her daughter were already in black for the death of an old relation who had left them a few pounds; neither could it be with an exclusive eye to Sunday, for this was only Tuesday evening: no, she was bent on receiving poor, sad Sarah in this fine gown, because she felt jealous of her good looks, and wanted to outshine her in Frank’s eyes.

Jane, who had no idea of this state of things, asked, ‘What was Uncle Lane?’

‘Don’t call him uncle,’ returned Emma, sharply; ‘he was no kith or kin to us, but a Methodist fografer [photographer], and but a poor body at best. I dare say his widow hasn’t a pound that she can call her own, though she is so ready to invite herself to live with them who work hard for their bread. However, your father must please himself. [Thread snaps.] Mrs. Smith’s cotton is mere rubbish; you go to Widow Wright’s next time, and see if you can’t get honest penn’orth; do you hear?’

‘Yes, mother. I shall like to have Aunt Sarah in my bed: is she like father?’

‘No—yes—I don’t know; don’t bother me. You’ll have enough and to spare of Aunt Sarah, I can tell you.’

Silence once more, except for the click, click, of thimble and needle; Jane wondering what she had said amiss, for her mother was not usually cross.

At last the flounces were finished. ‘There, that will do,’ observed Emma, more complacently, for they looked puffy and well. ‘I declare it’s supper-time; make haste, child, and toast the bacon whilst I clear away.’

On Wednesday, Jane having, under her mother’s direction, scrubbed her own bed-room floor, added a blue bason and jug to its furniture, and an extra chair. The window looked into Frank’s garden, very bright just now with nasturtiums; and though it did not command a sea view, the murmur, or tumult, or roar of the great deep, could always, except in very still weather, be distinctly heard from it.

The room made ready, let us glance at its occupant.

Sarah Lane, now so mournful, had years ago been not only the prettiest, but almost the merriest girl in Hastings. True, she was a child of sorrow to her mother, who died without even kissing her new-born baby; but, bequeathed to the guardianship of father and brother, she never missed a mother’s care. Often might Henry Hardiman be seen loitering up and down the parade, or lounging by the sun-dial, holding in his arms his little girl; or, as she grew older, putting his finger into her chubby first to help her in toddling. Sometimes, in pleasant weather, he took her in the boat with him for a row; sometimes left her on shore under the care of Frank, who lugged her unweariedly about the beach, where she served as plaything to her father’s rugged mates.

When the time arrived for Frank to go out with his father and share his labours, a change ensued for little Sarah. She was sent to a superior school—for Henry Hardiman drove a flourishing trade—and only went home on a Saturday to stay till the Monday; the Hardimans, from father to son, observing Sunday, and frequenting St. Clement’s Church. Henry and Frank were not a little proud of their girl as she walked beside them, rosy and good-humoured, or, with a pretty childish voice, joined in the hymns of the congregation; and before long she, too, learned to be proud of her sturdy, weather-beaten father in his Sunday blue boat, and of her handsome, merry brother, and to give them back warm love for the life-long love which they gave her.

At fifteen, grown tall and womanly, Sarah came home to keep her father’s house. Her school-education included several useful items: she was quick and clever with her needle, read with fluency and expression, wrote a clear hand, was a capital accountant, hair a fair knowledge of geography, history, and spelling, could express herself well in a letter; moreover, she knew a little music and a little dancing, and, thanks to natural voice and ear, sang sweetly and tuneably. Very soon the cottage bore witness to her good taste. The old-fashioned furniture was rubbed up; a few geraniums and fuschias screened the parlous window; a Virginia creeper, scarlet-coloured in autumn, clambered up the outer wall; and carefully tended plants rendered her garden the prettiest in the Tackle way. She liked and wore bright colours; and when she watered her window-flowers, or gathered a nosegay in the garden, or sat among the Pier Rocks watching for her father’s boat to come across the intense blue, sunny sea, often and often passers-by lingered to admire her noble beauty and untaught grace.

When her skill as a needlewoman became known, first neighbours, then ladies, engaged her to work for them. By this means she amassed a little sum of money, carefully stored amongst her treasures, but never spent. Sometimes Henry, coming home, found her sewing and singing, whilst puss purred at her feet, and the kettle sang on the fire. Then he would say, ‘Bless you, Sally; there’s no need for you to wear out your plump bits of fingers. Ain’t Frank and I big enough to work for you?’ and she would answer, ‘Ah, but some day when you’re a dear old father, and stay at home in the chimney-corner, Frank musn’t have all the pleasure of working for you, and my earnings will come in handy, you’ll see.’

Several young men courted her for her fair face, or clever ways, or kind heart; but to all of them she answered a civil ‘No,’ till it came to be said among the fisher-folk that Sarah Hardiman must be waiting for a lord. Even John Archer, a well-to-do, God-fearing young boatman, who followed her for many an anxious month, only at last elicited her gentle, firm ‘No,’ though her father pitied the poor lad, and Frank spoke warmly in his favour. Soon after Sarah left school, Frank married and brought home his Emma; but Sarah continued mistress of the house, her father’s darling, and very dear to her brother, which, with her good looks and many suitors, made Emma sore and jealous. The two young women were not over cordial together, though they never spoke of their coolness, and Frank was long before he even suspected it.

So four years passed.

One Saturday night, as the little family sat round the fire, over which spluttered eggs and bacon for supper,—as Henry dozed, Frank netted, Emma worked for her baby, and Sarah turned the rashers, a noise of quarrelling outside roused the two men. They started up, but before they could reach the door a loud crash was heard of something falling and breaking on the pavement; then three or four voices cried ‘Shame!’ They ran out, and the women were left alone in some anxiety.

After a few minutes old Hardiman returned. ‘Sally,’ explained he, ‘here’s a poor travelling showman whose box of things has just been smashed by big Ben, because he said the sun would take his likeness. Ben, I reckon, has had a glass too much. So I think it will be but Christian-like to take him in for to-night, as he’s quite a stranger here, and seems a decent body, if you’ll shake him down a bed, my darling.’

‘Yes, father,’ answered the girl; and just then Frank and a young man entered, bearing between them the wrecks of a portable photographic apparatus.

‘Sit down and be kindly welcome,’ Sarah said, blushing like a rose; she set a chair for the stranger, and, with practical hospitality, broke three more eggs, and put three more rashers into the frying-pan. Then she placed those already cooked on the table, with cheese, butter, home-made bread, and strong beer.

At supper the guest warmly thanked his entertainers, and proceeded to gratify their curiosity about himself. His name was John Lane; both his parents were dead, and, indeed, he had no near relation in the world. His business was to take photographs, at sixpence and upwards; for this purpose he travelled from town to town, seldom remaining in one place for more than a few weeks: ‘Till to-night,’ he continued, somewhat bitterly, ‘I never met with an ignorant brute.’ He then drew from his pocket a small case containing specimens of his art, both portraits and landscapes.

Frank looked at them in silent admiration; but Sarah observed, pointing to a coloured head, ‘I like that best; I always want to know what eyes and hair people have.’ John Lane glanced up at her: ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘the sun can’t paint eyes and hair.’ ‘Well, Mr. Lane,’ interposed Emma, ‘I must get you to do Jenny’s portrait. When will you be able?’ ‘I will come as soon as I possibly can,’ he answered, eagerly. So that evening concluded.

Next morning, while they sat at breakfast, Sarah said to the guest, ‘Our old church is worth seeing: I think when you’ve been there with us, you’ll want to take its likeness too.’ But John Lane, flushing crimson, replied, without looking up, ‘I can’t go there, thank you: I’m what you call a Methodist.’

Certainly John Lane by no means exaggerated in his own favour when he told his story. He might have said that during some years he had been the sole support of a bedridden mother, for her sake often denying himself all save bare necessaries; that by perseverance and ingenuity he had attained proficiency in his art; that he had laid up a sum of money, and was in the way to add to it. Any one who knew him well could have related these facts and more. Two years before this period, about the time of his mother’s death, he stopped one Sunday afternoon to hear in itinerant preacher, who, bare-headed, Bible in hand, went out—to use his own phrase—into the highways and hedges, to compel men to come in. John stopped to kill time; but the rough, zealous words pricked his conscience to the quick: before he went his way he had resolved to redeem the time. From that day he was an altered man: he read his Bible with fervent, persistent prayer, and at the first opportunity introduced himself to the preacher whose words had convinced him of sin. These two men, both honest, both zealous, both uninstructed, provoked each other to good works; but, utterly alien from church unity, ignored many vital doctrines. The elder man, constrained by the love of Christ, sailed as a missionary to India: John Lane then believed that he was called to fill the gap; to lift up his voice like a trumpet, and proclaim the gospel to souls perishing for lack of knowledge. Therefore he gave up his fixed quarters in London, and wandering from town to town, endeavoured to speak a word in season to persons who came to him in the way of business; and on Sundays, after attending one service in the Methodist chapel, devoted his afternoon to out-of-door preaching.

This was the man whom what we call accident, but what is in fact the appointment or permission of God, brought to the fisherman’s cottage; to Hardiman and Frank, staunch churchgoers; to Emma, not over partial to her sister-in-law; to beautiful Sarah, with her winning ways and disengaged heart.

Of course John Lane deemed himself in duty bound to bear witness for the truth here as elsewhere. Hardiman listened to him, but shook his head when he spoke of the love of the Establishment having waxed cold, of experience, and professors. ‘I like practisers,’ said Henry Hardiman; and trudged to St. Clement’s as heretofore. Emma went once to the Methodist chapel, but was mightily offended when the preacher, looking, as she declared, full at her light blue bonnet, observed, ‘It might have been better for Dives in hell if he had not dressed so finely.’ Sarah, who would not grieve her father, continued a regular attendant at the old parish church once every Sunday; but if, as frequently happened, in her afternoon stroll she caught sight of John Lane surrounded by a group of listening, too often idlers, she was sure to join his audience and add her sweet voice to their hymns. Then followed the walk together home; the earnest communings by the way, of the everlasting prize to be run for.

So these two came to love each other: Henry only saw that the young man loved his beautiful daughter.

‘John Lane,’ said he one day, ‘you love Sarah, and mean well by her; but I tell you plainly she’s not for such as you. She’s said “No” to many a man already, and she’ll say “No” to you when you ask her: for she shall never have my blessing on her marrying a Methodist, and gadding from place to place making mischief. Take my advice, my lad, and keep away from Sarah, and she won’t run after you.’

So John kept away from the cottage; and if Sarah fretted, she said not a word of her troubles to any one.

About a week had elapsed since they last saw each other, when she, having finished some work for a lady at Halton, set off to carry it home. A long round led her to the field-path, beset by fence and gates: on the right, where the West Hill slopes towards the town, haymaking was going on with a pleasant smell. Scarcely a breath of wind stirred: and when for a few minutes she sat on a wayside bench to cool herself, she noticed how a subtle exhalation rising from the heated ground became perceptible where it slightly altered the appearance of objects seen through it.

Her business at Halton was quickly transacted; and with lightened hands, if not a lightened heart, she was turning homewards, when straight before, pack on back, stood John Lane.

Sarah looked very tall and stately: ‘Good-bye, Mr. Lane,’ said she, ‘since I see you’re on your travels again; and I hope you’ll find a kinder welcome where you’re going than you got at Hastings.’

‘Good-bye, indeed,’ he answered, gravely, ‘if you call me Mr. Lane; and I hope I shall never find such another kind welcome, if it’s only to break my heart afterwards.’

It was not in human nature to part so: no wonder Sarah’s look softened; no wonder John forgot his pack and his migration, and turned back towards Hastings with her. He told her all: how her father had called him a mischief-making Methodist; had said he had no chance, and had better keep away; how he had prayed and wrestled against temptation; ‘because,’ added he, simply, ‘I wasn’t sure, Sarah, that you would say “No.” But God gave me grace to esteem the reproach of Christ better than all the—ah, better than much more than all the treasures of Egypt.’ Again he said, ‘Good-bye;’ but Sarah said, ‘Stuff! you know, John, I can’t answer “Yes” or “No” till you ask me something.’

So in the field-path John asked, and she answered. Then from gate to gate along the steaming fields, whilst haymakers rested and birds sat silent in the noon heat, they two walked, talking earnestly. At the last gate they parted, Sarah saying, ‘Very well, now that’s settled. John, I do believe my soul is at stake in this matter, for it’s only you in all the world who have taught me to love God; and though father won’t bless my marrying a Methodist, he’ll bless me when I am married.’

They were married secretly one Sunday morning at the Methodist chapel—not without keen stings of conscience, which neither owned to the other. When that same day Henry Hardiman heard from them what was done, he uttered no angry words, but took the blow stoutly. To his daughter’s eager expressions of affection he merely answered, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally;’ and when a week later she and her husband set off for Eastbourne, he blessed her gravely before she went.

But that one trouble had made an old man of him. Soon Frank went alone to fish, while Henry sat at home in the chimney-corner, holding Emma’s youngest born on his knee, or crept along the Tackle Way, with a finger in Jane’s chubby fist to help her in toddling. Next, days came when he could only sit moping in the chimney-corner: the doctor, looking at him, shook his head; and Frank wrote Sarah word that if she cared for her father’s pardon she must come now and ask it. She came: was received coldly by her brother and sister-in-law, kindly by her father; only when she hung about him with tears and fond words, he answered patiently, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally.’ So he died.

A few more months, and Sarah became mother of a small, weak baby—a little Henry. A few more years, and still wearing black for her dead only son, she sat beside her husband’s death-bed: her kind husband, who never once had spoken a harsh word to her. Long ago they had repented of the cruel wrong done to the old man; had confessed their fault one to the other, exchanged forgiveness, and prayed together for pardon. Their store of money wasted during John’s tedious illness; and Sarah, watching him as he lay dying, felt a sort of satisfaction in the thought that she had just enough left to bury her dead out of sight before asking help of her relations.

His last look was at her; his last words were, ‘Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.’